Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (20 page)

If this diary were a modern fairytale some woman would arrive unexpectedly. Lorraine Carter nurturing a secret soft spot for animals and for me, or Janice just having an intuition that Margaret needs her as she straightens up from heaving a paving slab in some garden a few miles away. But no. This is only a diary so I write the true bare bones. Nobody came. Georgie did not ring back to see how Tilly was or how I was coping. When Tilly died I was on my own.

August 6
^th

Lorraine Carter away on golfing holiday till today. This morning she cornered me while I was punctiliously J Clothing the glass jewellery cabinet. Stood at my shoulder checking quality of my polishing technique for some minutes then said in cutting tone, ‘How’s the cat?’

‘She died.’

I concentrated on glass, blinking back tears.

Lorraine walked away. Saw her again as I was leaving. She gave me a long, considered look then I heard her say to Peter, ‘After all, stuff happens. What’s a dead cat in the scheme of things?’

August 9
^th

It’s now or never. I’ve got to start going out and meeting other women. Love Laura and Deirdre but they have their own lives with me on the periphery. Thinks: well I say ‘it’s now or never’ but not quite sure what I mean. Do I have a fear that if I don’t inject some urgency into organizing my life I will drift? Vision of small, battered rowing boat becalmed on a pond.

Have tried to explain my feelings to Deirdre. She nods and smiles but doesn’t quite understand the effort I need to make.

‘Put yourself out there girl,’ she says. I would in your shoes.’

Easy to say when not in my shoes.

Even Miriam seems happy. Has taken a week off and was vague when I asked her what she was doing, where she was going and would it entail her mother? Said, ‘As of now I’m very fluid.’

August 10
^th

Have passion fruit and orange juice in Deirdre’s garden. Fledglings now the size of large shopping bags, peer down at us from the extension roof and make hopeful ‘peeping’ noises.

Deirdre confides in a low voice that Vera and Morag have objected to her feeding the gulls Lord Dudley’s left-over cat food. They’ve told her this is unhygienic and will encourage rats, foxes etc plus many hundred more seagulls.

Deirdre starts laughing and adds, ‘Actually I hardly have to put cat food out anymore, the parents poke their heads through the cat door and help themselves from Lord Dudley’s bowl.’

Privately think this is an unsatisfactory state of affairs and the road to...perdition? Ruin? Regret?

August 11
^th

Well? Would you believe it? That takes the biscuit! And other phrases indicating complete astonishment. This evening received telephone call. Immediately recognised Lorraine Carter’s voice, even though it was hidden behind an unfamiliar warm vivacity, as if she were speaking to an old and valued friend! Had she got the wrong number? But no, she called me Margaret. Perhaps another Margaret? No again - she wanted the Margaret who was the friend of Laura, Nic and Simone. Did she mean Maggie, friend of Nic and Simone? No she didn’t. She’d already asked Maggie but
she’d
had to say ‘no’ as she’d be on the South Downs with Tess celebrating their china anniversary.

‘Do try and come Margaret - I’m calling it a supperette club,’ she said insistently, as if trying to tear me away from all the many other social events filling my normal Saturday evening.

Wanted to say,
but what about my written warning? Is that now on a back burner?
Also to ask,
does ‘supperette’ mean the same as ‘supper’, as in there will be food?
Instead gushed back, ‘Of course I’ll come. I’d love to come. Now exactly where are you?’

Rather proud of my tone of voice - I sounded like a successful, busy woman on equal footing to LC

August 12
^th

Re. equal footing with Lorraine Carter. This morning, as usual we were back on unequal footing. My chewing gum scraper has been taken away to be re-sharpened and I’m having to make do with a knife from the canteen. Ms Carter said in passing, ‘Though how your scraper got blunt is beyond me because I’ve never once seen you using it.’

Did not feel this worthy of a reply. Attempted to read L.C’s eyes but they were veiled.

Have realised that I hardly enter anything in this diary about TM Accountancy anymore. This because very little to report. Miriam and Tom seem to be getting on like the proverbial house on fire and there are no more cosy chit-chats on the back step. Horrid feeling that Miriam now thinks our positions have been reversed - she is on the up and up while I am on the down and down. Have to admit that she seems much happier.

And now I know why. Deirdre telephoned to tell me to look out of my front window, which I did. Saw Martin flushed of face in charge of several black dustbins. Open window.

‘What’s going on Martin?’

‘Deirdre’s antique furniture is due at three. I’m cordoning off our side of the road. Ok if I cordon off your bit?’

‘Of course. Want a hand?’

Martin throws withering look, ‘Only if you can persuade Deirdre to cancel this truck load of second hand furniture and return two thousand pounds to my bank account.’

‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘I thought not.’

Mr Wheeler appears, wondering what size pantechnicon can warrant the use of so much road? Martin mutters, ‘There’s the unloading to be taken into account.’ He sulkily withdraws one dustbin from outside Mr Wheeler’s gate before going back indoors. From behind me in the kitchen I hear Deidre’s voice coming from the telephone receiver. ‘He’s a miserable old basket case,’ she’s shouting. Hope Mr Wheeler can’t hear. Return to phone and say quietly, ‘Deirdre, he has a right.’

‘He has a right to a torrent of abuse. Exciting isn’t it?’

‘Very.’

Forget about Deirdre’s delivery and climb up to my meadow. I’m surprised how good it looks after so short a time. In the centre of its circle I’ve planted an old fashioned tea rose in memory of Tilly. Not really appropriate but I wanted a shrub that would last for years and years. Sit on bench and think about getting another cat but not ready yet. Think about possibility of meeting a new lover - not ready for that either. Count on my fingers the months that have passed since Georgie left. Count from end of February. Almost six months have gone by. There are still ‘firsts’ to get through; first birthday without her, first autumn, first Christmas. Think sourly that of course at New Year Georgie was with Stella. Can’t bear to go over all those times when Georgie was away ‘on business’ when she must have been with Stella. Feel spirits dropping. Concentrate on few small clouds scudding across wide stretch of blue sky. In the distance is the sea, a straight green ribbon on the horizon.

Down in the street I hear Deirdre’s lorry arriving. There is a crunching sound as the first dustbin goes over and under its wheels. Powerful brakes squeal. Wonder whether the vicar is actually driving lorry and am sufficiently curious to start back down to the house. Suddenly I recognise Miriam’s voice sounding rather officious.

‘Delivery for Mrs Deirdre Storm. I need a signature.’

Then Deirdre, ‘I’m not signing anything till I’ve checked the goods. Where’s my Martin got to?’

Spot Martin in an upstairs room in the process of lowering the blind. He mouths, ‘Keep schtum,’ and then the blind blots him out. I go round by the back gate. There is Miriam and the vicar. Both are wearing black jeans and black singlets and they are unloading Deirdre’s furniture onto the pavement. So far there is a very formal three-piece suite covered in a maroon and cream striped shiny fabric, several wobbly occasional tables - spindly legs painted gold, two matching book cases with carved pomegranate detailing, two footstools and several wooden crates. Oh, and a six foot high statue of nude woman holding sheaf of corn or wheat.

Deirdre beaming turns towards me. ‘Fabulous. All fabulous. A few bits to give the garden an artistic gravitas and the rest for the back sitting room. Sort of Regency Buck chic.’

‘Fabulous,’ I enthuse. Call out to Miriam, ‘Hello Miriam - I thought you were on holiday.’

Miriam nearly drops the pedestal she’s carrying.

‘Steady,’ cautions vicar who’s crumpling under the weight of the top half of a full size lamp-post.

‘Margaret what are you doing here?’ Miriam looks flustered.

‘I live next door.’

‘Keep it off the pavement Miriam sweetie,’ vicar says. Miriam-sweetie keeps it off the pavement.

‘Back garden,’ Deirdre says as they stagger past.

August 13
^th

Miriam sporting an air of quiet confidence when she arrives at one o’clock. Says she intended to tell me but wanted the relationship to ‘bed in’ in more ways than one first.

August 14
^th

This afternoon bought
Listening Ear
and took it onto the beach. Blustery, English seaside kind of day. Set up my striped windbreak, set out towel, sandwiches, yoghurt drink, notepad and biro. Weight newspaper down with large pebbles and browse through. Main story: postal van reversing into the bollards outside the cinema at 6am in the morning. Headline:
What a Difference a Day Makes! ‘Twelve hours later and many innocent cinemagoers could so easily have been massacred,’ fumes local bobby!

On inside page find article plus indistinct photograph of badgers. There is now a Bittlesea Bay Badger Protection Society which already has five members and its own website where readers can report sightings. Tear this article out and place inside notebook. Move on to Letters page and am rewarded by yet another polemic from Martin.

Sir! In reply to A. Oakley (self-styled Accident Prevention Officer) I would like to emphatically state that when I’m ready for a mobility scooter I shall feel free to ride it at maximum speed wherever I like and A. Oakley had better just jump out of my way! This person illustrates all the worst, small minded traits synonymous with the provinces. Sometimes I ask myself why the heck did I ever leave London?

Make note to headline my own reply ‘Storm in a Teacup’.

August 16
^th

Re Miriam. Since meeting the vicar she’s improved considerably. Says she and the vicar (Miriam refers to her as ‘the vicar’ or ‘my vicar’) have long talks about life. Says vicar is on her wavelength and who’d have thought dull old Miriam (this is Miriam referring to herself in the third person) would have snaffled such a prize. Says she said this to vicar and vicar most gratified to be considered a prize worthy of snaffling.

Ask how Miriam’s mother is getting along with Mrs Ferguson? Very well. Idyllically. And is thrilled that Miriam’s new friend is a vicar. Miriam has to ration amount of conversation her mother has with vicar as mother continually brings conversation round to whether vicar can categorically vouch for an after-life and give specific details of what Miriam’s mother can expect.

‘I mean, my vicar’s not a travel agency. She’ll be asking next what the weather’s like up there and should she take her winter coat.’

NB. Believe Miriam is being wryly comic here rather than her usual sarcastic.

August 17
^th

Deirdre treats me to lunch at the Bittlesea Bay Cafe. We have double egg and chips, white bread and butter twice. This is not an Atkins day, in fact her friendship with Atkins seems to have cooled over recent weeks.

We go outside onto the terrace that looks down over the cliffs to the seafront. We discuss how this cafe would be worth millions if the owners revamped it and opened in the evenings. Double egg and chips twice arrives and I announce that I am going to dip my bread into my egg. Deirdre says she is going to make chip butties out of her bread.

This is something of a special occasion, a saying goodbye to my deceased cat, Tilly, occasion. Deirdre says, ‘No matter how busy we get in our lives we shouldn’t let deaths and births pass uncelebrated unless you really don’t like that person or pet. I had a real soft spot for Tilly.’ 

Deirdre stares dreamily out to sea where a small white-sailed yacht is tacking across our field of vision. Suddenly she says, ‘Do you believe in messages coming through from the dead?’

Say cautiously, ‘Perhaps messages do come through from the dead but I haven’t personally received any.’

‘I’ll tell you something. Don’t feel affronted that this happened to me and not to you.’

I insist that I wouldn’t dream of being affronted.

‘Yesterday afternoon there was such a strange smell of sea and flowers in our lounge. Nothing fishy or unpleasant - sort of perfumed yet other worldly. I’m ninety nine point nine five certain that it was your Tilly telling me to tell you that she’s absolutely fine where she is.’

 
Am
affronted. Can’t imagine why Tilly should choose to haunt Deirdre’s lounge several weeks after dying asking for messages to be passed on to me. And why would she bring a sea smell in with her? Not as if she drowned or was a fish.

Deirdre continues in her dreamy voice, ‘Definitely sea and flowers. I looked up the chimney to see if there was anything or anyone up there.’

Thinks: why ever should a smell of sea and flowers find their way up or down Deirdre’s chimney?

‘That smell just made me think of your Tilly.’

As Santa Claus?

‘Mm. Interesting,’ I said.

‘Ah well,’ continues Deirdre. ‘Here’s to you, Tilly wherever you are.’ Deirdre raises her half full cup of cold cappuccino in the direction of the seafront.