Beautiful People: My Family and Other Glamorous Varmints by Simon Doonan Page A

synonymous with dreadful goings-on, drudgery, and emotional turmoil. If she ever heard that a friend or colleague was expecting a visit from an in-law, there was always a sharp intake of breath followed by a sympathetic glance and the offering of a consoling cigarette. I inherited this trait. To this day when people announce the imminent arrival of grandparents or cousins, it’s hard for me to restrain myself from saying, “Oh, God, I’m really sorry. Let me know if there is anything I can do, and know that I’m there for you during this dark and horrible period.”
    The role played by nicotine should not be underestimated. Betty’s coping skills were bolstered and sustained by a heavy and not unreasonable reliance on cigarettes. Betty’s complex life was never going to afford her long stretches of thigh-slapping fun. She took her releases and recreations in small, wry increments. These lasted about as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette. Woodbines were her preferred brand. Like Betty herself, Woodbines were short, strong, and tough. Once she was back on Irish soil, her Woodbine consumption quadrupled.
    *  *  *
    More often than not we arrived for our annual vacation to find D.C. going to or coming from a wake. Funerals loomed large onD.C.’s calendar. He took them seriously. They were the only time he bothered to wear his false teeth. These occasions became increasingly frequent as he got older. “Guess who’s dead?” he would say upon returning home from a day at the pub, indicating that those dusty dentures were due for an outing.
    After the initial guarded but warm hellos—there were no California hugs or Euro air kisses back then—old resentments would eventually float to the surface. D.C. had never quite forgiven Betty for leaving Northern Ireland and, worse still, marrying an Englishman.
    Betty had barely stubbed out the first ciggie before D.C. began to assert himself. His favorite method of control involved blood and death. Strolling casually into the backyard, he would murder about three or four chickens in quick succession. The fowl in question ran around freely. He would wring their necks and shove them into an oil drum with the same nonchalance that other people straighten their ties or touch up their lipstick. He would then disappear to the pub. Betty was left to pluck, gut, truss, and cook them in the ancient, tiny, malfunctioning oven which raged in D.C.’s closetsize kitchen.
    When he returned from the pub, he would kill another one.
    “He’s murdering them faster than I can gut them!” lamented Betty with her hand up a chicken’s bum, à la glove puppet.
    D.C.’s chickens were the focus of much of his daily life. He ate their eggs raw every morning, tossing the shells with chilling accuracy over his shoulder and directly into the fire. Healso reared pheasants and ducks and grew his own veggies. The only thing he seemed to buy from a store was bread. Everything else was grown or raised in his guano-filled urban backyard. He built wire enclosures for his birds with his bare hands and dragged home heavy feed bags in the pouring rain. Even in his seventies he remained tough and invincible. Normal men seemed unbelievably nelly when compared to D.C.
    D.C. was the antinelly. He was the opposite of me. I found him unbelievably intimidating and kept my distance. We had nothing to talk about. His lack of teeth and his heavily accented, grunty speech kept communication to a minimum. I could never have shared with him my burgeoning love of fashion and decorative accessories. His Guinness-addled world-view did not encompass the Beautiful People. We existed in separate dimensions of time and space and beauty.
    When I reached the age of ten I noticed a marked change. D.C. started to look at me differently. He began to size me up as if he was planning something. I felt uneasy. Maybe he was going to throttle me or take me to market.
    One day he brought me and my sister, Shelagh, to visit a friend of his