大象传媒

Anne Enright delights in the privilege of being the youngest child ...

Here's a snapshot for you. We're on the beach. I'm in a Moses basket, staring the camera down. Her Majesty the baby, the youngest child, the cuckoo in the nest, so petted and loved and passed from arm to arm, I have many mothers, big and small. Still, I only have the one father, who taught me how to read.. I'm good at anything - I'm the youngest child, a sort of kaleidoscope. I do not need special attention because I'm just special.

Here's another snapshot. I'm nine years old, we're on the same beach and I'm running after my brothers and sisters in the dusk 'Wait for me, wait for me'. Every time I catch up with them, they walk on. They're laughing about something and they won't tell me what it is. There's a big secret out there, and I'm too young too know.

Adolescence - they tell me that my nose is stuck on wrong, and I've got a horrible chin. I lose my temper and throw things - no one else has tantrums - but I'm the youngest child. I do everything earlier - dances, dates. I steal my sisters' clothes, I read my sisters' books, live a life of freedom and hand-me-downs, I steal a friend's boyfriend and they all tell me how horrible, how wrong this is, while my mother just looks at me and smiles.

So here's me now, all grown up. My family don't want to know what age I am, it makes them feel old. I realise I'd been young all my life. I'm still free as the youngest is allowed to be free, still sociable although I cannot stand groups, or the power of the group. I lose my temper about once a year, but it is vertiginous. The youngest child has no boundaries, she grows up late. Loved, teased, powerless, petted, the youngest child still smiles easily. Poor fool. Yes, I suppose she still smiles easy enough this youngest child.

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