Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (19 page)

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Laura’s mum says.

Laura drops me off at the station before hastening to Iris’s side. In the Tesco Garage she’d bought a plastic box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I fear that Iris may think these common but Laura won’t be told.

‘Allow me to be the judge of what Iris likes,’ she says. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble with the videos.’

July 27
^th

Was called into Lorraine Carter’s office this morning when I’d finished my shift.

‘The lion’s den,’ Noreen said, with big eyes.

Did not know what to expect. Tried to quell that wretched optimism of mine, which would invariably produce a scene in which Lorraine shook my hand or clasped my forearm:
From now on, Margaret, although it may appear that I still wield the iron fist in the iron glove where you’re concerned,  underneath
(taps impressive bosom)
you and I are firm friends
.

No basis to build the above on, as after the introduction at Nic and Simone’s she’d managed to avoid me for the rest of the evening.

‘Sit down Margaret,’ Lorraine said. She had her back to me and was watering several pots of African Violets on the windowsill. Not much of a lion’s den, more a large broom cupboard, almost cosy. I sat. I waited. She took her time.

   Finally began without turning round, ‘You’ve put me in rather a tricky position. Nobody in Russell’s knows a thing about my private life.’

‘Same here,’ I said agreeably.

She set down the miniature enamelled watering can (five pounds ninety-nine pence, catalogue no. G65/4368) on her desk. ‘But you don’t matter,’ she said.

This came as a surprise. Would have liked to take a five minute break to consider these four words - whether they were unfair or a matter of fact.

‘Margaret, why did you take this cleaning job?’

‘I need the money.’

‘But it’s not well paid.’

‘But there aren’t many jobs that are well paid that I’m qualified to do in a small town like Bittlesea Bay.’

‘From what I gathered on Saturday neither Nic nor Simone know you’re working here?’

‘Yes. No. That is correct.’

So I could sack you and it wouldn’t affect my friendship with them?’

I sat up straight. I may not be a Jedi knight but nor was I willing to be walked over. I said, ‘You haven’t given me a written warning yet.’

Unsmilingly she said, ‘That can be arranged.’

‘Look I’m not about to tell anyone here about you. Why should I?’

‘You might just let the cat out of the bag. You don’t strike me as the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.’

Went very quiet. Was so angry. She fiddled with her note pad. I would not break the silence. Finally she said, ‘You better go now, but I’m warning you, another incident like the broken bucket and you’re out.’

July 30
^th

Sunday. A Russell’s free day. Nic and Simone are on holiday and I have promised to water Nic’s garden. Nic lives two miles along the coast. No buses on a Sunday. My own fault. My,
don’t worry Nic I’ve found a new and speedy secret route to your house
was too convincing.

‘Yeah? Great,’ Nic said, as if it is accepted that I am an Outward Bound type woman who travels across country, takes the path crows fly and can negotiate uncharted tracks and gullies. Perhaps she thinks I own a small pinto pony,
Giddy up
, and off we trot.

Deirdre has come to the rescue and suddenly my Sunday is handed back to me. Would like to tell her about my run-in with Ms Carter but Deirdre would order me to leave immediately. I should and could leave - there is Mum’s money in the bank. I could put a little time and effort into finding a decent job, after all I am the fastest typist in Sussex, or I was ten years ago when I entered
The fastest typist in Sussex Competition.
However, there is something about being almost sacked that makes me dig my heels in. Thinks: if I’m going to be sacked I’ll take Lorraine Carter down with me. Which is rather dramatic and sounds like something I’ve seen at the cinema with Deirdre and Martin.

Deirdre collects me at 9.30am. She’s dressed in a black linen ensemble worn with pink-and-white striped t-shirt, big sunglasses, big hair.

‘Plant watering outfit,’ she says. ‘My idea of casual.’

My idea of casual is a pair of pyjama bottoms and a vest. Read in Deirdre’s face a desire to say something. She manages to quell this as she is itching to see Nic and Simone’s house exterior and garden.

Five minutes later we screech into their drive.

‘I see they’ve got gravel,’ Deirdre says in the tone she uses to denounce stone cladding, Austrian blinds and upvc double glazing.

‘Gravel’s not so bad.’

Deirdre takes both hands off the wheel before the car’s quite stopped and counts on her fingers. ‘One, bad for tyres, two, bad for shoes, three, cats do their poos in it. I rest my case.’

While I’m watering, Deirdre holds up her hand to block out the sun’s reflection on the glass and peers through Nic and Simone’s front room window.

‘Not bad,’ she concedes.

I make my way round the back with Deirdre following -
some repointing needed there, says Deirdre
. She marches up onto their patio. ‘This is a fabulous garden. Fabulous. Must be fabulous to sit on this terrace and look at the sea in the distance. Oblique sea views,’ she declares as if practising for an estate agency exam. I continue watering, while Deirdre sizes up the back of their property.

‘I like their style; shabby colonial,’ she shouts, head pressed against the glass of their conservatory. Turns her head to an uncomfortable right angle to better see inside. ‘Oh yes. If I really personally opted for this style, and I don’t, their interior is exactly how I’d have it.’

I start on Nic’s tubs. Deirdre has moved to the kitchen window, where she is again craning her neck to see better. ‘So they’ve had the dividing wall removed - fab idea. Oh-oh, tut-tut.’

She sounds deeply concerned.

‘What’s up?’

She looks back at me, shakes her head in...disappointment, shock, disgust?

‘Very bad feng shui,’ she says sorrowfully.

‘What is?’

‘They’ve put a freezer in front of the kitchen door.’

‘There wasn’t room anywhere else.’

‘Then don’t have the freezer. That is so bad. Really affects the circulation of good vibes. There’s a technical word for it but for the moment it eludes me.’ She smiles.

Her smile is so insincere she could have been speaking to a client. I wave my free hand in front of her face and her eyes flick back into focus.

‘You need that hose on “soak”,’ she says. ‘Give it here.’

‘No really, it’s fine like this.’

‘Give it here,’ she says firmly and commandeers the hose. ‘To get the water to penetrate below the surface of the compost you’ve got to give them a really good drenching.’

She points the nozzle into Nic’s giant pot of petunias and lobelia followed by Nic’s two giant pots of geraniums and Busy Lizzies, followed by all the rest of Nic’s giant pots. All the flowers are flattened by the time Deirdre finishes with them. I have an unworthy niggle that Deirdre is trying to sabotage Nic’s admirable pots. I think, I’ll have to come up on the bus tomorrow afternoon and try to salvage some of them.

‘There, that should hold them.’ Deirdre tuns to me with a triumphant beam. ‘Now I suggest we go to the Bittlesea Bay Caff for a cream tea.’

‘It’s only ten thirty. I’ve just had my muesli.’

‘By the time we get there it will be ten forty-five - we can count this as lunch.’

‘I’d never dream of having a cream tea for lunch.’

But Deirdre is already in the car and revving the engine.

August

August 2
^nd

Deirdre has bought a third garden shed from Argos. We are sitting in the Corner Coffee Shop. Outside there is a storm raging and we’re waiting for a break in the rain to make a dash for Evans Outsize as it is the last day of their sale.

‘Where’s Martin?’ I ask her. It is 3pm. And this is one of Martin’s usual times to be monopolizing a table at the back of the room.

‘Putting up the shed.’

‘In this weather?’

‘I left him in shed number two.’

‘Why do you need so many sheds?’

‘Because I keep filling them up. I am an artistic, creative woman. I crave colour and novelty in my life. Along comes Mrs Feng Shui and she wants the colour and novelty out. Says I will never have a quiet mind. And I know,’ here Deirdre holds up her hands as if I’ve been arguing a feng shui point with her for the last ten minutes, ‘a quiet mind is the universal goal but it’s not easy. Whoever said feng shui was an easy life choice must have been...’ Deirdre searches the Coffee Shop for inspiration, ‘…amazing.’

Rain stops and we decamp to Evans. Deirdre swoops onto a rack of pale pink, rose pink and fuchsia pink t-shirts. ‘I’ve lived and died in these,’ she says, holding one up. ‘You can’t have too many pink items in your wardrobe.’

I head for a pair of black chiffon trousers embroidered with a run of red roses up each leg, a mere seven pounds.

‘Unbeatable value,’ I enthuse.

‘Transparent. You’ll have problems.’

‘For the beach.’

‘You’ve got to get to the beach first.’

We both grin picturing me walking jauntily down our High Street. ‘They’re so pretty.’

‘Fair enough.’

I buy them.

Deirdre drives us home and comes in for a mug of sliced lemon in boiling water to counteract the
Coffee Ice Magnifico
and iced bun. We both bemoan the lack of McVities chocolate biscuits to go with our health drinks. Spend a further enjoyable hour discussing more spiritual matters and what other people do wrong that we get so right. At six she leaves. Says she is flirting with Atkins tonight, giving him another chance to shift those pounds.

Upstairs I try on chiffon trousers. Yes they are beautiful and unbeatable value, however they are truly transparent. Also there is a strange tie fastening at the front, allowing an excess of flesh to peek unalluringly through. Thinks: at least a lover might find me desirable in such trousers. Imagine meeting prospective lover at front door, me in chiffon trousers and swishing the tie fastening suggestively. ‘Darling, you’re just in time to help me get out of these.’ Realise mistake as my desire narrowed eyes focus on the dropped jaw of Unigate milkman.

August 4
^th

Dreamt about Mum when she was very ill. In dream I did things differently, was not so absorbed in mine and Georgie’s life. In dream I was wholeheartedly there for her and not wishing myself at home with Georgie and the cats. Wake up heavy-headed. Think, as Deirdre would put it, ‘What was that all about?’

Go downstairs to feed Tilly but Tilly not in usual place, i.e. two steps ahead of me on way into kitchen. Find Tilly in the front room lying on the fleece I left on the settee the night before.

‘Nood norning, Tilly. Grub up.’

For first time ever Tilly doesn’t respond. Her body is in a tight curl. Her green eyes open slightly. They look up at me as if I’m far removed from her and no longer the focus of her cat life.

I repeat
nood norning
several times. Her eyes are closed and refuse to open again. Bang on cat food tin with fork. Stand in kitchen feeling very much alone. Make myself cup of tea. Don’t manage to take it back as far as the bedroom, instead sit down on stairs. Through the banisters I keep an eye on Tilly - she seems to be barely breathing.

Deirdre and Martin away at Martin’s parents. Nic and Simone still on holiday and Mr Wheeler doesn’t have a car. Thinks: I must get a cab and take Tilly to the vet. But I don’t want to do that. I know she’s near the end. I’ve taken cats to the vet before and they know what’s going on, that for whatever reason I’ve wiped my hands of them.

At 8am I telephone Peter at Russell’s. Cannot face speaking to Lorraine Carter. Say, ‘Sorry Peter I can’t come in today - my cat’s very ill.’

He says, ‘Oh dear. That won’t go down too well. What about me saying you’re laid low with a virus?’

‘No. My cat being ill is the truth. It will have to do.’

‘Well hope kitty gets better soon,’ he says.

Leave a message for Tom.

Want to make Tilly more comfortable but can’t imagine how. She licks cat milk from my fingers and momentarily I’m hopeful. Then her head drops back as if she’s quite exhausted. I feel her ears, her nose, her body. She doesn’t feel hot, in fact she feels quite cool. I whisper, ‘Please wake up Tilly.’ But she won’t.

At nine o’clock I try Georgie’s old mobile number. Surely she’ll want to know that Tilly is ill. She’d loved Tilly as much as she’d loved her own cats. On the third ring Georgie answers.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘Georgie, it’s Margaret.’

There is an infinitesimal pause before she says, ‘Margaret, what’s the matter?’

Thinks: does something have to be the matter? But of course it does.

‘I think Tilly’s dying.’

In Georgie’s background someone turns down
Start the Week
.

‘Has the vet seen her?’

‘Not recently.’

‘Does she seem in any pain?’

‘I don’t think so - only worn out.’

‘Look Margaret, Tilly’s an elderly cat. You don’t need me to tell you your options.’ She then tells me my options. ‘Either get her to the vet or let her die at home with you.’

There is just a hint of exasperation in her voice.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thank you. You’ve summed up the situation for me. That’s exactly what I needed. Nice to speak to you.’

‘Nice to speak to you too,’ she says, her voice now formal.

I replace the receiver. Hearing Georgie’s voice, its disinterest, has been like a hard blow to my chest. As I return to Tilly my body is hunched over as if I’m protecting myself, as if there’s no reason left to stand up straight. Sit down next to Tilly. She edges towards me so that the top of her head is touching my thigh and
I’m
comforted by
her
. I’m thinking
so this is what it’s really like to be alone
. Not the single woman at a club or dinner party, not shoving a trolley round the supermarket with no one to ask, ‘Shall we give green tea a go?’ No it’s Margaret seeking comfort from her dying cat.