by Dawn French
NINE
Oscar
I must find a suitable tailor. I must. I am not well pleased with the pathetically paltry style offerings of Pangbourne nor indeed of Wokingham and God forbid I should be forced to descend into the ultimate cultural abyss: Reading, a large town, the capital of Hell. If one should be searching for any vestige of dandy, these harbours of evil won’t suffice. The purveyors of supposed fashion in these infernal places are so very colourless and lack any individuality. All is repetition, all is uniform, all is bland. I consider the ugliness they are willing to peddle a kind of malady. A sickness of utterly rotten bad taste. A malaise of pandemic proportions, which seems to be spreading like wildfire across our green and pleasant land.
Last week, I attempted to purchase a simple cravat. I might as well have attempted to procure the soul of the Dalai Lama, it was so impossible. The store is a well-known gentlemen’s outfitters. One may have presumed my intended purchase wasn’t so rare a request, but the imps of Satan employed therein displayed their intolerable bad manners with repeated giggling and whispered insults. Well, hardly whispered. They were too unclever to manage even that. Rarely have I encountered creatures with such a complete absence of intelligence and such monumental incompetence. Veritable scoundrels and bounders.
I refuse to behave as though my predilection for jaunty neckwear is some kind of shameful dark secret. I simply will not allow the intellectually lost to dictate my personal aesthetics. The value of dress in relation to good taste is obvious to me. Just as obvious as the notion that the widespread infection known as the ‘hoodie’ has undoubtedly destroyed acres of taste in our currently crippled culture of couture. I shan’t tarry around that subject too long, for fear of drowning in gallons of my own bile. Suffice to say that I bade my adieus and departed Burton’s without a backward glance. They will not EVER profit from my not inconsiderable pool of pocket money. Since Christmas I have in excess of forty honourable English pounds. My exodus signified the end of what might have been a rewarding relationship for both of us, but Je ne staunchly regrette rien.
My search for a prince among tailors and gentlemen’s outfitters continues apace. I tentatively suggested to the Pater that he might accompany me presently, on an excursion to London in search of the very same. The thrust and parry of our repartee was certainly invigorating. The Pater insists that he would clearly be travelling not as my companion, merely as my chauffeur. Of course, he is right. Although a thoroughly decent chap, he and I are hardly kindred spirits. Truth be told; I often ponder whether I can possibly be blood-related to him, since we have so little in common.
Admittedly, there are some irrefutable genetic similarities. I have his nose, his eyes, his jaw and his stature. I also have his flaxen hair colour, his eye colour and his exact same hands. My gait, however, is my own entirely. Papa is a gross lolloper. I prefer to propel myself with a tad more grace.
I’m reliably informed that my physical presence is variously ‘interesting’, ‘imposing’ and ‘big’. Initially I took offence at the latter, but I was so very young at the time it was uttered, I was a mere fourteen years then, whereas I am much more resilient now that I am sixteen years and a full two months. A lifetime of fortitude has befallen me since then. I now accept ‘big’ as an undeniable compliment. I am, indeed, big. I fancy I carry off my bigness with a certain élan, with the aplomb of someone easily twenty years my elder. Someone like Stephen Fry or Dale Winton, perhaps? Both of which fine chaps obviously benefit from the skills of some master of great style, and that, dear diary, is who I must find. A tailor of repute, a cloth-meister of renown. To London, Pater, and don’t spare the horses!
TEN
Dora
I am thinking that going to Manchester Metropolitan to do Food Tech might be a like, giant mistake? I know all the uni experience stuff would be like really great and everything but would I just be wasting my time completely if it’s not what I really want to do? It would take me away from what I really want to do for three years for God’s sake, and I might never get the chance again, and after all, if you are going to really make it as a singer you’ve got to start really young.
I’m already wasting time. By my age Adele had been singing in public for like three years or something, really building up her profile. My profile is like, minus a thousand or something? Ask anyone, they’ve never heard of me. Which is totally like Mum’s fault because I clearly asked her to book me a session in a recording studio or something as my birthday present last year. All the bloody usual excuses came out – ‘You need to have a song ready’ ‘What musicians are you going to use?’ ‘Are you aware it costs two thousand pounds young lady’ – all that sort of prime crap, the usual stuff she says to stop me having a singing career.
I mean, like excuse me, but who was the one who won the house singing competition in Year 9? Who got accepted for choir? Who was asked to be one of the backing singers behind Judith Taylor in the school band, Girls For Hire? Was it you, fatso Mother? Or was it me, the one with the really ‘distinctive’ and ‘unusual’ voice as Mr Solomons said, and he’s only the Head of Music actually, so he should know.
It’s not like this is some kind of pie dream I’m having – I’ve like really seriously thought about it, and I know with all my heart that I am destined one day to live my dream, and be as famous as like Cheryl Cole or something? Oh my actual God, I’m not thirteen or something, I will be eighteen in August so I know myself. Who I am, what I am and what I can possibly be. If only my cocking parents weren’t bloody stopping me by like, ruining all my dreams by pissing all over them every time I suggest it.
Lottie says I can, really, sing, better than anyone on American Idol and like loads better than bloody Susan Boyle. Who is she?! I know it sounds like totally random but I’ve had an idea and I really really think I’m going to do it and that is, to go up for X Factor. They have auditions in London, I could easily catch the train. Hope they’re on a Saturday because they’re being like so strict at school now about absence and stuff. Just because of exams or something.
I will have to choose a song but I think I already know it will be ‘Beautiful’ by Christina Aguilera because I know the words and because I can like so relate to it. They always say you should really feel a song and with that one, I so like, do. Because in that song it says, ‘Now and then I get insecure from all the pain, so ashamed,’ and that’s exactly how I’ve felt since Sam dumped me.
Lottie’s the only one who knows how bad I really feel. All the others think I don’t really care because that’s what I say but … why did he dump me? Am I ugly? Well, I know I am, but not as bad as some people. Have I got like zero personality or something? I know plenty of other girls are like way more interesting than me, and funnier and prettier and everything. Is it because I wear glasses? I’m going to get the laser thing done but not yet because my eyeballs have to fully grow first or something, Mum says.
The awful thing is I think he was right to dump me because to be honest, he can do better than me. Still, least I had him for six weeks. That’s my longest boyfriend yet. Maybe I’ll find someone more my level next. Maybe I shouldn’t aim so high then the boy will stay with me a bit longer in future because he will be grateful too. I need someone who likes someone like me. Someone who is, like Christina says ‘Full of beautiful mistakes’.
ELEVEN
Oscar
Well, the fact is, my life would be vastly improved if only we could move lock stock and both barrels to London. For that is where I truly belong, my dears, it’s so frighteningly obvious. The thought of remaining in boring Berkshire is perfectly monstrous, unthinkable in fact. No, I refuse.
Every visit I pay to London reminds me that I am alive. One can live for years sometimes, as indeed I have, without truly living at all. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist and that is all. Like my own dear papa who is apparently a living human being to all intents and purposes, all outward signs and definitions, but who, frankly, seems to bare
ly eke out an existence as a person.
He very sweetly agreed to drive me into our fair capital in search of the suitable tailor, but he virtually destroyed the joie of the outing with his relentless babbling. I know he means well but we have very little in common and I find it unutterably tedious to keep answering relentless questions about my schooling, my friends, my life, my future. Might we ever, I wonder, have engaging discourse on the merits of a good cigar or when might be the appropriate occasion to sport a cummerbund? I doubt it.
He is a good enough fellow though, and awfully kind. I am prone to carsickness and I am not well pleased with the M4 at the best of times. This outing was particularly unpleasant including several bouts of violent vomiting with which to contend. The Pater was especially attentive and each incident was accompanied by his patting of my back and a regular supply of baby-wipes stored in the Volvo for that very purpose. We took refreshment at every opportunity, including Heston Services, my least favourite of the stopping-places. Here also, Papa swung into action with a bravura display of fatherly protection as I was exiting the lavatories and, as so often happens, some vulgar young men began to mock me. Mainly, it seems, with reference to my yellow checked trousers, which had somehow mortally offended them. The Pater was quick to reprimand them with a gentle ‘move along you rascals and leave him alone’ initially but when that didn’t suffice, he employed the curter and more effective ‘FUCK OFF! NOW!’ which did the trick. Sometimes, actually, he is useful to have around.
Not so successful was our foray into Savile Row and Jermyn Street. I have long dreamed of the moment I would enter one of those hallowed halls of bespoke delights. A proper gentlemen’s outfitter. I was swollen with anticipation and breathless with excitement. A bell rang above the door of the first establishment we entered and the smell of the place was oh, was divine. The smell of tweed and citrus shaving lotion and new leather shoes. The smell of style. I explained that I was looking for a good day suit and possibly a frock coat? Papa took a seat and read the Independent all the while, looking not a little embarrassed.
The delightful assistant, Mr Berry, took great pains to show me bolt after bolt of splendid cloth from which my garments might be hewn. Pinstripes and herringbones and Duke of Windsor checks, wools and silks and linens. Each more exquisitely beautiful than the last. We agreed that one should never wear brown in town, that it would be outré so to do. We also discussed the merits of the correct titfer for each season. When to choose a Panama, a Homburg or a simple Fez? Which is exactly le chapeau juste? Bliss. He measured me and, with my guidance, he drew a miraculous flash-sketch of exactly the attire I required. At last, somebody finally understood my needs and could service them splendidly.
I was about to place my order when the thorny issue of payment raised its ugly head. Why does it always have to be so vulgar? In hushed and grave tones, Mr Berry explained that the suit would cost ‘about £800’ and the frock coat would be about ‘£1,200. Sir.’ I found myself breathless with shock and, whilst the silence was quite unbearable, I had no option. I had no speech in me. All was only air, no sound. Followed by some severe gasping. Then I had to sit to regain my composure. At which point Papa stepped in and explained that my entire purse was £40.
Mr Berry very kindly showed us the choice of neckerchiefs in my price range and I chose a splendid red silk cravat. Papa added the necessary £12.50 to my £40 to purchase it and we left post haste. I managed to round the corner, out of sight of Mr Berry, before another episode of violent vomiting gripped hold of me. And I wasn’t yet in the car!
I think I may remain in mufti for the foreseeable future. These London tailors, whilst undoubtedly maestros conducting their orchestras of style, are also, frankly, cads.
TWELVE
Mo
Damn it. Just as I was settling back into the flow of work after Christmas I’ve been struck down by a horrible case of the flu. The whole family taking great delight in treating me as if I am infected with a planet-destroying pandemic-sized uber virus. They are all wearing the facemasks Husband uses when painting, plus my Marigold gloves.
Peter, of course, personalized his, and has added a back-to-front dressing gown and an old flowery bathing cap. He thinks he looks dramatic and surgical. He actually looks sinister. Bit like the mother from Psycho. Not a comforting sight when you’re feeling vulnerable. I really wouldn’t have the strength to fight him off if he came jabbing at me with a Sweeney Todd knife right now. I don’t think he will, because he simply wouldn’t be able to bear the idea of splattered blood. Too messy. When I shake off this flu, I may ask George to see Peter for a couple of sessions and try to interpret exactly what’s going on with this whole ‘Oscar’ business.
God, flu is awful. Is it my age or does it genuinely gain strength as a virus? Flu used to mean aching, hot and snot for about two days then up and about. Spit spot. Now it means at least a week in bed rendered entirely useless and a bit weepy. I think the constant bouts of crying are mainly to do with an overwhelming sense of helplessness due to lack of actual physical strength. I feel feeble. Oh God I’m crying again now. For heaven’s sake, Mo, get your act together.
During this wretched illness, the family really have had to help out. Headed by Husband, they have taken it in turns to bring various forms of sustenance or diversion. Oscar brings a well-laid tray with a paper doily and a flower in a vase to accompany a plate of garibaldis and some cold, ready-to-eat prawns from M&S, which he perceives to be the height of sophistication, ‘the fruit of the sea’. He reliably informs me that the oil in fish is beneficial for my hair, nails and, most importantly, my IQ. The latter is apparently where I am most lacking. Are prawns fish? No idea. He also tells me that he has informed the doctors’ surgery that he thinks I have chronic swine flu, citing all sorts of symptoms I simply don’t have, like ‘beady with perspiration’, for instance. Consequently I now can’t go there to get any antibiotics because I must remain in enforced isolation and monitored quarantine.
Oscar is loving this, the drama of it all. He wants to look after me, but only if it can be like Bette Davis looked after the crippled Joan Crawford in Baby Jane. Only if I am glamorously ill and wholly dependent. This morning he brought me a fan and a bed jacket from the Oxfam shop. The ‘bed jacket’ is an ancient crocheted lime green shrug, a stained monstrosity with ribbons to tie at the neck. It smells of camphor and caramel and cigarettes. It’s disgusting and he refuses to wash it because, he tells me, ‘it will diminish the history, and inherent faded beauty, of the thing’. So, I sit in bed, fanning myself and being grateful for biscuits. At least Husband rustles up a decent vegetable broth and although he enjoys referring to me as ‘m’lady’ a bit too often to be funny, he knows me well enough to bring the paper and a sharp pencil for the daily attempt at the crossword that regularly disintegrates into a similarly failed go at the elementary sudoku.
Dora came in last night with some prawn crisps (what is it with my kids and prawns?) and cheese string she had bought with her allowance. I was so touched. Remarkably, we very nearly had a conversation, for the first time in recent memory. She sat on the bed, and although she couldn’t exactly look at me, she answered my questions about her day. Grumpy, evasive, monosyllabic answers, admittedly, but answers nevertheless:
Me: Good day?
Her: OK.
Me: What did you do?
Her: Learning.
Me: Learning what?
Her: Stuff.
Me: What stuff?
Her: Stuff stuff.
Me: How’s Lottie?
Her: OK.
Me: How are you?
Her: Same.
Me: Worried about anything?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Want to tell me?
Her: No.
Me: Want me to shut up?
Her: Yeah.
This is a seismic step forward. We even managed to have a quite comfortable silence whilst I attempted the revolting prawn crisps. Out of that quiet, she walked to the big mirror on t
he wardrobe and I watched her inspect herself. She was strangely unselfconscious. She used to do exactly that when she was tiny – twist and turn in front of the mirror, closely scrutinizing her hair, her skin and the lines of her body. Of course then, she was on an adventure of discovery, exploring all the many shapes she could throw and checking out the mysteries of parts of her physical self she couldn’t easily see, like her back or her ears or up her nose. Secret and new places. The revelations were ever more exciting and her curiosity knew no bounds.
Here though, and now, I witnessed an entirely different kind of study. Her face slowly crumpled as she vetted every inch of her evidently disappointing body. I could see that she thought absolutely nothing was right. Nothing. She pinched and slapped and jabbed at all the perceived imperfections, even her shoulders and her fingers are vile and offensive to her. It was shocking to witness her hate herself so much. She loathes her reflection.
The irony, of course, is that Dora is beautiful. I know she is mine and yes, perhaps I forgive imperfections too easily because – why? – because they are sometimes the exact physical imperfections I saw in myself years ago? The plumpness of her cheeks, the fleshiness of her knees, the roundness of her hips? All facets I now know to be SO attractive in the young but which the egocentric blindness of youth prevents us from seeing.
The fact is that Dora is a real beauty, a gorgeous, vital young woman with so little self-belief that she denies herself even the slightest bit of approval. It would only take that. A little bit. The tiniest fragment. She could build up from that foundation. I attempted a tentative launch of her self-esteem by telling her, utterly truthfully, what I see – a vibrant, healthy, shining girl with a lovely body and the skin of an angel.