by Dawn French
Anyway, I told Nana Pamela all about what happened and she was like sooo funny about it, doing impressions of Sam and Lottie getting ready for the prom and saying about how Lottie would have to take Sam there in her handbag coz he’s so small ’n’ stuff? Maybe even she’d have to like keep him in a matchbox and let him out at mealtimes and parties. She said it would be such hard work being his girlfriend coz you have to like spend all the time making sure people don’t step on him.
Then she said, ‘And that little missy Lottie had better watch out. Doesn’t she know that dating your best friend’s ex-boyfriend is the height of bad manners and betrayal? It’s reprehensible. The patron saint of Amity, Saint Jonathan of the Immaculate Holy Friendship Bracelets, will send his invisible demon revengers to enter her nostrils and eat out her brains from the inside and gradually work their way down through her body, munching and chewing her up until they exit painfully through her bum hole to remind her of the agony she caused you. Yep, that’s what the Saint will do, God bless him in his mercy and benevolence.’
She is like, so on my team when like no one else is. Well, Dad is but he doesn’t count coz he’s just Dad. She asked me if there had been any developments on the contraception front, if I had decided what to go for, but I told her I don’t think I’ll be needing any contraception for like the next twenty years because everyone can’t wait to get away from me. Especially boys. I expect my fanny will just mould over or something, like seal up, and if I do get the chance to make sex with someone, anyone, in the future, I’ll just have to like call up the council or something to get them to open it up. Nana Pamela said a van will arrive with four guys in overalls and reflective yellow jackets and they will have all this equipment just for that purpose. They’ll have protective headgear with hard hats with like torches on and stuff, and they’ll have to be tied together for safety! She is sooo funny. That’s the first time I’ve laughed in ages.
I told her that I had a secret that I wanted to tell her but that she like so had to keep it secret. She promised and so I told her about the X-Factor auditions and how they’re in a couple of weeks’ time, after my birthday and how coz I’ll be eighteen then, I don’t have to get anybody’s permission or anything.
She asked if I wanted her to come with me. That was so sweet but I think now that I haven’t got Lotts to go with, I’ll probably be better off on my own, and anyway we’d have to queue for hours and she’s got bad knees. She totally understood and asked if I would sing her my song. So I did. I started singing and got to the ‘I am beautiful, no matter what they say’ bit and Nana said, ‘Oh I know this one, hang on!’ And she went over to the piano and started trying to play it but she so doesn’t really know it so it sounded so like abysmal, and just like wrong.
In the end she started playing that Eva Cassidy song ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ which she loves when I sing it. At least she sort of knows that one, so we could sing it together. She thinks it would be better if I did that one at the audition, but everyone does that one, and I need to really stand out. I’m sticking to my choice. I would so kill myself if I did her choice and then didn’t get through to the next round. This is my dream, after all. I’ve got to live the dream. My own dream. There is no point to my life if I don’t get through. If I don’t win really. It’s all I’m living for. It’s the only good thing I’ve got to look forward to.
SIXTY-FOUR
Oscar
This evening was a revelation. The Parents’ Association Quiz Evening at school. It was school versus teachers. Fatal. How singularly disappointing it is to witness the deepest depths, the widest widths, the highest heights and the densest densities of the shocking levels of ignorance of the staff.
I suppose I shouldn’t condemn them all. There are those who deserve some respect. Shitehouse Shelley is all right, if one can tolerate his toxic halitosis. At least he is curious enough to read a book or two about something outside the parameters of his own subject. If I taught German as he does, I would read incessantly about absolutely anything else. A man whose job it is to splutter gutturally all day shouldn’t have poison for breath. Mrs Gibson, the chemistry teacher, is the other one I appreciate, although I fully realize that one shouldn’t need to be quite so grateful for the simple fact that she is a woman, a gentle and intelligent flame flickering in the inky darkness which is the tar-pit of woeful male unenlightenment that pervades our school. These are the inglorious fellows who make me feel ashamed to occupy the same gender. I savour opportune moments like these, when they are clearly adversaries and, even more clearly, philistines.
The Pater and I were representatives of my year along with a gallant few at our table. I spied Wilson with his mother, such a tiny pale woman, at a less well-positioned table some distance hence. His mother is terribly sweetly shy and I could see that this evening was her idea of purgatory, so singularly uncomfortable was she. I excused myself and made my way to their table. En route, I felt the guilt of my indiscreet transgression creep up on me. I was walking as if through a treacle of shame. I nearly stopped and turned back, too embarrassed to confront them, but something urged me on. Contrition, perhaps?
I leaned in between the two of them, and whispered, ‘I hope you will forgive me, but I can’t help noticing you are surrounded by rascals and knaves at this table, in whose unsophisticated company you are unlikely to lay claim to a rightful victory by the end of the evening. It is vital that we outflank these wretched thieves, the teachers, in order to reclaim the coveted Dimbleby Quiz Cup which they stole so dishonourably from us last year. To this end, it would suit us well to extend an invitation to you, Mrs Wilson, and your dazzling son to join us at our table there. Two such prize additions would be nothing short of marvellous, your support would be invaluable. Might you honour us … ?’
Luckily, the two of them acquiesced and followed me to our far superior table. The Pater was charming and rose to his feet to greet them. They installed themselves comfortably, and I dispatched the Pater to the ‘bar’ for a jug of orange squash and an assortment of Family Circle Biscuits to sustain us.
The competition was fairly fierce, but had its moments of levity, my favourite being when Cock Cooper displayed his towering heathenism by thinking an ‘autocrat’ was an ‘aristocrat’. As Wilson observed, he actually almost said ‘aristocat’. Which, on reflection, would have been miles better, much more amusing at any rate. Our table proved to be infinitely more savvy than almost any other.
Some strong competition came from the Headmaster’s table. He had illegally recruited his own two sons, who were neither teacher nor school. Both are post-grads and fairly well equipped in the brain department. Needless to say, neither actually attended our school, a fact which certainly proved to their advantage. Their mere presence was proof enough to me of the Head’s familiarity with underhand dealing. It is no surprise that our leader is widely known as the Hegivesheadmaster. He commands utter disrespect from one and all who meet him, quite appropriately so, but alarmingly his table were surging ahead with precious and ill-gotten points. I couldn’t quite believe the luck they had with their questions, one of which was the bafflingly simple: name the prime minister. Yegods! Talk about a fix. Mind you, I suppose that could be categorized as a challenging question when one considers the turnover of late.
The Pater showed some expertise in the sports section, and Wilson’s mother was fabulously handy for cookery and history. Actually, she and the Pater seemed to be getting on famously, I haven’t seen him laugh so much for ages. I’ve never seen Wilson’s mother laugh at all ’til now. I suppose one wouldn’t, if one lived inside the grip of such debilitating sadness. She seemed resuscitated, for a while at least. I watched as the Pater and she made such heroic efforts to be sociable, and obviously found surprising pleasure in it. I wished that perhaps Mama could sometimes make a little bit more effort to bring smiles like these to the Pater’s kindly face. He is so very willing to be happy. And she seems so very reluctant of late …
Suddenly I f
elt Wilson squeeze my knee under the table. ‘They’re really getting on, aren’t they? We could be the Brady Bunch!’
It was shocking to realize that Wilson believes my father to be so available. Is he?! I do hope not. There’s nothing more humiliating than a caddish Pater.
‘No, no,’ I assured him, ‘he’s just pleased to be out; overexcited, that’s all.’
‘Right,’ he said, not convinced.
‘Wilson … Luke,’ I whispered, ‘I must apologize to you for my reckless indiscretion. I am as sorry as a sorry thing for doing what I did. Your personal history is none of my nosey business. I hope you know how very ashamed I am. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, my dear boy? You have every right to be piqued as hell. I know that.’
‘It’s impossible for me to resent you,’ he said, ‘I am altogether in your thrall and I know you will keep my counsel. And have me in your safe keeping.’
‘I will, Luke, I surely will. Need I extend my apology to your darling ma?’
‘She knows nothing of it, so no call for that. And anyway, see how happy she is here tonight, let’s not ruin it. For anyone.’ With that, he twinkled at me and I caught it, and, in turn, lit up a little bit myself. Yes, he’s a tad special is young Luke Wilson. ’Pon my word, his staggering strength and capacity for kindness has caught me napping, I have to admit he is a tiny bit marvellous, now that I come to stop and properly notice.
He then went on to answer three very difficult questions in a row. A hat-trick, by Jove, which triumphantly brought the Dimbleby Cup back to our table, and to school, where it rightly belongs. Victory. Needless to say, the Head was seething. Livid. Foaming at the mouth. Wilson caught his eye and stood up, and bowed to him in an astonishingly impressive act of defiance and excellent manners in equal measure. The Head was forced to acknowledge him and smile.
Wilson is a contender. In all senses. I immediately invited him as my date to Dame Dora’s eighteenth birthday party.
SIXTY-FIVE
Mo
Do I have some kind of announcement branded on my face? Am I wearing a sandwich board with all my personal info on it? How does my mother always know? I didn’t relish the thought of this week’s visit for exactly that reason. I have tried more and more, recently, to make my visits about HER, but she reads me instantly and is pretty much surgical with her questioning. She knows I have come bearing emotional weight and she wants me to empty out my knapsack. I have resisted this for the last few years. I find her interest intrusive and I somehow can’t bear that she knows me so well. Her concern can be claustrophobic.
I thought for a while that she was simply being nosey, needing to hear all the gen on my life because her life had become so much smaller since Dad died, and she might be living vicariously through me. I didn’t mind that really, in fact I would sometimes embellish in order to make the telling more interesting and give her something to get her teeth into. I’d exaggerate to make my life seem more elaborate than it is. How pathetic is that? I don’t really mind the deceit in itself but to your own mum? For what purpose? To impress her? I don’t need Mum’s approval for anything. Obviously it oils the wheels if she is proud of my achievements and thinks I’m an OK person, which I know she does, but I’m not seeking her validation. I have it.
I went there to connect, that’s all. We certainly did that. This time I gave her plenty of warning that I was coming, so she had made me a beetroot cake. No second-rate biscuit substitutes today. The icing was bliss – bright pink and utterly delish.
Mid-chew, when I was on the web and disadvantaged by cake, she pounced.
‘So, what’s going on?’ A seemingly innocent, harmless enquiry, but I know Pamela, and she wanted to prise the lid off me and root about in all my private stuff.
‘Nothing much, Mum, we’re all fine.’
‘Are we now?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, if you want to hide that’s fine, but I can see you from here, young lady m’girl, and I’m happy to wait ’til you’re ready to come out.’
’Til now, this momentous event in my life has only been known by two people, him and me. It was very hard to imagine sharing it, but I did long to. I was completely torn. On the one hand, of course I wanted to tell her, to include her in the dizzying mix of it all. I was longing for a confidante, someone to know the sheer delight I feel at the idea someone so wonderful wants me so much. I wanted to endlessly mull it over in detail, and gossip and giggle, that’s the fun of a new relationship, the marvelling about it. I wanted us to be amazed together, to tell her details of what had happened and watch her eyes get wider and wider. To keep repeating ‘I know, I know’. But I couldn’t, it’s not that easy. It meant letting her into a very private place where she didn’t belong, and where it would be dangerous for her to be. In the betrayal place. Where I am wilfully ignoring my real life.
We ate cake and drank tea in an awkward silence. The cake and tea were divine. The silence was not. I tried a few feeble enquiries about her life, but she was perfunctory in her answers, she didn’t want to be diverted.
I said, ‘So, how’s Janice?’
She said, ‘Like Janice always is, thanks.’
‘Right. You been busy?’
‘Yes thanks, Mo, very busy.’
‘Been into town this week?’
‘Yes, right into town, thanks.’
Then, she stunned me with, ‘Your old man was here yesterday, Mo. I don’t think he came just to eat whisky cake. He didn’t say much but what he did say broke my heart.’
‘Oh?’ I tried to remain impassive.
‘Yes, he said he feels loss and lost.’
‘Right. Interesting.’
‘Care to elaborate? Or just another slice of denial for you?’
She ought to be dunked in the pond for a witch. She knew. She knew something. Why would Husband be round here on his own? I know they have a close friendship, the two of them, but isn’t your mother supposed to be in your team, no question? I found to my shame that feelings of jealousy about Husband and Mum’s collusion were rising up my gullet. It was highly uncomfortable.
‘Mum … I wouldn’t exclude you from anything unless there was reason. It’s not that simple.’
‘I understand, Mo, but what you really need to know right now is that it most certainly IS that simple. You either still love your husband or you don’t. Simple as that. Which is it, love?’
It crossed my mind to keep the fraudulence going but my emotions took over and forced my face to cry. Only a slight welling to begin with, partially controllable with coughing and blinking, but less so with every passing second that she was looking at me, until it wasn’t possible to rein it in any more. With crying, I find that once the tipping point has been reached, it is pointless to resist it. My God, I didn’t know I contained that much water! The release was almost orgasmic, it was so good to feel the tension subsiding.
‘Come on, love, let’s be having it. Get it out, get it all out. You can trust me.’
‘Oh, Mum …’ I started jabbering about what had happened, what had not happened, about my confusion, my awakening, my greyness, all of it. On and on, throughout which she held my hand and patiently sat and listened. I said much more than I should, but I was unable to stem the flow. I needed it all to be out, to be said, to be in the open air, like a cat sicking up a fur ball. I started to feel better.
Pamela sat patiently and, eventually, after I spluttered out the last few sentences of the story, she responded in her inimitable, succinct way. ‘You had need of a knight, and you think he’s arrived, don’t you, Mo? To save you.’
‘From what, though?’
‘From thinking that you don’t matter to anyone any more.’
That was a slamming body blow. It hurt. It really hurt. Because it might be true.
She went on, ‘Here’s a fact to put in your handbag and think on later. You matter to me.’
That was it, I was suddenly at her chest, sobbing and sobbing. ‘It’s unbearable, Mum,
I’m unbearable.’
We sat like that for some time, with her smoothing my hair and patting me. Well, I’m not quite sure how long exactly because, unbelievably, I nodded off with my head on her shoulder, feeling gratefully safe and wishing her quiet strength would seep into me, and steer me through this shocking storm.
SIXTY-SIX
Dora
Sometimes things just crash together for a reason, even if you like don’t know it at the time. It all looked so bad for a couple of days, the Mum stuff, the Sam and Lottie thing, then the prom thing and THEN realizing that virtually everyone is away for my birthday or hasn’t even responded to my email invite so it’s down to like only three girls in my year who can come, and they are Emos.
So then I spoke to Dad about it and he said let’s not spend the money on the room at the pub, and he agreed to give me that £200 instead, plus he would get some drinks and stuff so we could have it at home. That means we can have KFC buckets, so actually I prefer that. The food part, anyway. Trust me to get born right in the middle of the school holidays so no one is around. It sucks big time. Except, like Dad said, I really love sleepovers so that’s what it will be now.
Three sad Emos and me. Great. Not.
Then none of my new Facebook guys were talking to me, and I thought I’d lost them forever. I’m not speaking to Peter coz he invited his new friend to my party without even bloody asking me. I’m not speaking to Mum coz I hate her. So all in all it looked pretty wak. Then luckily, a really like amazing thing happened? I got post on my Facebook and it was X-man. Yay! He’s back,
X-MAN: Sorry haven’t been in touch. Felt bit awkward after you sent pic.
ME: OMG. Soooo sorry re pic. Was pissed. Shouldn’t have. Just for record – my chest normally looks tons better than that. No bronzer. Was weird angle. Sorry.
