Uncles

I have always been fat, thus I have been spared the vicissitudes of varying degrees of largeness that curse those who develop girth as an adjunct to life, the nouveau gros. You can spot them on any street. Harrowed-looking creatures averting their eyes from windows of cream buns while clutching their illicit muesli snacks more tightly. Tubbies who groan at the odour of a passing fish and chip packet or flinch at the taste of their unsweetened, milkless coffee.

Myths About Fat People #27: Fat people are fun.

Fat people are most certainly not fun. Perhaps they were in the halcyon days of Billy Bunter, but modern fatties have lost all that. This means they spend far too much time worrying about their weight, diet, eating habits, exercise, calories and general health ever to have fun. As a consequence, most shuffle off this mortal coil well before their time from a lifelong anxiety about a problem that's really society's, not theirs, and a chorus of skinny doctors and wealthy diet-book writers chortle, 'See! Fat is unhealthy!'

No, one can't dispute the facts. Observers from Hippocrates and beyond have known that the overweight are more likely to snuff it than the rest, but what is one to do? I can stop being fat about as easily as you can stop being tall. Besides, I don't have a problem with my weight, though everyone else seems to.

But this is the Age of the Veneer. How you look is not just more important than who you are, it often determines it. Look at films and TV shows. When did you last see a fat film star who isn't a comedian? A handsome hunk who always plays a villain? An ugly heroine who doesn't turn out to be a beauty in disguise? Producers and directors and advertisers and con men all agree; the packaging is more important than the goods.

Let me tell you about veneers. Let me tell you about seeming and being. After all, I am an expert on the subject, having lived within an unacceptable husk for thirty-plus years now.

• • •

After my father died there came a succession of supposedly new houses, which all seemed strangely older than the last, a succession of new schools, which all seemed strangely similar, and a succession of new uncles — who all seemed simply strange. There was Uncle Rex the carpenter, Uncle Harry the teacher, Uncle Doug the appropriately named ditch-digger, Uncle Cliff the clerk, and even — yes, I swear it — Uncle John the Baptist. I'd never had so many relations, nor had I ever had so many strange men trying to ingratiate themselves in the hope that my approval would yield the key to my mother's heart, or — at the very least — to her bedroom. And the way a good Kiwi male ingratiates himself with a good Kiwi kid, even a fat one, is through good old Kiwi sport.

In a country that worshipped sport I was the anti-Christ. In a society where rampant homosexuality was defined as not having any interest in the national rugby team, I was a gay old queen at the age of eleven. My youthful vision of the hell preached by the itinerant religious instructors in our Thursday morning classes was of an endless vista of steaming brimstone playing fields and an endless round of rugby, soccer, cricket, softball and phys ed. So what did these sycophantic uncles bring the pale, podgy, sport-loathing, uncoordinated kid who spent so much time indoors that his eyes teared in strong sunlight but a succession of boots, bats, balls and sporting banter. Who did they drag through winter drizzle to slushy Saturday matches between teams of Old Boys in their twenties? Who did they seat in scorching grandstands to watch little specks of white swat round a ball he couldn't even see? The poor fools didn't stand a chance. Even my mother started flagging in her quest. And then came Woz.

Uncle Warren — Woz we used to call him — was a flashy, handsome, used car salesman, as smooth as his Brylcreemed hair. It has often occurred to me that Palmerston North revolves solely around the buying, selling, refurbishment, wrecking and racing of used cars. Even today there's bugger all else to do there and a car is about the only means of escape. But contemporary Rangitikei Street has been invaded by businesses and buildings that dot its once almost unbroken panorama of car yard upon car yard upon car yard. A four-lane highway, a major entrance to the city, that gleamed on either side with polished paint and glinting chrome. To Woz it must have seemed like the promised land. He drifted into town one day in a powder-blue Jag and decided he'd found heaven. Within a month he had a house, a job and my mother's heart while the latest of my new-found uncles wandered around his lot kicking tyres.

She was in awe of him. Not only did he look like a movie star, with his pencil-thin moustache, but he dressed, moved and talked like one too. One or two of the uncles had, I suppose, been okay, but it was a Kiwi handsomeness, wrapped in ragged rugby jerseys and grass-stained shorts. A night out to them was a comb through the hair, a clean pair of socks and a trip to the pub. To Woz it was a dinner jacket, champagne and a moonlit picnic on the shores of the lagoon.

'He makes me feel like a million dollars,' my mother said. Indeed, his first words to her in the sprawling car lot were, 'I'm sorry ma'am, I only sell cars. Surely angels ride on clouds ...?'

Nauseating stuff, but light years away from the usual, 'Gidday. You wanna drink then?'

It was the wooing of a country girl. There she was, still in her thirties, a widow with two growing sons, a state house and a part-time job with little prospect for the future. The men she met through her lonely hearts in the personal column of the Evening Standard were either quiet misfits, nice-enough-but-oh-so-ordinary uninspiring types or smoothies only after what solo mums are supposed to be begging for. They took her to look at used cars, for heavens sake! And then she stepped into fantasy land.

Flattered, she modestly declined his advances.

He sent her flowers. There were roses on our doorstep every day for a week till she begged him to stop because the house was overflowing with them. 'On one condition,' he relented. 'That you allow me to accompany you to dinner.'

My mother's friends were in awe of him and, by reflection, of her too. He drove the flashiest of cars, took her out to all the right places, and drank cocktails. In a town of country casualness he always wore a suit.

I was in awe of him. He bought me flashy presents — not balls or bats but chemistry sets and water-powered rockets — and seemed to take as much delight in them as I did. The latest toy would hit the TV screens and within days I'd have one without so much as asking. Often they'd already been unpacked as he'd been trying them out at work and he'd bubble in a childlike haste to show them off. What's more, though he claimed he hated sport, he made an almost religious study of it, memorising scores and race winners and jotting down commentators' views in a notebook. Homework, he called it. It was the main topic of conversation for the bulk of his clients. 'You must always take an interest in your client,' he would say. 'And that means being interested in what interests them.' No one ever asked if a car was clapped-out, but they all wanted his thoughts on the umpire, the All Blacks or the green-and-whites' performance.

My classmates were in awe of him. He worked odd hours and spent two days each week scouring the lower North Island for what he called his 'prime movers' but was often home when I got back from school and sometimes even used to pick me up. The scruffy kid from the scungy suburb became a snappy dresser, had all the latest toys and got collected in a Jag. Suddenly I started making friends They rediscovered my first name — the real one — became willing to help out with class projects, sided with me against school bullies, and even ensured I was no longer the last left behind in picking teams in phys ed. And after school my fair-weather friends would cluster round one of the first colour tellies in town. In awe I learned the rich were different, that money talked.

The only one unawed by Woz was Pid. He had no time. for him, caught as he was in the angst and nihilism of middle teenage. He was finishing school and practically a grown-up by now, but did let Woz find him a good cheap car before escaping in it to Donnington, a student flat and varsity. 'The man's not real,' he used to say on his occasional returns from the world of unreality, 'He's just too ... too ... you know ...'

The only hint I had of you-know was after the affair of the cigarettes, which even today takes on an unreal air. They were out for the evening, the house was mine alone and I was up later than I should have been, mesmerised by a graphic and horrific documentary on the effects of smoking in living/dying colour: death-rattle lungs, faces, tongues and jaws cut out to try and stop the march. In a moment of panic — but also of love for the both of them — I seized every packet I could find in the house and torched them in the fireplace. Two full cartons made a healthy blaze but that was nothing to the fire their loss unleashed in Woz. He thrashed me with an old fan-belt dragged from the boot of his car. He was like a man possessed; there was madness in his eyes and spittle on his chin. In spite of the pain I feared even to cry out and screamed myself hoarse into the pillow, then sobbed the night away, unable to even roll over. The welts he raised on my bottom, back and shoulders lasted weeks — though I told no one of their existence, half in fear of further punishment, but more in fear of the you-know in his eyes. My mother was too far gone in the haze of her romance to notice and even Woz seemed his cheerful, unaffected self next morning, showing no sign of either remorse or even remembrance, leaving me feeling, in spite of the evidence of my tiger-striped back, that it had all been a bizarre and frightful nightmare.

We were all in awe of Woz, even after they led him away to a grey police van, his hands cuffed together and the jacket of his suit still on a peg in the hallway. Two detectives arrived to question him — Warren Arthur Mason, my mother's fiancé — while a third nabbed him as he sprinted from the back door. He'd have made a lovely husband — his wife from Taihape said so in court, and his other wife from Feilding backed her up. But there was worse to come: an almost-teenage girl dead from septicaemia after a backyard abortion, a foetus buried at Himatangi Beach. Then there was embezzlement, theft, possession of stolen property, car conversion (one powder- blue Jaguar XI6), bookmaking, misappropriating funds, forging documents for pecuniary advantage, attempting to pervert the course of justice ... the list was so long it was hard to believe they were the work of a single man.

'But he seemed so nice,' was the oft-repeated phrase.

And then, just days before the trial concluded, he gave his captors the slip and casually walked out a side door in the courthouse. Witnesses described his air as jaunty and unhurried; he even nodded to a disbelieving court reporter before slipping down an alleyway. Six months later he turned up on a TV documentary filmed somewhere in Asia, reformed now, so he claimed, a new wife in tow, confessing, even bragging, of his crimes. When asked about the fiancée he left behind he simply asked, 'Which one was she?'

The world loves illusions, the something that is not, and that's what we were left with: a dream, a magic act, a void beneath the mask, the magician vanished in a puff of smoke. Though in my mother's case that miasma came from a some what more tangible source.