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

who kept ponies. We spent an afternoon cantering and trotting around his paddock, observed by D.C. and his cohort. They admired our form and complimented us on our skill. When I fell off, D.C. gathered me up and plonked me back in the saddle. Here at last were the glimmerings of the kind of rapport which all my friends seemed to have with their grandparents. My sister was definitely a better rider than I, but for some strange reason, D.C. was focusing his attention on me.
    All was revealed when we got home.
    “The wee lad would make a fine jockey, so he would!” announced D.C. to Betty, who as usual, had her hand up a chicken’s bum.
    He was right about one thing. I was definitely wee. 3 And I wasn’t getting any taller. But those weren’t doting grandfatherly glints of commiseration in his eyes. They were dollar signs. Suddenly I felt the cold draft of exploitation blowing up my wee jodhpur leg.
    ( Wee remains an important word to this day. On a recent trip, I dragged a reluctant Terry, now a widower, to the Belfast branch of Marks & Spencer to replenish his socks and undies. It was a bitterly cold but sunny day. I was wearing a belted trench coat, a fur hat, and dark glasses. I was channeling Betty in both the bossiness of my behavior and the drama of my attire.
    As I waited on line at the checkout, a large, red-faced Irish lady tried to push in front of me. “Let the wee lady go first!” said the checkout gal, indicating me. Terry said nothing. I did, however, notice a wry smile curling the corners of his lips.)
    Having established that I was a “wee boy” with money-earning potential, D.C. lost no time in educating Betty about the most effective ways to stunt my growth.
    “A little nip of gin in his milk will do the trick,” he said, causing everyone to guffaw with laughter as if he was joking, which of course he wasn’t.
    With a twanging of springs, D.C. plonked himself down on his battered two-seater leather couch. Placing a massive paw on each armrest, he began to drum out a tattoo with his fingers. He stared into the middle distance. I could tell he was having a wildly premature fantasy about me. I was toying with the same fantasy.
    I’m racing in the Grand National. I’m wearing a fetching ensemble of yellow and red satin. D.C. is cheering me on.
    It’s a dramatic race. At the very last moment I surge into the lead and win by a hair.
    I’m borne aloft by D.C.
    It’s time to accept my trophy.
    D.C. inserts his dentures in preparation to meet the queen. (The queen is already wearing hers.) Now he’s lifting me onto a box so that Her Majesty can present me with a large silver cup. I hand the trophy back to D.C. for safekeeping.
    D.C. starts to snore. The fantasy comes to an abrupt halt.
    *  *  *
    I managed to dodge my grandfather’s various schemes, equestrian and otherwise. When I reached five feet, three inches, he gave up on the jockey scenario. His goals for me became more modest. He wanted to live long enough to see me reach the age when he could drag me to the pub and teach me to drink.
    Maybe it was fortunate for us both that he did not live long enough to accompany me to a pub and watch me ordering a crème de menthe or a pink lady.
    When he finally popped his clogs, we decamped to Northern Ireland to sort through his things. While Terry wheeled barrow loads of empty bottles back to the liquor store, Bettysifted through a shoe box of papers and assessed the financial situation. An early proponent of the concept of “spending down,” D.C. had skillfully managed to die with a zero bank balance. In my mother’s family, most people had the decency to die with enough money in the bank to pay for their own interment. Gramps was more laissez-faire.
    After a couple of Woodbines and an epiphany of lateral thinking, Betty painted her lips, picked up her handbag, threw on her leather trench, and caught the bus into town. Shielding her complex coiffure from the gusting Belfast Lough winds with the