Dear Fatty (19 page)

I remember Goodbodies coffee shop just off Mutley Plain, where we would go on a Friday after school. The preparations for it would begin around lunchtime, when we would sneak into the loos and start the makeover. It was of the utmost importance that the teachers should
not
notice any added make-up or change of clothes etc., so all was executed with great subtlety. Tiny but effective measures were taken, e.g. the yanking up of bra straps to force teen bosoms into a more upright position, the rolling over of the waistband of the school kilt incrementally raising the hemline of the skirt, loosening of a button or two on the blouse, the careful arranging of a special magician’s-secret-type knot in the school tie which could be hoiked off in an instant without wasting the precious extra three seconds it would otherwise take to get it off at the end of the day. A
tiny
imperceptible amount of orangey Avon spot-cover and foundation and perhaps the merest hint of pale lipstick. The afternoon lessons were pointless on those days. We could not possibly concentrate. All we could think of was the imminence of boy time. We clock-watched and fidgeted our way through French and bloody vile double maths until, like New Year’s Eve, but silently, internally, we counted down the seconds to the end-of-the-day bell. Then, and only then, could we race to the loo, hastily slap
on
the full orange grouting and many, many, many layers of thick gloopy mascara, eyeshadow, blusher, roll-on deodorant, breath freshener, brush teeth, brush hair and let hang loose, roll up skirt even further, put on jewellery, spray Aquamanda perfume behind ears, on wrists, on crotch, whisk off tie – hey presto! – pop in some gum and off. Being a weekly boarder, I was always dragging my suitcase but I didn’t mind. A 30-minute brisk lug up North Road, past the train station, over the top of Pennycomequick, on to the bottom of Mutley Plain and into the cafe. There they were, the pantheon of prized Plymouth College sixth-formers all sitting at one table huddled around hot chocolates. Bliss. The key was to make it seem coincidence that we were all there together. We couldn’t let on that we had come with the sole intent of being near them, so we walked past their table and totally ignored them. We purchased one Nescafé or one Coca-Cola and we sat at the furthest table. Oh boy, did we ignore them. It was delicious to turn our backs on those boys. Our plan seemed to work. They also ignored us. We took this to mean they were gagging for it. Neither table made any eye contact and we certainly didn’t speak. We were often in there for three hours, not communicating at all. Eventually the time came when one group had to leave, and would slope off without so much as a grunt to the other. Result! Once outside we would burst into skittish fever pitch, twittering about how amazing it all was. The debrief after such prolonged, intense, mind-blowing, complex flirting was essential. We were over-intoxicated with arousal. Fit to burst. Nobody at Goodbodies had said a word. Excellent. What a trip. Phew. Let’s do it again next Friday. Christ. Hope I’m not pregnant!

I vividly remember roundly loathing maths, until one day Mrs Cooper decided to teach us about longitude and latitude. She brought out a globe to explain time zones, degrees, etc. It was as if she had given the class a sedative. When she observed some of us (myself included) slipping into a listless coma of disinterest, she took evasive action and pulled an arithmetical rabbit out of her geometric hat by producing, of all things, a Terrys’ Chocolate Orange. Now she had our attention. We didn’t see much chocolate during the week. There
was
a tuck shop but it was expensive, and now here in our classroom, during MATHS, was a small perfect orange sphere of delicious tastiness. We gathered round as she likened it to a globe and explained the lines around its girth would be latitude. Then she unpeeled it – oh joy – and pointed out the lines from top to bottom which marked the segments – the longitude. Then, she tapped it and it fell perfectly into its open leaves like a beautiful chocolate lotus flower. We had one piece each and I virtually swooned with satisfaction. Thus began a lifelong love for Terrys’ Chocolate Oranges. Little did I realise one day somebody would offer me a fortune Croesus would envy to eat them.

I remember quoting
Monty Python
sketches word for word, and retelling Dave Allen gags and copying endless Pan’s People dances with solemn and supreme accuracy.

I remember us all going to Nikki R’s family beach house at Gwithian after our A levels in ’76 and running into the sea as a triumphant cleansing rite of passage, a marker of the end of study FOR EVER! It wasn’t, but it felt like it then. There was a drought and the country was baking, but we were eating Fab 208 ice creams and listening to our Marc Bolan records so we didn’t care.
We
lolled about in bikinis getting nutty brown and fanning each other, simultaneously loving and hating the sizzling heat.

So, that was school as I remember it. I wonder if you remember it the same way?

One last thing – I know that segregating children into ‘houses’ at school is divisive and potentially dangerous because it can create hierarchy and dissension. It can cause unnecessary competition. Yes, I know that, but all of you need to face one irrefutable fact. Downton House
is
best. Sorry, but it’s true, and you know it, you losers!

HELLO! MY NAME
is Moo French. I’m 16 and I saw you play at the Guildhall in Plymouth last week! I am truly four of your greatest heroines! Christ allbloodymighty, you chicks really know how to rock on! The evening was just amazing and I’m so glad you came to Plymouth! Lots of bands just don’t seem to care about us down here! They think we eat turnips and babies or something! Well, we simply don’t! We eat pasties like everyone else, after all, at the bottom of it, we
are
human beings, yeah?! Even if we do have accents! Plymouth is an important city, it’s where Francis Drake (you might not know about him, he was one of our greatest sailors in the 1500s; he wrote the poem ‘Drake’s Drum’ if you want to learn about him. It’s quite interesting because he was playing croquet on the Hoe when he saw some Spanish Armada ships pulling in to the marina so he halted his game to
go
and fight them off. He was incredibly brave and saved our country from Spain and there’s a statue of him) comes from!

Boy oh boy, you play those axes and drum kit and piano keyboard like crazy and I can’t believe how good you are at singing simultaneously at the same time! I myself play a Framus bass guitar! I got it because the fretboard is very narrow and my hands are mega small! I’m getting better at it all the time! I used to practise by playing along with your album, but I found that a bit difficult so I swapped to copying Status Quo, which helps a lot since there are only three chords on that! I would one day like to put my own chick rock band together! Not sure what a good name would be! You’ve stolen the best one! In our country, I hope someone has bothered to tell you, fanny is quite a rude word for a woman’s minky! I believe that in your fair land of America it means bum! But not here, sisters, so watch out, mamas! Don’t invite anyone to pinch or slap your fanny cos you will regret it! I was thinking of what a good name could be for my band, following after you with such a strong female name! I’ve decided ‘Quim’ would be good! Like it? Hey, maybe when Quim are playing near you in California or Sacramento or wherever you live you could drop in an’ jam wiv us! Quim is always open to the godmothers of chick rock, the legendary Fanny! I love you
so
much! Thanks for being so ace! Rock on, you rock dolls!

Fanny rules forevva!

IT IS MOTHER’S
Day. I am on the last ever French and Saunders tour and I am in Manchester, so I am not with you. You are not with your mother and I am not with mine. That’s pretty much wrong. Three generations of wrong. I woke up this morning and thought it might potentially be a truly grim day but then I remembered that when your dad visited briefly to watch our first night in Blackpool on Friday, he stuffed a big brown envelope in my case and said, ‘Open that on Sunday.’ So I did. A card from you. A handmade card. Honestly my uttermost favouritest gift I ever get. Your dad does the same, always makes cards himself. You both have that fabulous desire to personalise. Top. I can tell you had little time to make this one, and I understand that, because you have just recently fallen in love and I know that is quite simply all-consuming. What a delicious distraction! I am astounded you remembered at all, considering everything that’s going on for you at the moment, during the maelstrom that is this strange age of 16. The words in your card are simple, ‘I couldn’t ask for a better mum. I love you so much …’ You cannot begin to know how gladly I read those words because I know what it costs you to write that.

I have had to stop writing here to have a little self-indulgent weep, as I allow the significance of your easy forgiveness for my absence, and the sheer warmth of your appreciation, to flood through me. I should be with you today. I don’t feel guilt about
it
, I just feel the pain of separation, which confirms for me how connected we are. That in itself is a kind of miracle considering what you and I regularly go through together, especially at the moment. Apparently it is quite usual for mums and daughters to war when the daughters are rampaging through their teens with all guns blazing. I suppose I knew that, but actually, I don’t remember much in the way of big shouting at my mum. Plenty of sulking and violent inner thoughts, but not outright raging. That’s what you do. You roar. You blast us with your bellowing. You insist that you are heard, and y’know what, Bill? Good for you. Be heard. Be loud. Get it out, whatever it is. I would far rather have eardrum-replacement surgery than have you bottling up all this boiling fury till you erupt like an emotional volcano in your adulthood.

You have a lot to feel furious about, so your anger is justified. Anybody who is adopted as a baby has the right to a fierce hurt. There is no more tragic and painful a rejection imaginable than by a mother to her newborn baby. You will probably wonder how on earth she could have looked at you, at the perfect beautiful tiny new you, and still make the decision to give you up. Surely any mother is so connected to the baby she has grown inside her for nine months, that to make that horrific decision would be impossible? Do you think perhaps you just
weren’t
perfect enough or beautiful enough for her to instantly adore you? Or maybe she was a dreadful, selfish or mad person who would never know how to show you love? Perhaps, worst of all, you are not lovable? How unthinkable.

The truth is, Billie, none of the above suppositions are real. Quite the opposite. The details of your adoption are private to
you
, and you know all about it as far as we know anything. There is nothing hidden from you, but there is part of it that will be hard for you to imagine at this point. This much I know: your birth mother
did
love you. Undeniably, enormously, as much as any mother has ever loved any baby. Or more, even. To infinity and beyond. Her heart is connected to your heart for ever and no one can cut that properly sacred thread. The pictures we have of you as a newborn are palpable proof of how hard that decision must have been for her, because you were the most wondrous baby. Fact.

It is a sort of unwritten law among kind humans to praise babies even when they look like shrivelled-up old constipated rhesus monkeys, because we all know a mammoth effort has just been made by a scared mum to push this big sack of potatoes out through a hole only big enough to accommodate a chip. She has nearly died in the effort, and we all want to be kind in respect of that, so we tell her that the fruit of her labours, her ugly baby, is gorgeous and bonny when quite often it is genuinely breathtakingly hideous!

This was not the case with you. The pictures show a bright-eyed beaming little face, with wide, open features and flawless caramel skin. Your mouth was a perfect, kissable little O with full, plumptious lips. The kind of ‘O’ that an Austen heroine exclaims when she’s feigning a prudish rejection of her suitor’s advances … Like ‘Oh, Mr Darcy – no, please refrain, oh oh’. Divine. Your dear little face was round and irresistibly cute with a ready grin and a winning twinkle from the off. You were marvellous, a perfect tiny wriggling example of one of God’s own masterpieces. A rare thing, an exquisite baby with unparalleled
beauty
. Your mother
must
have been instantly besotted. Everyone who ever saw you was. It was even a bit disconcerting how people were drawn to you. We often had a hard time reclaiming you from overzealous, cooing, smitten adorers. THAT’S how gorgeous you were. So, Bill, try to imagine how hard it was for her to look at you, at this splendid little shining thing, and to know she had to make what was probably the hardest choice of her life. The choice to give you a better life than she might have been able to, to put
your
interests before her own powerful maternal urges. Personally, I think that she did a mighty thing that day. She prized you above herself, above her own desires. That is a feat of love, Billie. Big, powerful, priceless love. Selfless love. LOVE.