Dear Fatty Read online

  I once went to the theatre with a chum and noticed a woman in her fifties having a pre-show drink in the bar, with the most splendid front I have ever seen (the woman, that is, not the bar). She was very grand and she held herself so proudly. I was in awe. I couldn’t stop looking at her, at them, at it, at the whole fabulous majestic thing. Imagine my delight when, quite by coincidence, she sat down next to me. I was breathless with admiration. She was glancing at the programme. I tried to resist, truly I did, but I couldn’t – I leaned over and said, ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind but I am compelled to tell you that you have the most magnificent bosom I’ve ever seen.’ She looked beatifically at me over her bifocals and said, ‘Yes. I know,’ and smiled. And the lights went down and we watched the play side by side. Me and the lady with the remarkable chest. We didn’t speak again. And it was delicious.

  Don’t forget that although you have a deal of ‘French’ blood in you, to a certain extent the shape of your body can be YOUR CHOICE. I’ve heard that exercise and a lean, healthy diet can make a big difference … I’ve always known this but I can’t help it – personally, I would rather read a book or watch Big Brother than go to a gym and jump about with a flushed face. Whenever I have passed a gym, and I’ve passed many, I look in through the steamed-up windows and see sights I would only ever imagine in the nine circles of hell. Puffing red people grimacing in pain, leaking buckets o’ sweat. My only experience of this behaviour was enforced PE torture at school. During most PE classes, I had only one thought in my head: ‘One day, when I am the one in charge of me, I will never have to do this again.’ And so it was. However, I have to admit that those who put themselves through it often look bonny in the end, so the fact is – you do have a choice. I am a sedentary person, I’ve got the kind of well-spread bum that is perfect for sitting and watching, and that’s what I do best. I’m sorry to boast but I really am good at it.

  Some things are worth moving for, and for those beloved and special activities I have been known to move with alarming speed and tip-top energy. The ‘worth moving fast for’ list is as follows: 1. doing sex, 2. swimming, 3. tennis, 4. walking by sea with dog, 5. going into town to get a pasty, 6. doing sex, 7. dancing, 8. running away from evil people, 9. running towards delightful people, 10. doing sex.

  Talking of dancing, sweet pea, you are so good at it. I’ve seen you perform on lots of occasions and when I watch you, I nearly burst with joy. Dancing is so great, isn’t it? I see you move and use your lovely body in such a way that I know you are feeding from the pleasure of it. You are supple and expressive and dazzling. I hope your enviable connection to your body and the confidence it gives you will last the rest of your life. That’s the key, you know, confidence. I know for a fact that if you can genuinely like your body, so can others. It doesn’t really matter if it’s short, tall, fat or thin, it just matters that you can find some things to like about it. Even if that means having a good laugh at the bits of it that wobble independently, occasionally, that’s all right. It might take you a while to believe me on this one, lots of people don’t because they seem to suffer from a self-hatred that precludes them from imagining that a big woman could ever love herself because they don’t. But I do. I know what I’ve got is a bit strange and difficult to love but those are the very aspects I love the most! It’s a bit like people. I’ve never been particularly attracted to the uniform of conventional beauty. I’m always a bit suspicious of people who feel compelled to conform. I personally like the adventure of difference. And what’s beauty, anyway?

  Ever since I can remember people have told me I have a ‘pretty’ face. When I was little, I used to feel so chuffed and grateful for this, it seemed kind and flattering and I know it was meant to make me feel good. The older I got the harder I found it to hear. I sometimes had the distinct feeling that it was a not very clever way of saying ‘Oh my God, look at your huge unpleasant body, at least you’ve got a nice symmetrical face for us to look at’. Which isn’t quite the same as the innocent, honest compliment I thought it was. Now, even older, I have found myself really thinking about this whole ‘pretty’ thing. What is it? Correct amount of features in a pleasing formation? Lack of deformity? What?! My biggest problem is how can I accept the compliment when I haven’t accomplished anything? I haven’t even tried! I was given this face by my parents just like you were given yours by yours. That’s all. Nothing accomplished – just luck.

  Mind you, with us, Hannah, you and me, it’s not just about the looks we share. Something else, something much more fundamental, is going on. We can share our fears and our joys equally. I don’t mean by this you should do as I do, follow my example or be like me in any way. Definitely NOT! I just mean that I think I sort of get you, so rest assured I’ve got your back, babe, and I’ll fight for your right to be whoever you best think you are, making lots of necessary and glorious mistakes along the way. Oh, the places you’ll go …

  Dear the Monkees,

  THIS IS A really hard letter to write, probably the hardest ever in my hole life of 11 years. I wish it could be a happier one for you to get but, alas and alack, it can’t because sometimes in life you have to do something bigger than yourself. And this is it.

  I expect most of your fans are silly teenagers who are in love with one of you and writes to that one over and over again just to gush and be licky. Well, right now let me assure you that’s not me. It’s that very reason of choosing someone out for special praise that has made me write this. I refuse to do it, whatever anyone in my school says. It’s obvious from anyone who knows me that I always have loved Pete the most of all of you. Only because he is the good-lookingest and funniest for me. Also I really really love his crazy clothes the most, especially his trousers, which are simply nutty! He is also the kindest and caringest one of you all, which is important in life in the future, which I find super. But that’s the thing. Even though he is definitely my favourite one over my grave till I die, I would never say so and make the others of you feel left out. No. That is wrong. So I write this letter to tell you that I love you all the same and that even though Davy is from my country of England and so really he should be my best one, to make everything easier if we got married to see all our families who are also English, although one of my aunties was from Cornwall at the start but that doesn’t matter. No. It is best for all if we keep it the same and say I like each Monkee like the same as the next. So you can easily see how different I am to those other fans who only think about themselves and not your happiness. Especially Mickey, who probably hasn’t got many fans just because of his face. And that isn’t fair, is it?

  There was a thing on telly which said you are coming to England to sing soon. Please can you let me know where and when so my mum can organise time off work to take me to it? You don’t have to meet her, just me. Maybe they don’t even let parents go backstage anyway? You will love England, we are crazy here too, like you, although we don’t all walk in a crazy straight line together like you! Which is so crazy! But I do have a purple maxi-skirt you will go crazy at if you see it. Please let me show it to Pete, who would love it the most.

  Anyway, loads of luv ’n’ stuff till forever.

  Moo French (age 11)

  Dear B.F,

  BEING BALANCED, BOTH psychologically and emotionally, is supposed to be an attribute, isn’t it? I’m not entirely convinced that it is, and I am further unconvinced that it is an attribute that can be attributed to me! I have often, even sometimes by you, my beloved Best Friend, been told that I am a ‘balanced’ person. Is that a compliment or, as I suspect in occasional paranoid interludes, is it, rather, a heinous insult which, while appearing to indicate that I might be measured and fair, really denotes a big ol’ underbelly of dullitude? Is the apparent ability to empathise with both sides of a situation an enviable quality or is it a sort of curse which renders one incapable of having a definite opinion or position? I don’t know – aaargh there, see? I can’t even decide what I think about not deciding. I see me
rit and, equally, see fault and this all leads to much frustration and not just for me, but for those closest to me, like Jennifer, for instance, who is often exasperated by my interminable see-sawing.

  People have suggested to me that I am unfeasibly fair because I am a Libran. This smacks of uber-hogwash to me. Scales, balance – bit obvious. No, I think if I do have this tendency, and as yet I’m unconvinced (there I go again …), it’s because of a simple family relationship. Or rather, two concurrent and utterly opposite family relationships. The ones I have had with both of my grandmothers. My dad’s mum, Grandma French (Marjorie), and my mum’s mum, Grandma O’Brien (Lil). Two mighty women who both did much to shape me. I surely walk in their shoes, although one is a teeny-tiny sparkly perfect pointy ballroom-dancing satin shoe which I can barely squish the chipolatas into. The other is a colourful, loud, high and clacky ankle-strappy saucy strumpet of a shoe, too roomy for me, therefore inherently perilous!

  Let me tell you about my experience of these two polar opposite matriarchs. First, Marjorie French née Berry, much beloved mum of my dad, and without a doubt the most precious familial woman in my life next to my mum. Typical of the Berry family, she is diminutive and compact with a kind smiley face and the sparkliest, naughtiest, most expressive eyes in the firmament. As I write this, she is 99 years old and by the time you read this, she will be 100.

  Actually, many women from my dad’s side of the family have been true stayers. There was his grandmother for instance, Great-Grandma Berry, who died a few days before we celebrated her 100th birthday, which was a bit disappointing and frankly inconvenient, considering the whole, wider (in every sense of the word) family had gathered from far reaches for a splendid knees-up. Not that her departure prevented us from having a rare ol’ time – far from it. The chair in which she would have been seated was boldly placed in prime position on the stage of the parish hall in Eggbuckland, Plymouth, where the party was held. This resplendent, empty throne was then lit with reliable old industrial used-for-thousands-of-Brownie-productions house lights. There was no doubt where the spotlight was: on ‘she who was no longer with us’, my very formal, slightly scary, jolly but brusque, impressively hirsute great-grandmother. The entire evening went ahead as planned with speeches, salutations, songs and dances for the benefit of the eerily empty chair. Any alteration from celebratory party to wake was virtually imperceptible. Uncle Boy played his accordion with great passion and gusto as usual, Auntie Barb played the piano, and various kids did a turn.

  Later on in the evening, we had the traditional family party highlight – ‘The Informative Dance of the Two Elderly Sisters’, as it came to be known in inner family circles. Great-Auntie Doris (real name Maude) and Great-Auntie Win (real name Win) had been tirelessly rehearsing their latest offering in honour of their mother’s special birthday. They regularly performed together, always choosing a subject to inform us about through the medium of the dance. On this occasion they decided to give us a whistle-stop tour through the history of dance itself. As they entered the room, arm in arm, we fell silent in respect of their mastery of this rarefied – in fact unique, I think – art form. The clacking of tap shoe on parquet was unmistakable and I was already breathless with anticipation. Not only did they dance on these occasions, but they also made their costumes. It took time to work out exactly what era the costume signified because at first sight they presented as two giant It’s a Knockout balls of wool. On closer inspection, I soon gathered that they intended themselves to be Elizabethan. It was hard to distinguish exact details of the costume since the entire outfit was executed in crochet. Crocheted bodices, crocheted voluminous bustled skirts, crocheted headpieces, crocheted chatelaines, crocheted ruffs, crocheted cuffs, probably crocheted codpieces beneath. The overall effect was bulky to say the least, but that didn’t prevent the indomitable aunties from launching gamely into a display that would be etched on my memory for ever. Marjorie, the younger sister, my granny, was positioned by a small cassette player and charged with the task of musical director/technician. The tape consisted of ten or so samples of music from different ages spliced together and it was tricky for her to coordinate what we were to see with what we were to hear. But she was determined to stick with it. SILENCE. The sisters stood stock-still in the centre of the floor. The atmosphere was electric. Marjorie clicked the play button and thereafter we witnessed a dance spectacle the likes of which even Boris Yeltsin would have hesitated to embark upon. Yes, the outfit was sort of Elizabethan, and yes, the music was sort of a galliard, and yes, the great-aunties were a-leapin’ and a-hoppin’ about with a sort of lumbering Elizabethan gait. We were just about to applaud their magnificent display when they stopped suddenly, and froze in posed positions, while Marjorie fast-forwarded furiously to the next era of music. Out blasted the opening notes of a charleston riff, and the great-aunties yanked off their poppered-on Elizabethan outfits and tossed them aside to reveal cunningly concealed crocheted flapper dresses! AWESOME! They jumped about swinging their crocheted strings of beads in a frenzy of Bugsy Malone-type routines until, stop – fast forward – play, and now we’re at a hoedown, and yet another outfit, this time complete with crocheted Stetson, is revealed. On and on they went through polka and jive and cancan and waltz and old-time ballroom and rock ’n’ roll, all with utter disregard for chronology but with great attention to technique and giant poppers. It was during this display that I cast a look around our table – a delighted Mum, Gary and Gary’s then fiancée, Susan. Susan’s face was a picture of stunned horror camouflaged under a fixed polite smile. I instantly realised that, of course, our family was used to this kind of eccentric entertainment, but that as an incomer, she must have been wondering what kind of freakish troupe of mentalists she was about to marry into. (Needless to say, they didn’t stay engaged for long.) The fabulous routine ended on a high with by then minimal crocheted coverage in the form of somewhat unsettling disco outfits, and there was the most enormous explosion of euphoric, rowdy approval from the entire family. Enough whooping and stamping for the dead to hear – well, for one particular dead anyway – and enough clamouring to frighten off any possibly unsuitable future family members. A good night all round …

  But anyway, I was wanting to tell you about Marjorie, sorry – just got sidetracked by that other memory. Yes, Marjorie – you’ve met her several times. You know that she’s remarkable. A 99-yearold woman who insists on living independently, who will get down on the floor to play with any visiting toddler, who will race out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea (powdered tea, that is – an acquired taste), and offer a saffron bun to all comers. She is the anchor for a massive group of people, she is our family’s history and our rock. She is the keeper of all the secrets and she is the purveyor of all the comfort and advice any of us need. She has never, ever made a judgement about me or anyone else in my earshot that isn’t positive or encouraging. She might often have a good laugh at some twit’s shortcomings or do funny impressions of people who amuse her for one reason or another, but she has no malice in her. None.

  Recently I took from her house a handwritten manuscript (in faultless copperplate, I hasten to add) she has been writing for some time about her life. It only goes up to the births of her four children, but I wanted to have it typed up so that she could show it to the rest of the family. Reading this account of her life has been mind-blowing for me. The details of her tough but well-loved childhood on Dartmoor are phenomenal. Her descriptions of the clothes, the food, the house, the people, the jobs and the family are unique and golden. She lived in a tiny two-up two-down near Princetown and the goings-on of the prison were a major factor in the day-to-day lives of all who lived nearby. Some of the family worked in and around the prison; Uncle Frank’s job was to direct the unpredictable leats (small freshwater streams which occasionally disappeared underground) towards the prison so that inmates could have water. She tells us about her father, Samuel James Berry, who drove the first car in the area, as a chauffeur, and about th
e crush she and her friends had on the new young pastor and how very often they were compelled to visit church during his sojourn there! She remembers exactly which pew her family sat in.

  She writes of when she went into service for a family in Plymouth and she is discreet but frank about falling out with the father of the family. Her love for her siblings is palpable and her admiration for her parents through feast and famine is so moving. Her knowledge of the moor is astonishing, she learned so much about its landscape and wildlife, her Arcadian life dictated by the seasons and the mysterious supernature that permeates the area. Whenever I’ve taken her there for a jaunt in the car, she insists that we pull over here and there, so that she can tell me relevant stories, or strange moorland legends that live on. She remembers meeting my grandfather Leslie, who was tall and handsome and rode a motorbike and whom she kept waiting and waiting for his first kiss. And waiting. He drove through regular snowdrifts on high parts of the south moor to see her on their rare days off. He lost his bike once in a huge mound of snow and had to return to dig it out. The snowy weather even threatened to ruin their wedding day. Only a few guests made it and those who did had to dig a path to the church through a snow barricade! The occasion was even reported in the local press.