Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (2 page)

Jan 12
^th

First day back at work since Christmas Eve. My boss, Tom Matthews, dropped a copy of the
Listening Ear
on my desk indicating its front page headline:
Bittlesea Bay’s official lesbian community reaches double figures!

Tom says, ‘They’re taking over the town. First estate agents, now

lesbians.’

‘Whatever next?’ I replied. If the figures were true, Tom Matthews was employing a fifth of the lesbian population.

TM Accountancy is a small firm. A tiny firm. There is Tom; and me and Miriam who job share. I work from nine thirty to one thirty, Miriam from one to five thirty. We choose to overlap by half an hour so that we can shut the office and sit on the back step while Miriam has the last cigarette of her working afternoon and I eat my sandwiches.

Officially our job title is Accounts Typist. Unofficially we are also Secretary, Invoice Clerk, Filing Clerk, Coffee and Tea Maker and Plant Pot Waterer. In quiet moments I read female detective novels and Miriam reads science fiction.

Miriam is in her early sixties and refers to herself as a semi-retired lesbian or sometimes a very tired lesbian. Today as it was teeming we huddled in the doorway rather than our usual perch on the step. Not always easy discussing my problems even with Miriam. I’m sure she’s thinking what am I bleating on about; at least I’ve bagged someone. Miriam appeared thoughtful and then said, ‘Yes, I can see it might be difficult living with a woman as damnably attractive as your Georgie - however she obviously likes the way you are or she wouldn’t have stuck around all this time.’

Which was surprisingly encouraging.

Miriam went on to talk about herself, announcing her New Year’s resolution to have a relationship with a younger woman.

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult as most women are younger than me,’ she said, puffing away at her cigarette. ‘Pity about my body going to pot.’

I insisted that what I could see of her body (not necessary to specify neck, wrist, inch of ankles between sock and trouser leg hems) looked extremely trim. On the contrary I insisted that I was the one who had let my body go to pot.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but of course you have Georgie.’

Jan 14
^th

Miriam’s mother has her third bout of flu since November. Tom Matthews always surprisingly sympathetic where Miriam’s mother is concerned. I am inclined to think that Miriam uses her mother to get days off work but wouldn’t dare even moot this possibility to Tom. On his desk is a photo of his own mother with him in her arms - he is about six years old and wearing a Fairisle sleeveless pullover, (as well as shirt, shorts, socks etc). Tom’s mother is smoking a cigarette; in fact her cigarette seems in danger of setting boy Tom’s curly quiff alight. Tom often looks fondly at this photo while giving dictation.

While I’m musing on Miriam’s mother and Tom’s mother I spare a thought for my mother who is dead. She also smoked. Recall that when I had a splinter in my finger she sterilized the point of her darning needle by putting it into the lit end of her cigarette then used the needle to gouge out my splinter.

Tom interrupts my childhood recollections with the query, ‘Are you just wool gathering Margaret or is there something constructive going on behind your dazed expression?’

Quickly respond that I am making a mental list of the gaps that need filling in the stationery cupboard.

Jan 15
^th

Miriam’s mother near death’s door. Tell Georgie over dinner. Georgie unimpressed. Says, ‘Miriam’s mother’s always at death’s door. I bet you a fiver that she’ll be right as rain by next week.’

‘Not this time. Tom’s pencilled question marks through the last half of next week in case he has to go to the funeral.’

Jan 17
^th

Last night we had a dinner party. My old friend Laura came down from London without Pam, her latest flame. There was also Simone and Nicole who are more Georgie’s friends, and Deirdre and Martin. Simone and Deirdre both wore long glittery scarves. Simone wore hers knotted warmly round her neck, implying a case of laryngitis, Deirdre had hers theatrically thrown about her voluptuous shoulders. Deirdre is more my friend, but Martin is nobody’s friend. He says,
People, when you get to know them, tend to be a disappointment.
Considering his views he is always surprisingly good company at social events providing there is an endless source of alcohol.

I cooked sea bass, bought locally, with parsley sauce. Noticed Deirdre and Martin weren’t too keen and had a sudden recollection of Deirdre telling me on January the first
that their new year’s resolution was to start the Atkins Diet but it was to be top secret till they were ready to amaze their friends by their astonishing weight loss. Caught Deirdre’s eye and instantly knew that they’d eaten their usual steak and salad before they’d come out. Deirdre knew I knew and looked defensive, which meant her blue eyes got watery.

Was it a good evening? I think so. Martin told a funny story about Mussolini who is one of his heroes. Martin’s heroes aren’t everyone’s heroes. Fortunately he does draw the line at Hitler. Then Nic and Simone did an hour on their upvc windows and Laura gave a demonstration of how to correctly dance the tango using the broom for a partner. Returned it to the cupboard saying, ‘You haven’t half got a lot of cleaning equipment in there. All Pam’s got is a brush and pan.’

Deirdre looked appalled. ‘What about a hoover? We couldn’t live without our Dyson, could we Martin?’

‘Indeed
we
couldn’t.’

This was meant to be humorously sarcastic as its touch and go whether Martin even knows where the Dyson lives. Or perhaps he thinks that’s the name of the person who irons his shirts.
Dyson, when you hang my shirts up, could you colour match them to my fresh underpants?

‘Pam’s got floor boards. She just brushes the bits into the cracks between,’ Laura said blithely, checking her jaw line in the mirror over the fireplace.

‘Eeugh!’ Deirdre resolves never to visit Laura and Pam’s flat were she to be invited.

Georgie says, ‘Is this talk about cleaning very interesting? Margaret, the music’s stopped. Put something lively on.’

Riffle through our collection of CD’s. Consider putting on the late Kathleen Ferrier warbling,
What is life to me without thee, what is life if thou art dead?
Instead find Emmylou Harris who everyone except Deirdre, who hates music, will like.

True to form Deirdre first asks for the music to be turned down, then appeals plaintively, ‘Haven’t you got any background music? Must there always be singing? What happened to good old peace and quiet?’

Georgie, Martin, and Nic retire to the front room to talk about work. Georgie designs lighting systems for the leisure industry as in clubs and casinos, Martin designs music systems for a similar market, Nic took a course in home electrics, so they have much to discuss. Which leaves me, Simone, Deirdre and Laura. For five minutes conversation is sporadic and then we hit on why can’t Laura be satisfied with any of her girlfriends. This pleases Laura who loves the opportunity to talk about herself, pleases Simone who likes hearing about trials, tribulations or serious illness, pleases Deirdre as she loves giving advice, pleases me because I can relax and stop worrying that the evening has been a failure and it is probably my fault.

Later, as we’re getting ready for bed, Georgie reveals that she can take or leave Deirdre and Laura.

‘They’re self satisfied and empty headed,’ she says.

I don’t immediately defend my friends because yes, they are both the above but also funny, affectionate and resourceful. As usual say nothing. No, actually I say, ‘You may be right,’ but pull my face into an unattractive apologetic grimace. Which seems as if I’m apologizing to Georgie for the quality of my friends. I should be apologizing to Deirdre and Laura.

Snuggled up in bed with the light out I say, ‘What about Martin?’

Georgie makes an irritable movement of her shoulders. ‘He’s all right. At least he has something sensible to say.’

Georgie falls asleep while I am still trying to remember one sensible thing I’ve said that evening.

Jan 19
^th

Came home via supermarket. Bought six tins of cat food, three bottles of cat milk plus bag of cat litter for Tilly who now prefers to use the indoor facilities. Staggered up the steep incline that is our street, momentarily wondering how people like Sir Edmund Hillary had managed to climb Mount Everest even with bearers bearing shopping.

Miriam’s mother has made a miraculous recovery. Tom treats us to chocolate éclairs at lunch time by way of celebration. Miriam visibly moved by Tom’s thoughtfulness.

Owe Georgie a fiver.

Jan 22
^nd

Bought copy of the
Listening Ear
and yes, they’ve printed my letter. But not all of it. They’ve left out the opening paragraph welcoming the influx of ten lesbians to Bittlesea Bay and only printed the section about the need for more dog toilets and calls for increased vigilance by dog wardens and the non-dog-owning public. Glad I didn’t use my real name. Signed myself A. Oakley as in Annie Oakley. Spent two hours writing a letter of complaint to the local about discriminatory editing of readers’ letters.
Does the Listening Ear have a problem with the burgeoning lesbian community?

Jan 24
^th

Receive email this morning from old school friend, Tabby, saying she is visiting another old school friend, Nina who lives in Tunbridge Wells and wonders if she could break her journey at my house. Problem: the last time I saw Tabby was at my engagement party to Ronald twenty-five years ago. Although we have kept in touch via Christmas cards and the odd email she has no idea that my proclivities came to their senses soon after. Show Tabby’s email to Georgie. She says, ‘You haven’t seen her in a quarter of a century, why would you want to see her now?’

Which suddenly makes me insist that it is of vital importance that I do see her now.

‘But why?’

‘Because longevity in relationships is priceless!’ I almost shout.

Georgie gives me a steady look and then goes upstairs to her office in the box room. I hear the door close. March up stairs, fling open box room door and demand, ‘Well shall I or shan’t I?’

She looks up from her laptop as if within the last minute she’s completely forgotten my existence. ‘Whatever,’ she says.

‘What exactly does “whatever” mean?’

‘Whatever you want to do, just do it but let me get on. I’ve several important calls to make.’

Do not like being dismissed so important calls can be made, however try to imagine myself to be Rose from
Upstairs, Downstairs
and bob a curtsey before saying, ‘Would you like a coffee while you make your calls, ma’am?’

‘No thank you.’

Georgie is not amused or has never in the distant past watched
Upstairs, Downstairs.

‘Are you saying “no thank you” because you’re annoyed with me?’

‘No.’

‘Look, I know you want a coffee. You always have a coffee about now.’

‘Very well, I’ll have a coffee.’

Unhappy with Georgie’s resigned tone but take her a coffee. She thanks me without looking up. Wonder if there is any significance about coffee. Is coffee - Georgie drinking it and me making it, making us both irritable?

Answer: inconclusive. I email Tabby:

Dear Tabby,
change this to
Hi Tabby
, which looks more casual but not as casual as
Yo Tabby
.
It would be lovely to see you again after such a long time. I didn’t marry Ronald, I fell in love with his sister would you believe? To cut a long story short I now live with Georgie, also a woman but not Ronald’s sister although she remains a good friend.

Tabby replies within the hour:
See you around 5pm on Tuesday 27th.

Meet Miriam in The Corner Coffee Shop
.
We order two
Coffee Ice
Magnifico’s
. Our mugs contain a small amount of cold coffee topped with three inches of ice-cream and pink marshmallow, a chocolate flake sticking out of each summit. Miriam and I often discuss diets. Usually Deirdre and Martin’s diets. Today, guiltily we do not discuss diets, we just luxuriate. I tell Miriam about the forthcoming visit of old school friend and she reveals that she still lives with her mother.

‘Do you get on with your mother?’ I ask cautiously, knowing mothers can be tricky subjects.

‘She’s a feisty old lady,’ Miriam says which tells me little. It’s the sort of description I’d give of my own mother when first discussing her, only moving on later to ‘She’s a miserable old bat’.

Almost immediately Miriam moves on saying, ‘She can be cantankerous.’

‘In what way?’ I arrange my features into a diplomatic expression before biting off a chunk of chocolate flake.

Miriam looks evasive. The tip of her nose pinkens and she pulls a tissue from her anorak pocket.

‘So this is where the two of you hide out!’ Our shoulders are gripped and both our faces plunged into ice-cream. We come up spluttering.

‘Sorry,’ Tom Matthews says. ‘Mind if I squat?’ and he pulls up a chair looking eagerly at Miriam then me, then back to Miriam.

I say, ‘Just talking about mothers.’

He strokes his long chin. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,’ he says.

‘Well you have to, if they die,’ I say cheerfully. Realise that the early evening Corner Coffee Shop crowd amused by the spectacle of two women doused in cream are now listening to our conversation. Many, possibly mothers are frowning in my direction.