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ideals of infant beauty resided chiefly in fat, in Churchillian multiple chins, in dreams of an end to rationing and of the reign of plenty to were exhibited and judged like prize marrows, and, in 1947, the fivemonthold Michael, bloated and jolly, swept all before , it was unusual at a village f234。te for a middleclass woman, a stockbroker’s wife, to abandon the cakeandchutney stall and enter her child for such a gaudy must have known that he was bound to win, just as she later claimed always to have known that he would get a scholarship to he was on solids, and for the rest of her life, she cooked for him with the same mitment with which she had held the bottle, sending herself in the midsixties, despite her illness, on a Cordon Bleu cookery course so that she could try new meals during his occasional visits husband, Henry, was a meatandtwoveg man, who despised garlic and the smell of olive in the marriage, for reasons that remained private, Angela withdrew her love from lived for her son, and her legacy was clear: a fat man who restlessly craved the attentions of beautiful women who could Beard was a lean sort with a drooping mustache and slickedback brown hair, whose dark suits and brown tweeds seemed a cut too large, especially around the provided for his miniature family well and, in the fashion of the time, loved his son sternly and with little physical he never embraced Michael, and rarely laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder, he supplied all the right kinds of present—Meccano and chemistry sets, a buildityourself wireless, encyclopedias, model airplanes, and books about military history, geology, and the lives of great had had a long war, serving as a junior officer in the infantry in Dunkirk, North Africa, and Sicily, and then, as a lieutenant colonel, in the D Day landings, where he won a had arrived at the concentration camp of Belsen a week after it was liberated, and was stationed in Berlin for eight months after the war many men of his generation, he did not speak about his experiences and he relished the ordinariness of postwar life, its tranquil routines, its tidiness and rising material wellbeing, and, above all, its lack of danger—everything that would later appear stifling to those born in the first years of the 1952, when Michael was five, the fortyyearold Henry Beard gave up his job at a merchant bank in the City and returned to his first love, which was the became a partner in an old firm in nearby Chelmsford and stayed there for the rest of