Dear Fatty (9 page)

We
have
had some splendid holidays, the like of which we could never have imagined as kids. We often stay in private rented houses so as to keep away from eager Brits with camera phones. I don’t normally mind if people want a quick photo, but I have an entirely different mindset when I’m on holiday, and I feel strangely shocked that my work-life ‘stuff’ like photos and autographs has intruded on my private family time. It just feels inappropriate and I get quite embarrassed. I find it hard that people don’t read the obvious signals, when you’re meandering about hand in hand with your old man and your kid, nosying in art galleries or quietly reading a book in the back of a cafe. It is so clear that I am off duty, so to speak. Some people can be unbelievably rude – we’ve had folk who pull up a chair at the table where we are eating, assuming, I suppose, that we would enjoy the addition of their company on a blatantly romantic, intimate occasion! We have experienced overexcited or drunk people standing on chairs and announcing to a whole piazza of unaware and frankly uninterested tourists that we are over there in the corner, look. We’ve had photos taken from the balcony of our hotel
into
the bedroom, and on one excruciating occasion, Len and I were on honeymoon in Kenya and the dining room full of Brits joined in a loud chant of ‘We know what you’ve been doing’ as we entered. Exit swiftly stage left. Room service, thank you, goodnight.

The worst ever occasion of such thoughtlessness wasn’t on holiday, it was at a sports event with Billie. She is a bit of a dab hand at the ol’ shot-put, and she’s not bad at discus either, and running. In fact, if only she would believe it, she’s a fantastic
athlete
, but she is so utterly self-effacing and tough on herself, that she virtually disables her ability purposely, so as to deal with it more easily. What a wonderful, curious, complicated young woman she is! Anyway, on occasion, she
does
allow herself to acknowledge her skills and she takes part in various athletic competitions as a member of her local club, Bracknell Athletics. Imagine that, Dad, I am the mother of an athletic kid! Who’d’ve thought it, eh? I have been suddenly launched into a world of tracksuits, running shoes, personal bests, pep talks, endless packed lunches, safety pins for numbers to be attached to shirts, energy drinks, pulled muscles, Deep Heat, orders of events, statistics, long circuitous journeys to old stadiums at the arse end of brown towns, and loud, utterly biased hollering from the stands. I have never been good at sport. I’ve given tennis and hockey and netball my best shot on a few occasions but not so’s anyone would notice. Therefore, being part of a sporty backup team is quite a novelty and quite thrilling. I can be nearly sporty, vicariously, through her. The fab thing about a local athletics club is that it unites everyone, whatever colour, background, school, religion or anything else. I have been astounded to see the dedication of the coaches, all volunteers, to these kids, and equally the parents who sacrifice so much of their spare time to join in and support. The folk at Bracknell Athletics Club were immediately welcoming to Billie and to us, with a palpable sense of ‘nothing special’ – thankfully – just a new kid joining and some new parents supporting. We were in the team, therefore we had to pull our weight and join in.

The single most remarkable person I met there was Marcia Toft, a mum whose love for and pride in her own kids is a treat
to
witness. Her loving but firm handling of her posse and her dedication to their interests in the club really struck me. She is a ferociously intelligent woman who takes no shit from anyone but has a heart of candyfloss. The kind of person you wish had been your chum at school, a cheeky and protective force of nature. She knew instantly that I was floundering like a carp out of water in the fresh, new-to-me sporting world. I was not conversant with the rules, the etiquette, the form. She explained stuff to me, about the sports, the club, the officials, etc. She helped me to understand what to bring along to survive those long cold days as a spectator, and she provided the gateway into a community we had hitherto not known, and about which we were patently ignorant. I was tentative initially about our inclusion in this group of strangers, because I didn’t want to assume any kind of overfamiliarity, but that fear was unfounded.

The day came for our club to be represented in the Southern Counties Women’s League at Kingston. There were about eight to ten clubs competing and the stadium was heaving. Our Bracknell lot decided to camp out on the grass, close to the discus net and the shot-put sector. It was a warm but blustery day and the events went well for us. Lots of our kids were coming in the top three, and the continual announcements of results from the speakers mounted on poles around the ground bode well for us. The picnics were tasty, the kids were in tip-top form and the whiff of victory was in our nostrils. Then, something terrible happened. Billie had thrown well in her shot-put event and we thought she might even bag first place but couldn’t be sure till the official announcement was made. There was a hubbub of group excitement building, and then the familiar, loud, tinny voice
from
the speaker announced: ‘In the under 15s shot-put … third was Katie blah blah … with blah metres … second was Tanisha blah blah with blah metres and first was Billie Henry with blah blah huge amount of winning metres!’ We started to cheer and I grabbed Billie for a victor’s hug. But Mr Tinny Official hadn’t finished his announcement. He went on … ‘Billie Henry, whose mother, the celebrity DAWN FRENCH, is here with us today, ladies and gentlemen, sitting over there on the grass. Nice to see you out today with all the normal mums and dads!’ I’m sure on reflection he meant no harm, but his careless and misguided attention started the rumblings of a volcano of foaming fury inside me. It started a long way down, from a Gollum depth I didn’t even know I had, somewhere infernally deep, around the soles of my feet, and it rose up very fast, gathering velocity and ferocity at an alarming rate. Past my spleen where it gathered bile, past my guts where it gathered acid, past my bladder where it gathered gall, through my belly where it gathered humiliation, through my blood where it gathered hotter blood, through my heart where it gathered resentment, through my throat where it gathered pepper and through my mind where it gathered guilt. During this internal tornado, I found myself in a reflex action, charging purposefully towards the official’s booth on the other side of the track. Billie was tugging at me, pleading, ‘No, Mum, it’s OK. I don’t mind! Just leave it!’ but I was hell-bent on a meet and right retribution. I wanted to slaughter – nothing less would satisfy. Stomp-stomp over the field, getting closer and closer. All the while I could taste the sourness of the soup of emotional sewage boiling further and further up my craw and curdling in my mouth. I was going to give it to him in an eloquent but savage
verbal
attack he wouldn’t forget. How dare he highlight me over my daughter’s hard-won achievements? How dare he make this day about anything other than the kids? How dare he sully this lovely, pure, clean, happy moment with the filth of ‘celebrity’?! As I approached the booth, I caught my first sight of the enemy, three elderly silvered ex-athletes in their authoritarian whites beaming at me with expectation and joy. I opened the door and the main culprit, Official Tin Voice, a lofty and superior old fox, greeted me with: ‘More tea, vicar?!’ What fresh hell was this? I was so staggered by his blindness and insensitivity that my hitherto torrent of emotional lava somehow instantly diluted. Instead of an explosion of precise and accurate verbal spew, landing all over his face and dripping down on to his Dazzy whiter-than-whites, my body made an alternative choice – to blubber like a baby. Oh dear God, no. Not now. Come on! I need some steel! I endeavoured to use words, but I couldn’t. I only had access to vowels and tears and snot. This, maddeningly, prompted a big hug from all three of the enemy. I did manage to blurt out a version of the ‘How dare you?!’ speech, but it manifested itself mainly as ‘My daughter! Blub blub my daughter!’ which they understandably misread as over-effusive pride. Billie was crumbling with embarrassment behind me, and led me away to the car. By now I was only liquid, so I poured myself into the driver’s seat and tried to compose myself while she packed the car with the detritus of our day out. Various members of our club came over to sympathise and to share their annoyance and offer support. The journey home was glum and sniffly for me. I felt that this was another opportunity to have a full and frank chat about the drawbacks of being in the public eye. We have often
talked
about it, and Billie is in no doubt about my utter disrespect for the culture of celebrity. I didn’t get the chance to know how you would have felt Dad, about this strange phenomenon of celebrity befalling your own daughter. I suspect you would have mistrusted it as much as I do. In my opinion, fame, money and politics are among the most corrupting influences we live with. It is always wise to keep an eye on any creeping personal corruptions we know full well are happening. Fame is toxic. There
are
benefits, but even those are dangerous if you get too used to them. Mostly, recognition is debilitating. It disables your ability to judge or behave normally because you are constantly reacting to people’s preconceived perceptions of what or who you are, or what you need and want. Plus, you are constantly on guard to resist the bluster of gushing praise which is blown up your bum. It’s very tempting to swig from it, but it is a poisoned chalice. I find the status and value system in our country confusing – how have we come to this place where footballers and singers and jesters are prized above teachers and doctors and carers? Don’t get me wrong – I don’t underestimate the importance of entertainment, not at all,
BUT
why are we paying so much attention to the wrong people? I have benefited hugely from this perverse social structuring, I don’t deny that. I don’t feel guilty, I feel baffled. While life’s hierarchies are so topsy-turvy, it is even
more
crucial not to confuse lustre with importance.

Anyway there I was, apologising to Bill for the idiocy of adults who are impressed with the wrong thing. I was explaining how helpless I felt when her achievement was eclipsed by a stupid error of judgement. I told her it would be so great to be able to turn off the fame knob when it suited and that is practically
always
when I am around her. Billie told me to chill out, that she sees it coming a mile off every time, and finds it
hilarious
to watch, anthropologist-like, the behaviour of supposedly normal humans around the shiny quicksilver that is celebrity. Of course she sees it, she is in the observer’s seat where the view is all too clear. She found the whole episode funny and embarrassing, not least my phenomenally entertaining overreaction! She patted my hand and said, ‘There, there, dearie, you’ll get over it. You’ll worry when no one notices you.’ God, I hope that’s not true.

Anyway, I started this letter talking about holidays because, given only a week to find a good one, I wondered whether we should hire a canal boat. I remember all those lovely holidays we had on that tiny fibreglass motorboat you bought. It was only a two-berth really, wasn’t it? But Gary and I would sleep at the back, under the cover at night, while you and Mum were in the cabin. It was so exciting. Chugging around the canals and rivers during the day, negotiating the locks and the islands, and mooring up at night wherever we fancied. Reading Spike Milligan and
The Hobbit
aloud by the light of the tilley lamp and holding on whenever the wake of a passing vessel rocked us too hard. I loved that you assumed the role of captain too seriously, that we had to use nautical terminology for everything and be mindful of safety issues at sea. Not that we ever were actually ‘at sea’. We were on canals in Shropshire and Lincolnshire and Yorkshire and the Midlands. Family jokes started there and have never let up. Going to ‘the head’ (loo) in a bucket affair in a tiny cupboard where everyone could hear your business was a rich seam for laughs. Noises were mimicked and the loud gushing of Dad wee which resounded around the whole boat was masked with the cry
of
‘Horse!’ since you would wee at the rate of a urineful carthorse. To this day, we still shout it to cover up the noise. And I clearly remember the time when Gary was staring at me in my swimsuit oddly, and suddenly exclaimed: ‘Dad! Dawn’s got bosoms coming out!’ Only
all
of the Trent canal witnessed that special moment!

We must have looked an odd sight on the canal. You in an ostentatious captain’s hat, barking navy lark orders at your junior matelots. Mum holding Poppet, our Westie, over the side so she could do her business, and a sparrow in a cage on deck. Oscar the sparrow, a little no-hoper fledgling who fell out of his nest when he was only a few minutes old, was miraculously nursed to full adult birdhood and only wanted to hang around with humans because he was convinced he was one. He was a pet we inherited when Uncle Tot and Auntie June were posted abroad and he came everywhere with us. It didn’t occur to us that it was strange to have a wild bird in a cage. The door of the cage was often left open for him, and he would occasionally hop about and stretch his wings, but his preference was to stay near us, his human buddies, who were just like him, human. OK?! Now back off and make with the seed.

I can’t remember ever going abroad on holiday as a kid. We went to Scotland once, and drove around looking at castles and mountains, didn’t we? Gary and I were teenagers then and holidays with you guys were totally uncool. We would have preferred to be at home fumbling about with our boyfriends or girlfriends. I think my own kid has reached that same point. She agreed to come on a sailing holiday last year where we bobbed about exploring various Greek islands with cousins and nieces
and
nephews, but she was mainly preoccupied with sending texts home to friends saying things like ‘Am being forced to be interested in Greece. Send help’ and ‘Dull parents laughing all day – why?’ and ‘Saw fit guy who seemed interested but no, yawn, we had to “eat in a taverna” instead. So random.’ Yes. I know I shouldn’t be reading them. On her phone. After she’s gone to bed. Checking if she’s doing any international drug deals. Or looking for clues as to whether she’s considering having sex. I know it’s wrong, but I’m a pathological nosy parker and I can’t resist. If it’s any consolation, it takes ages to decipher them since the above messages read something like ‘dl pts. Laffg al dy –?’ and ‘Sw ft gy – intd – bt no, we “et @ tvn”. Rndm Lol.’ At least I have to work at it to invade her privacy. So, if she didn’t really enjoy the Greek boat experience, is it likely she is going to enjoy the British canal experience, where she will have to live up close and personal with her ‘dull parents’ for a whole week? I think not. Mmmm, better rethink holiday idea. Maybe stay at home? All do stuff we want to in separate rooms? Sounds sublime.