Dear Fatty (14 page)

Yep, the uniform identified us all right. It marked us out as young, green (or rather dark blue, light blue and yellow) and supremely vulnerable. Never more so than on one particularly distasteful occasion.

Boarders at St Dunstan’s were not, repeat NOT, allowed out without permission or parents between Monday morning and Friday evening. OK?! This rule was made crystal clear. The consequences were dire and could include capital punishment. Mind you, I would happily have chosen eternal Stygian darkness over the worst punishment of all, which was meted out for ‘being seen
outside
school in uniform – but hatless’. If caught committing this heinous crime, we were subjected to the arse-wrenching humiliation of having to wear the hat ALL DAY at school. I experienced this once and it was grim. I still have therapy in order to forgive, forget and move on. Woe betide anyone who went out without permission – and death betide anyone who went out without permission
out of uniform
. However, one evening, a friend and I agreed we would risk extermination in order to go into town for half an hour. But we weren’t total nihilists, we would,
of course
, wear our uniform. That way, if we
were
caught, we could beg for mercy citing the honourable and correct wearing of the uniform, and asking for that to be taken into consideration.

Intent on using a well-honed system of covert timings, knockings and bribings of an ‘insider’ accomplice in order to get back in, we slipped out the side door and giggled all the way into town with excitement. We had a singular, important purpose. We needed to go into the Co-op and spend all of our pocket money on the photo-booth machine. We had planned a series of hilarious face contortions we knew would stick together to make a funny cartoon-style story about … well … about two girls in school hats in a photo booth in the Co-op, pulling faces. Excellent! With this task in mind, we dived into the back of the multi-storey Co-op, which led us through the food hall bit on our way to the front, where the photo booth was. We were just about to put our money in the machine when a burly man in a suit called out, ‘Hey, you two – stop that!’ We froze as he approached. ‘What do you think you’re doing?!’ he asked, sternly. I ventured, ‘We were just going to use the –’ but before I finished
he
interrupted, and my heart sank as he said, ‘As you well know, one of you has stolen a packet of tights. I am the store detective and I clearly saw you sneak the tights under your jumper. You have two choices: A, we can call the police, and since you’re Abbey girls that means informing your head; or B, you can choose to be searched and we can settle this matter here in the shop. You haven’t actually left the shop as yet, so if the tights are returned to us, it’s not technically stealing and it needn’t go any further. It’s up to you, but you need to decide immediately.’ I flashed a look at my friend. I was furious with her – how could she ruin our trip into town for a pilfered pair of tights? We both knew we would be in all kinds of trouble if anyone alerted the school, so we took the search option. We chose that option inside one glance. The decision was that quick.

The man instructed us to follow him and we went to the door that led onto the big staircase, which was ordinarily quite busy but unusually empty on this particular day. We went up one floor and I saw why there wasn’t a soul around – there were scaffolding and ladders and paint-pots blocking the way. The Co-op was undergoing a makeover but the worksite was completely still, the men had obviously finished for the day. Big dust sheets covered the floor and stairs and hung from the ladders. He indicated that we should push past the dust sheets, so we did. I expected to find a door to an inner office of some kind, the place where they did the searches. A place with other people perhaps? Instead he stopped us behind the big canvas dust sheet and told us he would conduct the search right here himself. Although it did occur to me fleetingly that this was a strange place to do it, I was quite relieved that we didn’t have to endure further humiliation with
any
other witnesses. He asked me to lift my jumper up, which I willingly did. After all, I was utterly innocent and he would find no contraband on me. No siree. On finding nothing, he asked if I had hidden them inside my blouse. Absolutely not, I said, have a look. He did, and he put his hands right round my back to check. All of this was done in a most professional way, you understand. Fast and emotionless. Had I hidden the packet
inside
my bra? I was aghast at this allegation, did he not realise I was the innocent one?! He then deftly checked
inside
my bra very thoroughly. Indeed. No sign, of course. Had I hidden the packet up my skirt? Inside my tights? Inside my pants? No I hadn’t thank you very much, and please to check. Which he did. Very thoroughly. You see? Nothing. You have maligned me for nothing, you have misjudged me, sir. SHE is the thief,
that’s
where you’ll find them. I didn’t say this out loud of course, but I was screaming it loudly inside my head, which thus far was the only place he hadn’t thoroughly searched. He said that he suspected me initially but he had obviously been wrong, so NOW he searched
her
in exactly the same way. Very thoroughly indeed. She looked worried, which I took to be an unmistakable sign of guilt. As he proceeded further and further I was gobsmacked to see how well she had hidden this elusive packet of tights. Where
was
it? As he was searching inside her pants, she had pulled up her skirt and I saw that she was wearing her Dr White’s belt, which meant she was having her period, or was ‘on the blob’ as we called it at school, misguidedly convinced that made it coded and covert. (God, do you remember those awful clunky things? A pink belt round the middle with a fastening front and back from which we suspended a small thick nappy-type pad from front to back. It
was
so cumbersome and useless, like walking around with a small chunky hammock between your legs. A hammock for mice.) I felt awful for her that she should have to undergo this horrible, shocking search at such a time but, after all, she HAD nicked the tights so she had kind of brought it on herself, for heaven’s sake! I was amazed when his search proved fruitless. Had she secreted them internally? It was a mystery. He told us that we had been
very
clever with the hiding and to run along and not do it again.

We raced away from there so fast. Halfway back up the hill towards school we finally stopped running and sat on a wall to catch our breath. ‘Where did you hide them?!’ I puffed. ‘I didn’t nick any tights, I thought you had …!’ It was only then we realised what had happened. A sleazy git had just groped us in the stairwell of the Co-op. He had expertly taken advantage of our obvious fear and lured us into a vulnerable situation where we were willing to let him fiddle with us, to let him put his filthy mitts all over us under the pretence of an official frisk. We were wholly complicit! Well, no, actually, not wholly because of course we were not aware of the intent. It was so easy for him. How many times did he do it to others? Did he ever do anything worse? I hadn’t properly remembered the incident until I came to write this letter to you, and was thinking about the uniform and the unwanted attention it attracted, so I don’t think I could ever claim that it scarred me in any deep way. Sadly, it has melted into my memory as just another one of those difficult and unpleasant moments that young women experience all the time with dirty old men. How many times did we turn round on a tube or train and see some sad old git’s cock dangling out of his smelly old trousers? Admittedly this horrid man had gone a lot further and
as
the mothers of girls we would now reflect upon it with horror, imagining what
could
have happened. Instead, luckily, I was shaken but unhurt and I learned a big lesson about how crafty and manipulative predatory men can be. What strikes me as one of the worst aspects of the whole sorry episode was the fact that my friend and I kept this story to ourselves. We felt stupid and embarrassed and, most of all, we were so afraid because we were breaking a school rule! The priorities of a 13-year-old are admittedly difficult to fathom, but the fact is that school was our whole world and the fear of the consequences of breaking school rules was far greater than our concerns for our safety.

Have you and I taught our beloved daughters enough to keep them safe? While we pray they never have to face anything too scary, surely we also know they can learn to navigate their way through life by occasionally butting up against something a bit frightening and realising they can indeed cope with it. I don’t savour the idea that they will no doubt witness a few unsightly limp willies on the tube, but perhaps those awkward and startling moments will strengthen their resolve to judge a dud and reject any unwanted attention in the future. Perhaps they will more readily tell those rude and uncouth codgers to cock right off. I wish I had.

I IS WRITIN’
to you for enquirin’ about the procurement of the tiny brown baby. I seed you on the teleovision box sittin’ all important next to a candlestick with flouncy drapin’ all behind you like in a Meat Loaf video, explainin’ to the news that you is wantin’
everybody
to be doin’ the bringin’ home from dark incontinence, many of the tiny babies that is not got family due to disease and fightin’ and no money. They certainly did get bad cards to play life with, didn’t they? Some of them doesn’t get to live at all because celebrities from England and Yankees is snappin’ their fingers every three seconds which means one of them has to die each time. That don’t seem much fair, do it?

You is obviously done a kind thing. There’s no miss doubt-pants about that. ’Cept I is scared for you somehow. Will the baby grow up wonderin’ what the cock is gone on? Will he be doin’ confusion about why he is the only one what looks like him? Maybe it would help if some Africas could be allowed to show him oils for skin and hair care or is you in charge of that with many a top stylist/dancer advisin’ it? Will he be permitted the tastin’ of big mutton stews with flour and fat in with maize and cornflour nan breads on the side? Or is you wantin’ only
for
him to be fed the macrobiotics with raws and no pop to drink whatsoever thank you? Will he be listenin’ of the harmonionial voices with clever clickin’ and ululation-type singin’ from deep place inside with the beatin’ of drums and stampin’ of feet in rhythm of heartbeats and warm winds in strings of guitars what is made at home? Or will he be havin’ to dance to electro disco rock pop videos of yourself with tight ladymen jumpin’ all around you, doin’ the adorin’ and touchin’ of you in private places for voguin’ purposes? Will he be doin’ the talkin’ in the home-heard Chichewa words or will he be speakin’ in American soundin’ like English like you is, or posh soundin’ cockernee like the gangster-type husband who is huntin’ and shootin’ in tweed strides at the weekend on a big peasant and pheasant estate, but durin’ the week is neckin’ pints of Irish foam and wearin’ usual jeans and pumps, mate, with flat cap on the side jaunty angle?

Is you mainly thinkin’ it don’t matter as long as he is gettin’ to stay alive, and have school and bikes and maids and hold hands with his new friendly pink family? Yes, you might be right about that, but sista, just watch out for when the baby does growin’ and finds it all out. He might do some confusion about what all’s been done. He might not warm to the rainbow family idea of many roots to put in a cultural stewpot for the equal lovin’ of all, coat of many colours, side by side on my piano keyboard oh lord why can’t we? Watch out then for some shoutin’ and stompin’ and explainin’ to do. But then again, he might not. He might just love it and say thanks Mum, with a big sloppy smacker. Have a make-up on hand to touch you up again if so …

That’s all, so you can go about your busyness now, probably gettin’ the bingo wings made to go away with pumpin’ so you
can
instead have the toned sculpturalness we, the hungry magazine readers, have come to expect. Or p’raps you is upside down with yoga, gettin’ bendy so you can kiss your own arsebum with ease? Hope so.

Take care, lotsa care.

MAY I JUST
say what a delight it has been to be your number-one fag hag all these years. May I also say that you deserve major regalia-type bling for the remarkably long and loyal service you have put in as BBF (Best Boy Friend). You ought to have a medal. But perhaps you would prefer an ankle bracelet? Needless to say, it will involve Diamonique in ample measure.

How I loved the teen-slouching around your kitchen table in Plympton with you and your twin bro Gareth, eating your mum’s Welsh cakes, and raging about the injustices of the school youth drama club and life in general. We didn’t take any action, of course, that wasn’t the point at all, we just wanted to moan and grumble long into the night. We had lots of dates, you and I. We went to the theatre and films and exhibitions and concerts, where we became unfeasibly harsh critics. We performed onstage together, we learned lines together, we wrote sketches together. Probably the first bit of comedy writing I ever did was with you. I think it was a pisstake of a Pinter play, with jokes galore about pauses and dot dot dots. But the most wonderful, inventive and thrilling part of it all was the letters. At least once or twice a week, do you remember? You wrote to me as many different characters, inviting responses from me in the character you had addressed your letter to. So, it was my mission to reply in kind, becoming one of these many people, inventing a whole life around them
and
a situation in which the two may be corresponding. Sometimes they were engaged in a torrid affair, or in the midst of a petty row, or a communication about a lost dog, or they might be gossiping about the news of their time. It might be present day, or Edwardian, or Elizabethan, or anything. The joy of these letters and my eagerness to reply filled many a long evening of boarding school life, and often entirely replaced prep. When I look back at it now, I probably gained more from writing those letters and using the skills they developed than I ever would have from the study of silt and sediment in riverbeds for Geography. I only ever wanted to make you laugh and I hungrily sought your approval. So, in a way, you were my first script editor.