Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (12 page)

Georgie’s letter more frustrating than disappointing. Not really a letter at all, only a few lines.

‘Dear Margaret, If it’s okay, I’d like to see you on Saturday. If this is a problem you can leave a message at this number. Should arrive around one. Love Georgie.’

No address. Edinburgh postmark. I read and re-read the words. Try to imbue
Dear Margaret
and
Love Georgie
with romantic meaning. Concentrate on
Love Georgie
. Far more promising than, say,
Yours Sincerely, Georgie
, or
Yours Faithfully, G. Truman
. Allow myself a flicker of hope. After two glass of wine, flicker becomes a flame.

April 28
^th

Buy exquisite pale green duvet set in Debenham’s, buy pink broderie anglais pyjamas in Marks and Spencer, also an organic chicken, vegetables and fresh cream based pudding. Go back for flowers; lilies and tulips. Go back (ridiculous I know) for toilet rolls with silver fleur de lis pattern.

Stagger up my road under weight of full rucksack, also carry many carrier bags. For once don’t feel like beast of burden. Feel: happy. HAPPY.
HAPPY!
Maybe misguidedly happy but can’t help it. I overflow with optimism. Am convinced that it  is not possible for Georgie to just stop loving me. She will have missed me like hell. I imagine how pleased I’d be to see me after an absence of nearly two months. Considered how many lovable qualities I possessed. Lovable. I am not the same as Deirdre in the successful, sensual, sexual departments but yes, I believe I am lovable. I can endear myself. Count many people I have endeared myself to during lifetime. Run out of fingers.

Self-congratulation cut short by sight of Janice’s white lorry parked outside the house. This is not a Janice day. A Janice day is Tuesday. Realise that Janice hadn’t come on Tuesday. I had been so wound up with thoughts of an imminent Georgie I hadn’t noticed.

Janice has constructed a precarious bridge of scaffolding planks from my top step to the back of her lorry. She’s using this bridge to run her wheelbarrow back and forth. And here’s Janice, wheelbarrow loaded with weeds and shrub clippings. Note that even in repose Janice looks sullen. She sees me and pauses, deserts barrow and jumps nimbly down onto the pavement. Sort of lopes towards me. I’ve never consciously noticed a woman loping and somewhere inside my head I register that loping is attractive - an at ease with own body and self image way of getting about. Without any salutation Janice grabs my carrier bags. ‘You should get a cab when you’re this loaded,’ she growls. ‘Ridiculous!’

I grin foolishly, ‘Thank you Janice’.

Feel like Deirdre at her explosive best. I tell Janice, ‘Brilliant news, my partner Georgie’s coming home the day after tomorrow.’ I’m hurrying to keep up with her.

‘Big deal,’ Janice says.

‘It’s a big deal for me.’

‘Big deal,’ Janice says.

Ignore this and say, ‘Look Janice is it all right with you if I don’t help in the garden today. I’ll do my share in the week and I promise that the next time you come I’ll be out there.’

‘What if there isn’t a next time?’

‘You wouldn’t leave me in the lurch, would you?’

‘Might do.’

Decide this is Janice attempting humour so ignore it. We edge past her wooden bridge and up the steps. She waits while I open the door then dumps carrier bags on doormat.

‘Better get on,’ she says.

I go through the house like a whirlwind. Throw open windows. Down below see Janice labouring away. She’s taken off her fleece. Under it she wears a white singlet. Only April but she’s already tanned. Her muscles ripple pleasingly. Find I’m still smiling. Thinks: No bad thing for Georgie to find there’s a Janice tilling our soil. Make her realise that I’m not the type of woman to let the grass grow under my feet. On the contrary, all grass (particularly couch) now in back of Janice’s lorry.

Shake duster out of bedroom window. ‘You’re doing a grand job,’ I shout. She turns her back on me and continues digging.

Next door Deirdre comes out through her patio doors and surveys her decking, hands on hips. She calls out to Martin who’s lurking inside, ‘Oh do come into the garden - it’s a fantastic day. We could have lunch in the gazebo.’

Hear Martin’s barked reply, ‘No way!’

Deirdre sees me, ‘What can you do with him? You don’t fancy lunch in my gazebo, do you?’

‘Sorry Deirdre, Georgie’s back day after tomorrow.’

Deirdre raises her eyebrows and says, ‘Thank god that woman finally smelt the coffee.’

I have no idea what Deirdre means but this is one of her frequently used phrases. It has superseded last month’s frequently used phrase about her and Martin
not singing from the same hymn sheet
.
Query: Are Deirdre’s many phrases common parlance and she more tuned in to the zeitgeist than I am?

Think again: actually reference to Georgie smelling the coffee quite apposite. Have read in
Listening Ear’s
property section that permeating home with aroma of fresh ground coffee, newly baked bread and orange peel seduces reluctant buyers. No oranges and have never baked bread before so could seem a. contrived or b. go horribly wrong. But coffee - yes. Smother memories of our issues around coffee and rummage in back of kitchen cupboard for percolator, unused Christmas gift circa 1999, plus pack of fresh coffee that came with it. Coffee now five years old so not so fresh, decide on trial run with Janice. Janice leans on fork and says, ‘Don’t drink the stuff. Causes headaches and is addictive.’

‘Smells good.’

She sniffs it and almost smiles, ‘Yes it does.’ She hands the mug back to me. ‘But I like tea.’

April 29
^th

Went to bed early in anticipation. Read a chapter of my book about Augusta, Byron’s half-sister, which sends me off to sleep within ten minutes. Am woken by telephone ringing downstairs. Switch on bedside lamp. Clock says one-thirty. Tilly lying next to me looks surprised then expectant. Is it breakfast time already?

‘It’s not breakfast time,’  I tell her but she scrambles off the bed and waits in the doorway looking as if she should be wearing an old threadbare dressing gown and hair curlers.

‘Tilly, it’s not breakfast time - now get out of my way, you daft cat.’

Hurry downstairs. Pick up receiver, ‘Hello.’

Whispering.

‘What?’

Louder whispering.

‘Can you speak up? Is that you Georgie?’

I just about make out, ‘No it’s me.’

Of course it’s Laura.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ I say.

‘Half past one.’

‘I mean what do you want?’

‘Just to talk.’

‘Can’t you talk to Iris?’

‘She’s asleep. Margaret, I hate this camping lark. I want to go home.’

‘Well go home in the morning.’

‘I’m not allowed to. Iris says we came away to refresh our relationship and by god that’s what we’re going to do.’

‘That sounds romantic.’

‘It’s not funny.’

‘I’m not laughing. Look you must make the best of it. You can’t stay in the Cotswolds forever. There must be work Iris needs to do in London?’

‘Not till next Monday.’

‘There you are then. It’s Friday already.’

‘I’ve never been so miserable in my life.’

‘Well you’ve had a very easy life in that case. I must go to sleep. Georgie’s back tomorrow.’

‘Lucky you.’

Pour a glass of milk. Give Tilly a tiny morsel of Whiskas.

‘Don’t be sick.’ I switch off the hall light.

May

May 1
^st

Yesterday
Georgie arrived when she said she would, dead on one o’clock. I’d imagined her driving all the way down from Edinburgh during the night passing through the changing scenery, dawn breaking as she gunned along, desperate to get back. Reality was that she’d reached Bittlesea Bay the evening before and stayed at a hotel on the seafront. Had I been out and about in Bittlesea Bay that evening, as Martin was, I might have seen her and her new woman, Stella, walking hand-in-hand on their way to meet Nic and Simone at Carlito’s Way, the best Italian style restaurant in town.

Her car was a new one. I was watching through the Venetian blinds and as it slid into the parking space outside our house I paid no attention. This was a maroon car - I was looking for Georgie and our navy blue Citroen. Then she got out and carefully locked her door - turned and stared up at the house, a curious expression on her face. Not sad or anxious: resigned. She didn’t see me watching. With determination, I was thinking,
I’ve got a fight on my hands but I will win it!

Georgie didn’t use her front door key, she rang the bell. I opened the door and, as I bobbed my head forward to kiss her, she stepped backwards.

‘Hello Margaret.’

‘No kisses?’

‘Best not.’

The fight drained out of me. I’m not much of a fighter, am I? Instead I welcomed in someone I didn’t know very well. Georgie was distant, coupled with an old-fashioned courtesy, as if any argument and discussion was already over and she wanted to show generosity to the losing side - me.

 I led her through into our kitchen diner. Coffee percolating away, making cheery bubbling noises and filling the room with its seductive aroma, chicken and roast potatoes illuminated in the oven window. Georgie took in the table, tablecloth, matching napkins, wine glasses, the bottle of open red wine.

‘Ah well, Margaret, the thing is... ’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t expect lunch.’

‘But one o’clock is lunchtime.’

‘We never usually have a roast dinner for Saturday lunch.’

‘But this isn’t usual. This is special - a welcome home lunch.’

‘Margaret, I don’t think I can do this.’

‘Do what?’

She waved at the table, ‘This. I need to be somewhere else in an hour’s time. I came because I wanted to clear matters up and felt a letter just wouldn’t be fair to you.’

‘Sit down,’ I said. Still she hesitated. I pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘If you want to stand for an hour it’s up to you Georgie.’

She sat. I moved away the cutlery and side plates. ‘Wine?’ I asked. She shook her head. I filled my own glass. Tried to drink it but found I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. Put the glass down and hid hands under the tablecloth. I looked properly at Georgie. She seemed surprisingly relaxed, was staring past me and out into the garden. She wore a suit I’d never seen before. Georgie rarely wore suits, only for very special occasions. This one was grey linen. Not really warm enough yet for linen. She looked like a visitor from a warmer country. Confident, attractive. In a casual way prosperous. Deirdre would have been impressed. Then she focused her gaze on me.

‘Margaret...’

‘Georgie...’

She smiled at me with genuine pleasure. ‘You’ve changed your hair - it looks great.’

‘Thank you,’ I smiled back. A compliment when I’d expected a verbal blow undermined me and my eyes filled up. Georgie stopped smiling.

‘Please Margaret - I’m sure you’d worked out that I probably wasn’t coming back.’

‘As you can see I hadn’t worked that out otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered with this meal.’

‘But you must have had an inkling. The situation hasn’t been perfect between us for a few years. We’ve been a couple in name only. Both of us deserve something better.’

‘Have you met someone else?’

‘Yes. Her name’s Stella.’

‘When?’

‘Two years ago.’

‘When did you decide to leave me?’

‘As you know I’ve been spending more and more time in Scotland...’

‘So you’ve been living with both of us.’ A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘And where else apart from Scotland?’

Georgie reached for the bottle of wine and poured herself half a glass, took a gulp not a sip, before answering, ‘Spain. Stella has a house out there.’

‘And is that where you’ve been for the last two months?’

‘Stella doesn’t like the British winters.’

‘Does everyone know about you and this Stella?’

‘Who’s everyone?’ She started to sound truculent.

‘Friends, your parents, neighbours?’

‘Some of them know.’

‘Deirdre and Martin? Laura?’

‘Good heavens no. They’re your friends not mi...’

The timer on the oven buzzed and both of us started. I got up and switched the oven off. Then switched off the percolator.

‘So Georgie, what’s to discuss?’ This time I managed to hold my wine glass steady.

‘I felt you needed an explanation. Closure, is it called?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And also - obviously - although the house is yours I’d like, if it’s ok with you, to take my stuff away and maybe some of the furniture.’

Later: Deirdre slipped quietly into the kitchen - no mean feat for Deirdre who is usually incapable of arriving anywhere without a fanfare. She’d brought a bottle of wine.

‘You can drink it with me or on your own, whichever you prefer. I don’t want to be in your way.’

‘You’re not. Sit down. I’ll get glasses.’

‘No, stay where you are - I’ll get glasses.’

‘How did you know I’d need more wine?’

‘I’m sorry. Martin spotted them the other evening. They walked past the Corner Coffee Shop window. We weren’t sure what to do but in the end Martin said, whatever’s going on it would be best if you heard it from Georgie.’

‘Deirdre, I’ve been such a mug.’

Deirdre tentatively patted me on the head. In her words she is not a touchy feely person. She said, ‘No you haven’t. Georgie’s the mug.’

May 3
^rd

Didn’t go to work. Rang Miriam and told her I wouldn’t be in for the next week and to make any excuse.

Not the worst day of my life. Nobody died. But definitely the most painful, bewildering, awkward, embarrassing, demeaning day I’ve lived through. I should have gone out and left them to take what they wanted, or I should have told Georgie to get lost, and if she wanted anything she’d have to sue me to get it. I was frightened I’d lose my home. That all the money and power seemed to lie with the two of them and I’d get squashed along the way.