Part 1

Pinky Goose was born arms first. And not just any arms. Incredibly long arms. Arms that exited his mother’s nether regions and reached down close to her ankles like some Olympic diver. Not only was this a medical and anatomical anomaly of the highest order but it truly disturbed the maternal team in charge of the birth. The midwife screamed; the attending physician rocked so far back on his heels, he bumped a low metal table, sending both instruments and medicinal preparations crashing to the floor.

“What the hell’s going on?” cried the midwife, Maureen Rogers, veteran of over 3,000 deliveries.

“It can’t be!” mouthed the attending physician, Martin Parkes, an only slightly less experienced medical professional.

Still looking on in horror, they feared what kind of human abomination was about to fully emerge from the young woman lying stricken on the hospital bed.

“What’s the matter?” she screamed. “Is everything okay with the…?” before she could finish the sentence, the baby let out a great gurgling cry so indisputably human, everyone in the room knew the worst was over.

“It’s fine, deary,” Maureen said soothingly, even though that wasn’t completely the case. “All children are different and beautiful in their own different and beautiful ways.”

An hour later, with the single mother sleeping peacefully in the recovery ward, the midwife and attending physician sat before the Head of Department Nicholas Regent in his office.

“I never saw nothing amiss with the child’s scan,” said Maureen. “He looked perfectly fine to me.”

“A rare condition.” Regent flashed a slightly condescending smile. “Similar to Marfan syndrome. From my initial examination of the infant, he’s one of the lucky ones. By that I mean, only the arms are affected, not the legs, fingers, or toes. Let’s hope he doesn’t develop further symptoms as he grows. As far as I’m aware that is exceedingly rare, though. Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Ms. Goose and explain the situation in full.”

When Regent did indeed sit at the new mother’s bedside and begin to outline her newborn child’s condition and the challenges he may face in later life, the bedraggled young woman looked at him askance.

“I don’t see much wrong with him.” She rocked the peacefully sleeping baby in her lap. “He’s just got long arms is all.”

When Ms. Goose took her son home for the first time, she couldn’t have been more content with new motherhood. Pinky was such an affectionate child; he slept throughout the night uninterrupted; drank all his bottle down to the last drop, and laughed with such infectious delight whenever she blew a raspberry on his stomach or tickled him under the arms, she was often close to bursting into tears of joy herself.

“You’re pink all over,” she whispered to the baby. “And that’s what I shall call you: Pinky.”

Her friends weren’t so convinced, however.

“He’s adorable,” they invariably said when calling round to catch a glimpse of the baby. “But he does have rather long, erm… arms, don’t he?”

As he grew from infant to toddler, other mothers down at the park or at the local play centre were visibly reluctant to let their children play with Pinky. Not only did his knuckles drag close to the ground, but he was also much larger and more robust than the other two, three, even four-year-olds dashing up the slide or riding on the roundabout.

“He does seem to have an awful lot of energy,” said one mother, cradling her child protectively in her arms. “Perhaps he’d be better off playing with the older kids.”

Time and again, it broke his mother’s heart to see Pinky shunned and left out.

“Don’t you worry about them mean kids, Pinky,” she would say as they trudged home disappointed. “We’ll have more fun without them.”

But every child needs a friend, companionship, a playmate, and a pal to grow up alongside. Yet no matter how smartly turned out or immaculately behaved and polite (and Ms. Goose was a stickler for instilling good manners such as saying “please” and “thank you,” in her son), Pinky’s physical appearance made him a figure of both fun and derision.

“Monkey boy, Stretch Armstrong,” the older children in the neighbourhood shouted at him. “Octopus. Circus freak.”