Beautiful People: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Simon Doonan
cold, gray flickering light of her telly. She will finish her food by 6:20 P.M ., and then what? How about an evening stroll down by the gasworks?
The 1950s were grim. Nobody is to blame. That’s just the way it was.
In this rushing panorama of English life, recreational activities appeared to be extremely limited: taking a constitutional next to a polluted canal; dozing in a bus shelter; briskly walking to the local butcher shop. Housewives emerged from these establishments clutching bloody packages containing lamb chops or miscellaneous offal. They looked vaguely disgusted, as if they had been sold rotten meat. If anyone in England ever celebrated Teddy’s birthday, we certainly never witnessed it.
The bus stopped again. A very tall, severe woman with a crew cut climbed aboard. She was wearing a shirt and tie, a tailored army greatcoat, and flat men’s wingtip shoes. We recognized her. She was the receptionist at the local doctor’s office. Her name was Fern, and she sometimes wore a monocle.
Betty smiled.
Fern acknowledged Betty, saluting in a military fashion.
It was Rhett Butler doffing his chapeau to Scarlett O’Hara.
Fern’s air of masculine chivalry immediately restored order to the bus. The orphanage kids stopped spitting and wiping their phlegm on one another. Everybody onboard made slight postural adjustments. Fern had that effect on people.
Fern took her seat across the aisle. Betty and Fern caught each other’s eyes again and quickly looked away.
They had something in common.
They were two self-invented people wordlessly acknowledging one another.
On the next hill, the engine stalled. The bus stopped. The bus went quiet. We hoped it would not roll back down the hill and into the canal. Fern projected an aura of reassuring competence. We waited anxiously for the deafening engine to start again.
My sister broke the silence.
“Why is that lady dressed like a man?” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. Everyone turned around to look at Fern. Fern stared straight ahead. Betty lit a cigarette.
Betty glared at Shelagh, but Shelagh did not see. She was too busy staring at the fabulously androgynous Fern. Was she seeing the glimmering signposts to her own lesbian future?
“Well? Why is she dress—”
RRRooarrh!
The bus lurched forward. Betty exhaled a sigh of relief and nicotine and smoke.
Much to Betty’s relief, we were soon back at the bus station.
It was getting late. Terry would be leaving for work soon. If we hurried, we could all celebrate Teddy’s birthday together.
CHAPTER 3
BLEACH
“M y mother is called Betty, but her real name is Martha. She bleaches her hair and she drinks gin.”
I wrote this miniprofile when I was nine years old. It was part of a school essay. Our assignment was to describe each member of our family.
I do not recall how I described the rest of my nearest and dearest. I remember Betty’s blurb because, for years to come, she would hold up the incident as an example of my compulsionto focus on the tawdry and unwholesome, to the exclusion of anything more cheery or heartwarming.
“Oh, great! I can hardly wait till parents’ night,” said Betty as she pored over the essay, having just poured herself a sizable gin and tonic.
“What about my weekly pottery class? You could have mentioned the silver cup I won for flower arranging.”
I did not really understand her point. It was not as if I had made the whole thing up. We all knew she bleached her hair. And damn good it looked too! Martha Elizabeth Doonan was, hands down, the most charismatic, glamorous mum in the neighborhood. She wore white pencil skirts, seamed stockings, maquillage, and figure-accentuating, long-line girdles. Next to Betty, the other kids’ tea-total mothers, in their sensible flats and sweater sets, looked like a bunch of middle-aged men dressed up as Queen Elizabeth on one of her off-duty corgi days.
And, yes, she drank gin. Uncle Peter, a family friend, worked for an
The 1950s were grim. Nobody is to blame. That’s just the way it was.
In this rushing panorama of English life, recreational activities appeared to be extremely limited: taking a constitutional next to a polluted canal; dozing in a bus shelter; briskly walking to the local butcher shop. Housewives emerged from these establishments clutching bloody packages containing lamb chops or miscellaneous offal. They looked vaguely disgusted, as if they had been sold rotten meat. If anyone in England ever celebrated Teddy’s birthday, we certainly never witnessed it.
The bus stopped again. A very tall, severe woman with a crew cut climbed aboard. She was wearing a shirt and tie, a tailored army greatcoat, and flat men’s wingtip shoes. We recognized her. She was the receptionist at the local doctor’s office. Her name was Fern, and she sometimes wore a monocle.
Betty smiled.
Fern acknowledged Betty, saluting in a military fashion.
It was Rhett Butler doffing his chapeau to Scarlett O’Hara.
Fern’s air of masculine chivalry immediately restored order to the bus. The orphanage kids stopped spitting and wiping their phlegm on one another. Everybody onboard made slight postural adjustments. Fern had that effect on people.
Fern took her seat across the aisle. Betty and Fern caught each other’s eyes again and quickly looked away.
They had something in common.
They were two self-invented people wordlessly acknowledging one another.
On the next hill, the engine stalled. The bus stopped. The bus went quiet. We hoped it would not roll back down the hill and into the canal. Fern projected an aura of reassuring competence. We waited anxiously for the deafening engine to start again.
My sister broke the silence.
“Why is that lady dressed like a man?” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. Everyone turned around to look at Fern. Fern stared straight ahead. Betty lit a cigarette.
Betty glared at Shelagh, but Shelagh did not see. She was too busy staring at the fabulously androgynous Fern. Was she seeing the glimmering signposts to her own lesbian future?
“Well? Why is she dress—”
RRRooarrh!
The bus lurched forward. Betty exhaled a sigh of relief and nicotine and smoke.
Much to Betty’s relief, we were soon back at the bus station.
It was getting late. Terry would be leaving for work soon. If we hurried, we could all celebrate Teddy’s birthday together.
CHAPTER 3
BLEACH
“M y mother is called Betty, but her real name is Martha. She bleaches her hair and she drinks gin.”
I wrote this miniprofile when I was nine years old. It was part of a school essay. Our assignment was to describe each member of our family.
I do not recall how I described the rest of my nearest and dearest. I remember Betty’s blurb because, for years to come, she would hold up the incident as an example of my compulsionto focus on the tawdry and unwholesome, to the exclusion of anything more cheery or heartwarming.
“Oh, great! I can hardly wait till parents’ night,” said Betty as she pored over the essay, having just poured herself a sizable gin and tonic.
“What about my weekly pottery class? You could have mentioned the silver cup I won for flower arranging.”
I did not really understand her point. It was not as if I had made the whole thing up. We all knew she bleached her hair. And damn good it looked too! Martha Elizabeth Doonan was, hands down, the most charismatic, glamorous mum in the neighborhood. She wore white pencil skirts, seamed stockings, maquillage, and figure-accentuating, long-line girdles. Next to Betty, the other kids’ tea-total mothers, in their sensible flats and sweater sets, looked like a bunch of middle-aged men dressed up as Queen Elizabeth on one of her off-duty corgi days.
And, yes, she drank gin. Uncle Peter, a family friend, worked for an
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