Dear Fatty (7 page)

While we were living in the big white-and-pink house, quite a lot of fighting was going on nearby and we would often hear gunshots and loud bangs, which were terrifying. We had to be safely locked up in our house by a certain time in the evening, as did everybody else. This is called a curfew and it lasted for some time. Our dad was busy at work and occasionally couldn’t get home in the evenings so we were confined to our house and reliant on the radio to get instructions from the people who were in charge of the British on the island. One day, they would tell us to hang Union Jack flags on our front door to tell everyone we were British and the next day they would tell us to take them down as soon as possible. We were even told to pack up everything several times because we were being evacuated to a safer place. All of this was very confusing and frightening. Our mum, your granny, had to be very strong and she helped lots of other families in the same situation because she was what’s called a ‘senior wife’, meaning, I think, that she had more experience of being married to a serviceman than some of the other wives.

I remember one day that was particularly alarming. Granny kept telling Gary and me not to look out of the window and down into
the
street. There were gunshots very close by and it was really dangerous to be near the windows. Of course, as you know, I am a champion nosy parker and was even worse when I was little, so being a Curious Caroline, I couldn’t resist a peek. I have never forgotten what I saw. A man was lying on the road right next to our house. I knew straight away he was dead. He had lots of blood on him and was lying in a strange crumpled way that would really hurt if you were alive. He was a Turk and had been shot by his enemy, a Greek. Granny was aware that gunmen, snipers, were aiming at the roof of our building and anyone who was on it. Honestly, Jack, you won’t believe what she did. She marched up to the roof (remember we were under the curfew and she wasn’t really allowed to go out),
still
wearing her apron, and she shouted at the gunmen to go away and leave us alone, that she had a family with young children inside to protect and that they should know better. She told them they were welcome to go and kill each other elsewhere, but not near her family and friends, thank you very much. While she was saying all this, she was taking down her washing, which was flapping in the warm breeze, and she told them off for that too, for fighting near her clean washing! These were
real
soldiers with
real
guns in the middle of a
real
battle, Jack! As you know, Granny can be pretty fearsome when she wants to be, so – can you believe it? – they apologised and moved elsewhere to continue their deadly fight. Wow! My mum was a superheroine.

The body of the Turk stayed there on the road for a few days though, and I tried not to look but I kept wondering when the poor dead man would be returned to his family, who must have been feeling so sad not knowing where he was. Every time I looked, I felt sort of embarrassed. Like being dead is a very
private
thing and that somehow it was rude to stare, but I also felt that perhaps I was the only one caring that he had been cruelly abandoned. I felt I had to keep looking for him to matter. It was horrible. Then, one day, he was not there. He was
there
, then he was
not there
. He had been
alive
and then he was suddenly
not alive
. He was younger than my own dad, but he was dead, and that was hard to understand.

During this difficult time, Cyprus was divided into two parts with a big border across the middle of the island from left to right, west to east. North of this line belonged to the Turks and south of this line belonged to the Greeks. We were moved to an air force base in the south, called Akrotiri near Limassol, and although the island was still at war, we were much safer and we were all together with other RAF families and life returned to relatively normal.

Well, Jack, let me tell you what ‘normal’ was like. When you live in a country like that, people tend to get up very early and do their work in the morning before it gets too hot in the middle of the day, then people have lunch and a little sleep, called a siesta, and then people go back to work in the late afternoon when it’s cool again. So, us kids would go to school between 7am and 12 noon and then we would go to the beach
all afternoon, EVERY DAY!!
Fantastic! Sometimes a grown-up who wasn’t working would come with us but often we would be dropped there, a group of about a dozen RAF kids ranging in age from six to sixteen, given a picnic for lunch and then be picked up again just before dark. Those long sizzling afternoons have remained in my memory as some of the happiest times I’ve ever had. Swimming and splashing with your dad and our mates, building huts and dens
and
sand sculptures. Finding lizards and seeing what happens when they lose their tails. Watching chameleons strain to change colour to match their environment as camouflage, and placing them on tartan rugs to see if they could rise to the challenge! Exploring among huge ancient rocks both on land and in the sea. Hearing stories of Greek gods like Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Daring each other to dive-bomb into the sea from higher and higher rocks. Eating olives and smelling eucalyptus. Never wearing shoes other than flip-flops. Having loads of freckles and nutty-brown skin and bleached-by-the-sun blonde hair. Pretending to be mermaids and pirates. Inventing our own underwater towns and having jobs in submerged shops and factories. Befriending strange dogs on the beach and worrying about their welfare. Playing with local kids and not noticing for one second that we didn’t speak the same language. Learning from them where the best caves and treasures were. Keeping secrets for each other, cutting our fingers on purpose and fusing our blood to become a forever conjoined family. Snorkelling in brightly coloured masks and darting through shards of underwater light chasing fish and octopuses. Noticing how big your skin is and how remarkable hair follicles on your hand are in the magnified world of goggles and water. Having an indented mark around your eyes where your mask had become part of your skin after you’d suckered the mask off. Having dazzling white fingernails and toenails where the sand had exfoliated them. Avoiding greasy suntan lotion and actively feeling vitamins entering you through your skin. The unsurpassable, exhilarating sense of freedom. We would often be hugged and kissed by friendly old ladies in black who smelt of coffee and smoke. They reminded me of Androniki,
our
friend in the north, and we were all sad to hear that she and her family had been forced to leave their house and all their possessions in the middle of the night and flee to the south. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Leaving behind everything you have worked for for years, knowing that another family is going to move in the next day among all your stuff and live the life you have been forced to leave. This made our constant moving seem insignificant.

Most of the time we lived on the RAF base, your dad seemed to be dressed as a Roman centurion, wielding a huge toy sword, and roaring. Does this sound a bit like you, I wonder? Gary was very close to a little dog who lived with us called Whiskey, who I think we inherited from another family that were leaving. This was common practice among forces families. Pets were constantly passed around since they couldn’t be shipped home. He was a great dog, springy and keen, and could see no other purpose in life other than to play. He often came in quite handy as a centurion’s mascot or a hunting dog in Gary’s games. He was also an accomplished lilo surfer.

Away from the beach, my playtime was taken up with four main activities. 1. Roller skating. Up and down the road for hours on end. Not the sleek in-line Rollerblades like you have. No, these had four wheels, one in each corner on a metal frame which you strapped to your shoes. They were ugly to look at and ungainly on my feet and made a huge rumbling noise on the pavement, but as far as I was concerned, I was a swan, gliding up and down the road in all my elegant splendour. I was sort of addicted to roller skating and would occasionally do it well after bedtime and on into the night, I loved it so much. I didn’t really
learn
any nifty tricks or turns, I just loved the rhythmic swaying and feeling of speed. 2. Horse riding. Not a real one, you understand, no – a horse’s face painted on the end of our fence with strings attached for reins which I sat on and jiggled about on for hours (!) pretending to be in endless imaginary gymkhanas and western movies. Oh, the joy. 3. Hairdos. Your granny had a friend who was training to be a hairdresser and she needed hair models so Granny volunteered me. This lady was mainly perfecting the art of bridal hairstyling, so twice a week, I would be the proud owner of an elaborate ‘do’ – usually ‘up’, and festooned with masses of curls and plastic daisies – that’s what we liked in the sixties. Often the do would include ornate hairpieces which would be deftly pinned in to look like I had an enormous amount of piled-up hair. Sometimes the hairdo would be so fancy and flamboyant and flowery that my neck could not support it and I would simply fall over. Not good for roller skating. 4. Ballet. I was a divine dancer, so light, so graceful and renowned the world over as a champion junior prima ballerina who could leap higher than anyone else in the land. The trouble was, all of this was only true IN MY HEAD! I loved my ballet classes but was very quickly brought down to earth when your dad spied on one of my classes and said we looked and sounded like a herd of hippos. I couldn’t cope with the disappointment of the reality after that, and soon gave up ballet for good. I blame him for my lack of success in that area. I’m pretty sure I could have been internationally acclaimed.

I do remember some sad times in Akrotiri, when Granny found out her dad had died and she cried for hours in front of a blow heater we had which glowed red. I remember her red face
and
her shiny hot red eyes and not really knowing how to make it all right for her. I also remember two other lots of crying. Everyone seemed to burst into tears when we heard of the death of someone called JFK in 1963. This person – who? – with no name, just initials, was important in America and he had been shot when he was visiting someone. That’s all I knew, but a lot of crying happened, so I decided to join in because it seemed quite fascinatingly dramatic and tragic. However, I didn’t stop skating. Roller skating and sobbing. Simultaneously. Quite a skill.

A similar thing happened two years later when a man called Churchill died and Granny and Grandad were extremely sombre. I had a bit more of a clue about him. I’d seen pictures – he looked like a grumpy bulldog and smoked fat cigars and was important in the war. I wept a few tears that day too, but mainly to see how sorrow looked in the mirror.

Actually, you know, hard as it is to believe it now, Granny and Grandad were really ‘groovy’ young parents back then. They really loved each other and were always smooching and dancing. They loved pop music like the Beatles, and Grandad especially loved Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots and the Platters, and Johnny Cash and Matt Monro.

A really special thing happened to me one Christmas, Jack. Houses in hot countries don’t have chimneys so I was obviously very worried about how Santa was going to get in with all our stuff. Granny told me not to worry, that he would find a way. Well, you can understand, I found it hard to sleep due to the worry and fear of disappointment. At about midnight, I heard the faint, very faint sound of bells, which grew louder and louder until there was a definite thud on our rooftop that shook the
house
. I ran to the window and opened the shutters and right there, outside
MY
window, was Santa himself with his sack. He asked if he could come through my bedroom since there was no chimney, so of course I let him in and he went through to the front room where the tree was. He rustled about a bit and then came back through with the empty sack and told me to go back to bed. I did. Straight away. But then I heard the bells again, so I shot over to the window and saw Santa in his sleigh, being pulled by all the reindeer rising higher and higher into the sky. I saw it with my own eyes! When I told them all about it the next morning, my dad said I must have been dreaming because Santa never lets you actually see him, but I’ll tell you something, Jack. I did see him. I did.

ABOUT 25 YEARS
ago, a posh fat girl and I started a female double act. We decided straight away that it should be female because both of us are of the woman persuasion and consequently the choice seemed obvious. On reflection, I think we done good with that instinct, because after all these don’t-seem-a-day-too-long years, we have staunchly remained as women, and thusly our double act is correctly gendered. My sources inform me that you too are feminine typed, so I am muchly hopin’ this note will agree with you and all your womanly ways.

From the very start of our comedy exploits the other woman and I have endeavoured to include you in and around our skits and japes. By dint of the writin’ of your name on a bit of Auntie BBC headed notepaper inside a sketch where you also speak the funny bits too, we have invited you to come out to play with us. This has happened repeatedly often, so much so that after we is receivin’ back your numerous rejections out of hand, we is havin’ to rewrite the aforementioned hilarioso sketches to be
about
you rather than
with
you in it. It goes without sayin’, so I will, that every time you dolloped out the bucketful of NO to us, we was left with no other alley to go up and wee in, than to ridicule you. Sometimes with bile and venomosity but always with gentle pokin’. We fervently hoped you would be watchin’ with open
eyeballs
and a full heart and that you would eventually be comin’ around to the idea of joinin’ in rather than sittin’ on the side with no friends and smelly pants. After all, we are not a crazy, we is the leadin’ double act of ladies in the comedy department for, oooh, over timpty-two years already. No one else has come even close up our behinds, although presently there
are
a few clever new puppy funny girls doin’ bitin’ on our comedy heels, but that don’t bother us too intensely for we is stoppin’ soon, so they can be the toppest for all we care.