by Dawn French
Don’t misunderstand. I can certainly be ornery. I am extremely stubborn about probably far too much. I am unforgiving of those I don’t trust or who have betrayed me, or who are needlessly unkind, or who threaten my beloveds. I can be cantankerous and cunty when it suits me. Come to think of it, it never actually ‘suits’ me. Does being contemptuous suit anyone? Whenever I catch sight or sound of myself in the full grumpy flow of despicable thoughts or words or deeds, I repulse me sufficiently to try and stop, thank goodness. It’s far preferable to seek out the good than dwell on the bad which is so bloody exhausting. A bit like Mum with the dogs in the parlour, I endeavour to give everyone at least a chance, y’know, before I condemn them to the eternal fires of hell!
It feels difficult to finish these letters. Even the simple act of writing ‘Dear Dad’ at the start of a letter has been comforting and has given me a closeness to you I have missed so much. Dad. It’s such a short, dapper word. Just like you. The palindromic perfectness of it is beautiful. Dad. A little word that contains a whole world of meaning. Like ‘Mum’. I use that word often, I use it on the phone to her, I call it out when I’m with her, I use it to check if she wants a coffee, or to see how her day is. I use it to write in my diary about her, or to include her in a list of things to do, or an invite, or on a note that goes with flowers, or a card at Christmas or on her birthday. Or for a thousand reasons. I’ve written that word ‘Mum’ so often. But I haven’t written ‘Dad’, I don’t think, for about 30 years when it’s directly to you. I write it now – ‘Dad’. There, with such tenderness. It’s a treat to write it, an excellence. I want to keep on writing it, ‘Dad Dad Dad’. It’s like a jewel, a precious thing. I don’t want it to stop ...
But it must. It must stop because it’s time to properly say goodbye, isn’t it? After your funeral, when I was 19, I stood on the shoreline at Rock, feeling entirely bereft without you, feeling that you were gone with the waves sinking back into the ocean. Writing these letters to you has helped me to wade out a little way, and dive in. That’s all I needed, to swim about and play for a while. To connect with you and feel your nearness again. I’m surprised how easy it is to do. I didn’t know how near you are. You are close by, aren’t you?
About five years ago I went to Skibo Castle and one evening a medium from the Black Isle came to tell us our fortunes and read our tarot cards. It was all for fun, a light hearted distraction. I went in, a little worse (or maybe better) for whisky and sat down. She was quiet, and then she looked at me and said, ‘Oh, I see your dad is with you!’ This shocked me. Just for her to say such a thing shocked me. ‘Yes, there he is, standing right behind you with his hand on your shoulder. I hope you’re not offended by this but he’s calling you “Dumpling” and “Moo”.’ I had to leave. I wasn’t offended, I was heart-thuddingly touched. How did she know? Was this trickery? I went for a walk outside and sat on a bench in the clear moonlight. I don’t know if you, or some form of you, was there, I don’t really hold with ‘all that’ ordinarily. Actually, it doesn’t really matter what she said or saw, her words to me transcended the rational. What mattered that night, as it has mattered to me through this whole book, is that we are always connected, you and I. Always. It’s the memory of you and the love you gave me that remain. Death is merely the horizon, the love is eternal. Undoubtedly.
There’s an astronomical term, ‘syzygy’. It means the alignment of celestial bodies in the same gravitational system along a straight line. The celestial bodies are actually stars and planets and stuff, I think, and apparently it’s rare when it happens. That’s how I think of what has happened between you and me in this book. For a brief, excellent moment, we have aligned in the same gravitational pull, and we’ve been together. But now it’s time to go about the rest of my life. I don’t know what you’ll do. I like to imagine you in a sort of five star dead men’s dorm with Eric Morecambe and Elvis and Kenneth Williams and Tommy Cooper for company. For God’s sake, don’t let Bernard Manning in if he comes a-knockin’!
As for me, I pootle on, with you in my heart for warmth and fortitude, and I do all I can to have a good life. And it is a good life … with knobs on. And then some … Some more knobs!
Chio then, Dad.
Dear Fatty,
QUICKLY NOW, I need to tell you about a phone call I just had with an actor friend of mine who works in LA. I wouldn’t work in LA, would you? I don’t think I could be bothered any more to pack everything up to move there, to be honest. And what about my geraniums? They’re just starting to take, so I wouldn’t want to abandon them for a life of glitter and gloss and enormous wealth beyond my wildest dreams. Would you? Besides which, frankly, no one’s asked.
Anyway, anyway, anyway, my friend – it doesn’t matter what his name is, you don’t know him – was hanging around with a load of old Star Trek actors and found out something he couldn’t wait to tell me, something really shocking, something I need to impart to you immediately. Get this. Why do you think Lieutenant Uhura smelt so strange? Because William Shatner … The dirty dog. Can you believe that?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So many huge thanks to the following, they know why.
Len and Billie, big love
Sue Hunter for everything
Hannah Black for everything else
Abi Wilson for all the other stuff
Maureen Vincent, Chris, Ruth, Robert and all at United Agents
Mr Finkle
All the Frenchies
All the O’Briens (especially Keej and Ellie)
Brian Nicholson
Ray Faulkner
Rachael Martin
Jennifer Parker
Sabrina Lillicrap
Yasmin Lillicrap
Charlie Duffy
Cheryl Phelps-Gardiner
Trevor Leighton
Helen Teague
The Green Family
The Robinson Family
The Amihyia Family
The Barrett Family
Cynthia, Linda and Jeff, Ben, Davey
Mr D’Arcy, Gordon, Rory and Anna
My amazing Godchildren:
Sophie
Hannah L
Hannah F
Ella
Aba
Oscar
Florence
Jack
Rocco
Spike
Cameron
Jake
James
Joe
Naomi
Max
Mum, Gary and, of course, the Mighty BF.
Me being a baby.
Bath time in French household. Uncle Owen restrains Gary.
Dad as a nipper.
Mum pushing me in a pram on windy Anglesey. Gary as outrider.
Gt. Grandma, Auntie Win, Grandma, Gary and me (unhappy).
With my best friend Carlo.
The fabulous Marjorie and Leslie French giving us their old time dancing.
With Gary and Hunni. He refused to let her wear a bonnet for this shot.
It’s Gary’s gang – I’m not going to challenge him.
I bow to you, ‘Spam’. Look, see the quality of the cloth.
Who’s nicked the ruddy crown?
Jaw set, on bed in Akrotiri, Cyprus. Determined to conquer the world of ballet despite shortness and roundness of stature.
Cyprus. Whole family drowning a lilo.
Dad in Cyprus as a Reservoir Dog.
Ballet class. Me as a dying cygnet. Note the fabulous floor/chin work.
Another riding lesson, dreaming of having my very own magnificent steed.
A rare moment where we are all clean. Gary has Mum’s spit on his hair.
Sarah Walton and me in puppy heaven.
I must, I will upstage those bridesmaids.
Outside Tussauds. The beginning of monkey love.
At last! Me and Heather. The sinister glint is, in fact, triumph.
With cousin Karen and mini skirts.
With chums on RAF base.
My first
car, ‘The Bomb’, at Pillaton.
My first love, Nick Brentford, both sporting the same mullet.
With Jane Veale, writing songs of love and loss.
St. Dunstans Abbey School, 4th Year. Front row (circled): Me, Little Nicky, Mrs Whitfield, Angie, Jane. Back row: Nikki R.
Sixth Form. I am squeezing Nikki R’s bottom.
Me ‘n the two Nickys. The dreaded boaters.
Trying to attract males on beach at St. Mawes. On holiday with Angie.
I take the two Nickys along as bait for David’s friends. My friends don’t really like his friends.
The blue net curtain tent dress and the officer and a gentleman.
The Venue.
Moody and recently sexed.
A study in denim and Fair Isle.
On a Circle Line cruise around Manhattan. Age 18.
A couple made entirely of denim.
Spence School Graduation Day: me as a vestal virgin in Auntie May’s emergency frock.
Uncle Dr. Mike comes to support me. We go to see Stan Getz to celebrate.
Lizzie, Wendy and me at 25th reunion.
Same three amigos on Graduation Day.
1977. N. York. My page in the Spence School Yearbook.
Dad, on my return to the UK.
First year at college.
College. As an owl in Aristophanes’ The Birds. Not happy.
Me and Fatty outside 15 Steeles Rd.
My 21st birthday in a Greek restaurant in Camden, singing with Fatty. I have come as a Stepford wife.
First official sketch together at college.
Peter, Jobo, Fatty and me. Theatre in education. A dreadful ‘devised piece’ about trains.
Scottie with me and Fatty.
T.80 at a ‘wedding’.
Being a teacher, with my class. I am one minute older than some of my students.
Some favourite kids we taught.
Me and the B.F. outside the drama studio/toilets at Parly.
The B.F. on Charles and Di’s wedding day.
Onstage at the Comic Strip. I am believing Tartan is ‘it’…
Punishing others with Ralph McTell songs in Comic Strip dressing room.
Comic Strip tour. Backstage at gig (porn cinema) in Sauchiehall St.
First Comic Strip film directed by Julien Temple. Have come as bin bag.
C Strip on tour. Dangerous comedians in children’s playground. Fatty must be taking photo.
The first dip in pool at Oberoi in Adelaide. I am last due to disability of natural buoyancy aids.
Me ‘n Fatty.
Fatty ‘n Me.
A Fistful of Traveller’s Cheques. Ade, John (sound), Keith and Rik.
Nige is saying something disgusting.
Len visits the Famous Five set.
Famous Five with Licky Timmy.
In bed with Ade, filming The Beat Generation.
At Edinburgh Castle with Nige and Ade.
Ill-advised first publicity shot.
In N.Y. Len as Statue of Liberty.
Us and our mums.
On holiday in Sicily.
The Menopatzi Sisters.
F+S Live at Shaftesbury Theatre.
Len in sheepskin coat. He didn’t remove it once.
The ‘romantic’ holiday in railway carriage at Gwithian.
Our wedding invite.
The Frenchies are on a step. The Henrys are not.
My hen night. Many beloveds in towels at ‘The Sanctuary’.
The reception. With Ade and Jen. Again, tartan.
On tour.
Filming Slags written by Fatty.
Day out whilst filming Ben Elton’s Happy Families. Me, Helen Lederer, Hugh Laurie and Fatty.
With Len in Jamaica at his cousins’ shop.
The Fat Men.
Girls on Top: me, Tracey, Jen, Ruby and Joan.
‘Whispering Your Name’ video with Alla.
Filming Murder Most Horrid.
We ‘come out’ in a Hello mag shoot at home with tiny Billie. This gets rid of eight paparazzi camped outside front door.
Len and Bill.
Bill improvising at piano, a daily occurrence.
Bjork.
Frodo.
Well, if she refuses to come on our show, we’ll just have to ‘be’ her!
Country Ladies, who are basically The Fat Men with lipstick.
Exorcist. Feeling pretty as a picture.
At something with Len.
Unidentified Susans at a ‘conference’ in Mustique.
Susans in uniform.
Nigel and me, forever.
Me and the B.F. in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Not the B.F’s own teeth.
Helen outside our first shop in Primrose Hill.
With Natalie and Juan Diego in La Fille du Regiment. I have come as a giant ice cream.
Prima Ballerina, ready to meet Princess Margaret.
The Diblets.
With Gary Waldhorn as Easter Bunnies.
The puddle. The second time.
On Dartmoor filming Jam and Jerusalem.
Wild West with Catherine as my lesbian lover. Yum Yum.
Mum visits the set.
Len gets to be Commander.
Gary, Bill, Jack, Hannah and Grandma French on her back step.
Me ‘n Fatty. Big love.
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448106578
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Published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2009
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Copyright © Dawn French 2008
Dawn French has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of the author. In some cases names of people have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects, the contents of this book are accurate and true according to her memory of events.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.