Fanmail, by Elizabeth Kay

My great-aunt Dorothy, and her mother

I used to get a lot of fanmail, in the days when the Divide trilogy had just been published, a fantasy aimed primarily at the 10 – 13 age-group, although there was a lot of subtext intended to appeal to the parents... Apart from all the requests to be sent free books, some of them led to real friendships, even transatlantic ones. I am still in touch with the one that said: I bet you don’t get many emails from 26-year old men.

          But I can go back a lot further than 2003. The first stories I ever had published were in the Evening News, a newspaper that is now sadly no more. This one was published in June, 1978. I’ll put what I remember of the letter I received after the story. The other amusing this about it is a photograph I discovered after my mother’s death, of my great-aunt Dorothy. She was the nearest I ever had to a grandmother, and she was huge fun.

 The old ton-up fossil

There wasn’t anything wrong with the room. It was very pleasant. But I had just not wanted to come here in the first place. I could hear my granddaughter and her husband talking about me in the kitchen. They were referring to me as ‘she’, and not by name. They thought I, being eighty, couldn’t hear.

    The taxi driver had to carry my suitcase up to the front door when I arrived. I could have managed it myself, of course. Susan was very sweet, she had tea ready and we talked about the weather. She told me that the boys wouldn’t be in until late. I hadn’t seen them since they were little, and I wondered what they would be like. I didn’t think they’d want me around.

    I had to sit in front of the wretched television whilst they washed up, and I listened to their conversation for half an hour until I could stand it no longer. Susan appeared to have some misguided sense of duty that overrode everything else. And Jack… well, Jack obviously thought I’d be a burden. He was worried about the boys making too much noise, worried about leaving me alone in the house sometimes, worried about everything from the mortgage to the weather.

    Oh, I’d argued about it often enough, but they made me feel as though I was offending them by not accepting their hospitality. Now they were obviously having second thoughts. Their main concern seemed to be their eldest boy, Martin. I gathered that he called me ‘the old fossil’. So what! I decided that it was time I went for a walk to show them that I’d be doing plenty of things on my own. I left them a note.

    It was nice outside, aways from the smell of furniture polish and air freshener. Away from the label I’d had forced on me. Great grandma. I’d never felt like one. The area was greener than I’d expected, huge lime trees on either side of the road, gardens full of early roses. I walked for nearly an hour. Eventually I came to a café, and a cup of tea suddenly seemed like a good idea. There was a group of motorbikes outside, Hondas and Suzukis mainly. In the middle was a BSA Gold Star – lovely machine and well cared-for. I went inside. The place was crowded, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. I sat down and ordered a cup of tea, not too strong. The voices died away, and everyone turned to stare. Even the juke-box stopped playing. I stirred my tea, and waited for someone to speak.

     “’Ere, grandma,” said one spotty boy, “you lost your way or somethin’?”

    I smiled. “No.”

    He laughed nervously and looked at his friends. A couple of them shrugged. “We don’t get nobody in ‘ere over 25,” he said.

    I sipped at my tea. “Why’s that?” I said.

    “They’re scared.”

    “Because you ride around on motorbikes and wear leather jackets?”

    “We’re Hell’s Angels,” he said proudly.

    I smiled. I was beginning to enjoy myself. “I’ve seen the real thing. When I was out on the West Coast.”

    “You bin to America?"

    I nodded. Suddenly they were all talking again. A skinny lad with a shock of blond hair edged closer. I decided it was time to drop my little bombshell. “Of course,” I told them nonchalantly, “I don’t think you can beat a British bike. I rode a Douglas round the TT circuit back in the thirties, and that was quite something.

    “Go on!” They only half believed me. But a while later they were buying me cups of tea and discussing compression ratios and exhausts with me. 

    It was only once I glanced at the clock that I realised how long I’d been, and how worried Jack probably was. I got to my feet. “I’ll have to be off. Do you mind if I come again?”

    “Yeah, you do that gran.” They grinned at one another as if I was the discovery of the month.    

    I could have cried, although I studiously avoided showing any emotion. Motorbikes had been the passion of my youth, they now looked like being my hold on sanity in old age. I’d have to keep my destination secret the next time I went for a walk. I couldn’t imagine either Susan or Jack approving. 

    The blond boy tapped me on the shoulder. A couple of the girls giggled. “Which way you going?”    

    I hesitated, guessing what was coming and unsure of my reaction. “Past the Albert, near the estate.”

    “Want a lift? I’ve got a spare helmet.”   

    There was a sudden hush, all the faces were looking expectantly at me. They were giving me the opportunity to back up my stories with a bit of action. I would have to hope that my relatives weren’t watching when we arrived. I took a deep breath. “Thank you,” I said. He even opened the door for me, and the girls nudged one another and winked. Much to my delight he led me over to the BSA. The crash helmet felt odd after all those years. I’d forgotten how top-heavy it would make me. I hitched up my skirt and climbed onto the pillion. The boy kicked the engine into life, and the memories came flooding back. I was a mere twenty again, with my husband in front of me, my husband who had been dead for twenty years. They all came out and waved. I waved back, and then we were off. The wind in my face, the noise, the vibration – it was heaven. The summer smells and the sensation in the pit of my stomach as we picked up speed.

    “What’s the address?” shouted the boy over his shoulder.

    I shouted it back to him, but his reply was lost in the wind. All too soon we were there. I handed over the helmet and thanked him, but he didn’t go. He switched off the ignition and put the keys in his pocket.

    “Got to see you to the door, haven’t I?”

    “It really isn’t necessary,” I told him.

    “Thought you might offer me a coffee.” He was grinning impishly.

    “It isn’t my house,” I explained.

    “So.”

    Before I could think of a reply the front door opened. Susan and Jack stood there, open-mouthed. The boy started to laugh.

    “Martin!” yelled Susan. “What on earth have you been doing?”

    The blond-haired boy put an arm round my shoulder. “I met the old fossil, Mum,” he said

What I remember of the letter I received, after the story was published, went as follows: I know who you really are. You’re (can’t recall the name) who completed the TT circuit in (date ?). Sadly, I had to disabuse him.

 But fanmail moves in strange and mysterious ways. The online stuff is much bitchier, and I once had a battle between two kids, one of whom rubbished my books and promoted another. The opposing one was a fan. They clearly knew one another, and it had a dramatic and unpleasant effect on my ratings! But long live real communication between writers and readers. It's important.

The Divide Trilogy, original hardback covers