Jane Asher - Losing It

‘Right.’

Was there a thin girl inside this one, trying to get out? It was hard to equate a word as active as ‘trying’ with this passive creature. And was it possible that, linked to the thin inner girl, there was a happy, positive personality also just biding its time until the opportunity came along to burst out in a surge of joie de vivre? I put a twenty-pound note into her hand and watched her as she listlessly punched in ‘20’, opened her till and looked up at the ‘1.60’ displayed in green on the tiny electronic screen. Even the small mental effort of calculating the change was denied her; everything that surrounded her conspired to deprive her body and soul of exercise and stimulation.

I felt quite frustrated to be leaving the store with my crusade to evoke a response in my fat checkout girl no further advanced than when I had gone in, and was, again, almost reluctant to go. I pictured myself grabbing her by those huge, rounded shoulders in a desperate attempt to get through, to make her look me straight in the eye, as I shouted: ‘Is there anyone in there?’ or some such. What was she feeling, this apparently indifferent human being with whom I had briefly shared the same small place on the planet? Perhaps she, too, was shy: perhaps the total lack of interest in her surroundings was merely a cover. I had, after all, seen it crack a little at the approach of the manager.

I would describe all this to Judy when I got home, perhaps make her laugh at my description of the girl’s words and expressions, and of her semi-awakening in the presence of Warren thingy.

Warren. Yes, now there was a challenge. Surely, he couldn’t be the only person capable of provoking a reaction. I felt – not jealousy, surely? – more a small challenge to my male pride. No, I thought, it can’t be just you, young man, who can make that tiny light come on in her eyes.

I smiled to myself as I fantasised briefly about how one might go about searching for the switch.

My dad always said it was my fault. My size, I mean. But he didn’t understand – you only got to look at my mum to know I can’t help it. She’s big too – not as big as what I am, but she’s big. No one understands what it’s like: even my mum tells me not to moan about it. But it’s the aching – I ache so much all the time. That’s the worst bit – the aching. It’s the weight on my joints, the doctor says. They just ain’t meant to carry that much around. He says I’ve got arthritis now, too. Well, thanks, great. That’s all I need. And the last time I saw him he said I was lucky not to have diabetes. Lucky? What does he know? I asked him about them new patches I’ve read about that you stick on your arm and sniff and then you don’t wanna eat. He just had this kind of smirk on his face and said I’m being stupid again. No – not stupid. What was it he said? Gullible. He said I was being gullible again. And he says the arthritis won’t go unless I lose some weight – and there’s only one way to do that, he says, and just hands me out another diet sheet.

I’ve been overweight my entire life. There ain’t never been a time when I wasn’t fat. I can prove that, too. My mum says I’m remembering it wrong, but if I show her the pictures she can see I’m right. She doesn’t like to know that, see, because I think she overfed me, because it made her feel good when I ate so much. But when I show her the pictures now I can see in her eyes they shock her. There ain’t that many of course. Dad never bothered much with pictures. But that one of us on the beach at Bognor: I’m next to my mum and we’ve both got swimsuits on and you can just see how fat I am. I look more like her sister than a daughter. I’m as big as she is but half her height. It’s horrible. Why am I so fat? I don’t know.

I don’t behave like other fat people, I know that. I watch them and I see the way they move and the way they look. I’m not like that. It’s different for me. I think it’s an illness I have – I know I shouldn’t eat as much as I do, but it’s not just that. I’m trying some herbal supplement that I read about in the paper, and it said that some people react different to food than normal people; we don’t burn it off and our metabolisms don’t work right. These herbal things are going to regulate it. They cost a bit but I put in overtime last month at work and I got a bit saved so it’s OK. I didn’t tell the doctor because he’d just say I was being stupid again.

It may be genetics. That’s the other thing. They’re finding all these genes now, and my friend says they’ve found the fat gene and if they can take it out you won’t get fat any more, she read it in the paper. But I asked the doctor and he just laughed. He said I need to exercise more, but how can I exercise when it aches so much? Fucking useless he is.

Mum says I was a normal baby but then what does she mean by normal? I know I wasn’t normal when I was going to school, because I can remember going to buy school clothes. I must’ve been about seven or so and we had to get the clothes that was meant for twelve-year-olds. Mum didn’t know how much I minded the way the assistant looked at me. It’s only a tiny memory but I know how ashamed I felt.

And another memory is splitting my jeans. I was playing with my friends in the playground by the church and I was always ever so careful not to move about too quickly because I didn’t want to fall and rip my trousers. We was playing ‘it’ and I tried to touch one of the boys and I fell and, sure enough, I heard that horrible noise of the fabric ripping. Just giving up under the strain. I went home and found another pair but when I went to put them on they didn’t fit so I squeezed myself into them as best I could but my thighs was so large the crotch only came about halfway past my knees.

That old guy came to my checkout again today. That’s the fifth or sixth time running in about a week. Tried to chat to me – I knew he was but I pretended not to notice. I hope he ain’t one of those weird ones.

‘Hello, Stacey,’ he says, ‘how’s it going?’

‘S’all right,’ I says, trying not to look him in the eye. I didn’t want to encourage him, see, and also I could see Mr Chipstead hovering round Sheila’s till and I wanted to keep an eye on them. I just hoped the old bloke wasn’t going to bring up the bogof thing again. That’s four times he’s done it now. If I let on I know exactly what he’s talking about it’ll only encourage him, but if I go on pretending I don’t know what he means then he’s gonna go on saying it every time. Can’t win. Stupid, that’s what he must think I am.

‘S’cuse me,’ I says, before he could say no more, ‘Mr Chipstead!’

The old guy smiled a bit and turned round to look the way I was shouting. God, Mr C looked gorgeous: his arse looks so good in them navy trousers he wears for work, and you don’t often see it because it’s hidden under that long jacket of his, but he was leaning over Sheila’s till and you could see it under the suiting, all round and lovely. Two apples. Braeburns? No – more Pink Lady, although that don’t sound quite right for Mr C. Not that I can see the colour, of course, although, God knows, I imagine it often enough, but Pink Lady’s much too poofy for Mr C. All man, he is. Gala, maybe – that sounds good. A Gala arse, that’s what he’s got. I’ll write Crystal that in my next letter: she’ll enjoy that – she’s always on about great arses. Muscly, she likes them – what does she call it? Sinewy or something. I like them a bit rounder, myself

Anyway, he come over at last and the old guy was just stood looking at him.

‘Yes, Stacey?’ He’s got a gorgeous voice, too.

‘Can I go for lunch now, Mr Chipstead? Only I’m doing late shift and –’