Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (7 page)

In the Corner Coffee Shop, Martin’s set up an office space for himself in an alcove at the back. The staff are very good natured about this. In fact they seem pleased to have Martin monopolizing a four person table with his laptop, mobile, ashtray and half hourly intake of cappuccino and Danish pastry. It is almost as if he was Ernest Hemingway working on
For Whom the Bell Tolls
.

A couple of times I’ve popped in with Miriam. I am determined not to treat Martin as if he is Ernest Hemingway so call out, ‘Hello there, Martin.’ He ignores me or looks about the room as if expecting some other chap to respond.

Deirdre says when her new garden is well on its way to completion she’ll send the gardener over to discuss mine with me.

‘What’s the woman’s name?’ I asked.

‘I’ve no idea. I call her
pet.
’

March 16
^th

Not much going on in my life at the minute. Not sleeping very well and when I do sleep there seem to be noises at the back of my dreams. Apart from work I’m sticking close to home. Tilly is all the company I need. She’s getting very frail. Yesterday she didn’t make the jump between the table and the work top. Landed quite badly but got up and went to try again. I picked her up and set her back down next to her plate. There is nothing of her but skin and bone. It breaks my heart.

March 17

Laura rang this evening while I was eating.

‘But it’s only seven o’clock. In London nobody eats before eight, more like nine,’ she says.

I reply that everybody in Bittlesea Bay is asleep by nine and they need a couple of hours first to watch the local news and weather forecast on television while their food digests.

She says, ‘Okay, you eat - I’ll talk. First I’m no longer with Pam, I’m with Iris. Iris has a better figure. You know me; I’ve always been a breast woman.’

I swallow a piece of mushroom omelette and say, ‘I knew no such thing. Aren’t you being rather superficial? Isn’t Pam upset?’

‘No, Pam’s relieved. She says I was much too much of a good thing which is rather complimentary. Now I like Iris a lot. You might not like Iris so I’m going to keep her under wraps for a month or two. Shall I just say she’s controlling in the nicest possible way.’ Laura pauses as if some pleasant controlling memory has occurred to her.

We don’t talk much about me but that’s okay as I haven’t really anything I want to say.

In bed I think about Laura and how all her many emotional dramas seem to wash over her and leave no mark. I imagine her heart; pink, healthy, unblemished.

March 18
^th

Life seems unutterably dreary! This evening met Miriam from work and went with her to visit her mother. They have a seafront flat, unfortunately a basement flat. The sea isn’t visible, only shoes and ankles as pedestrians pass by on the pavement outside, however I exclaim enthusiastically at the sea’s proximity.
Only a stone’s throw
I say,
how wonderful. Lucky you!
 

Expect to meet very old lady wrapped in shawls and genteelly irritable but no, Miriam’s mother looks about the same age as Miriam; maybe even a year or two younger. She is smart, petite and wears a skirt and matching boxy jacket with a large spray brooch of turquoise brilliants on her lapel. She looks ready for a royal garden party right down to her shoes, which are navy blue and cream with a small heel. Am amazed!

‘How do you do, Mrs Mason.’ We shake hands. Her fingers feel like a cluster of brittle twigs. Thinks; Miriam must have taken after her father as she is quite a reassuringly hefty woman.

I am led into a room off a dark hall. It is like stepping back several decades and reminds me of my grandmother’s house only furnished more lavishly. There is a comfortable three-piece suite and many occasional tables. Everywhere I look are pieces of crochet; chair backs, arm rests, doilies, crocheted rugs, even crochet framed in ebony and hung on the walls. While Miriam and her mother sort out sherry and nibbles from a large sideboard I dawdle from item of crochet to item of crochet making admiring noises.

‘This is beautiful, breathtaking. What workmanship, hugely accomplished.’ I draw the line at the ‘earth shatteringly stupendous’ teetering on the tip of my tongue.

‘Miriam’s a clever little puss,’ Miriam’s mother says fondly. Miriam, looking nothing like a ‘little puss’ grimaces.

‘Miriam did all this?’ I exclaim, looking at Miriam in a new light. Unsure at that moment whether a good light or a bad light.

‘It passes an evening,’ Miriam says with an apologetic shrug.

She and I take an armchair each while Miriam’s mother puts her feet up, crossing one neat, nylon ankle over the other.

‘Cheers,’ she says, holding up her crystal schooner. ‘Miriam, offer Margaret the Bombay Mix.’

I take a handful of Bombay Mix and try not to drop them on the immaculate pink carpet.

‘Cheers,’ I say.

‘Cheers,’ Miriam says. She looks suddenly dispirited. Her mother peers hopefully from me to Miriam as if we are bright young things who must have tales of debutante parties and dancing till dawn to relate. Cannot immediately summon up a single subject that might be interesting. Ask myself what I know about crochet and the answer is
nothing
. Ask myself if I know anything about related subjects; knitting, dressmaking, tatting. Finally say loudly, ‘Do you remember French knitting?’

Miriam and her mother look blank.

‘You knocked four small nails into the top of a cotton reel, then wound wool round the nails, then over and eventually a long snake of French knitting came out through the cotton reel hole. People made bedside mats. I made a table mat.’

‘Did you? Did it take long?’

‘About a fortnight.’

Silence as they both digest taking a fortnight to produce a table mat then Miriam says energetically, ‘What books are you reading at present?’

My mind scurries over the books on my bedside table. Decide that
Creating a Meadow Garden
is of no interest, while
Lesbians Sighted at Nine O’Clock - a World War II Romance
inappropriate for sherry with Miriam’s mother so reply,
‘Annie Oakley, the Woman Behind the Buckskins.’

‘That sounds exciting,’ says Miriam’s mother. ‘I used to love those cowboy series in the fifties and sixties. Do you remember Range Rider - I think he wore buckskins - or fringed leathers?’

Miriam frantic - imagining I am about to disclose something about Annie Oakley that might shock her mother. She taps her nose, blinks her eyes and doubles up with a coughing fit. Finally splutters out, ‘I’ve almost finished
The Testament of Youth.
Vera Britain was an extraordinary woman.’

I agree that she was, particularly portrayed by Cheryl Campbell in the television series.

Miriam’s mother looks misty eyed, ‘Ah youth’, she says. ‘
Fair and shining youth. That age might take the things youth needed not!’
Dear William Wordsworth.’

Miriam and I nod our agreement that William Wordsworth was indeed a dear man. I stay for another hour that seems like three. Miriam sees me out. ‘Come again,’ Miriam’s mother calls from the sitting room.

At the front door Miriam says, ‘Thanks for coming. Evenings with Mum can get bloody lonely.’

‘My pleasure. Your mother is charming.’ Note: must find a way of either being truthful without upsetting anyone or being untruthful without upsetting myself.

‘Is she?’ Miriam looks doubtful.

Walk home with what seems like a gale force wind behind me. However, reaching the foot of my hill I find that instead of having to toil up as I usually do I sink back into the wind as if it’s another armchair and amazingly the wind does all the work, carrying me up the steep incline and depositing me at my front gate. I’m cold but it is an exhilarating experience that quite erases the depression lingering from the Miriam and mother part of the evening.

March 19

I haven’t seen Nic and Simone since Georgie left. Don’t know whether to telephone them or not. Are they avoiding me? Do they know something I don’t?

March 20
^th

Not a lot could possibly happen today as I am determined to stay indoors with the blinds down to block out the light and also to discourage visitors. Nothing in the post from Georgie. In ten years this is the first time she’s missed an anniversary. Have taken my diary back to bed and am determined to keep writing! About anything! Except...

Vis-à-vis seagulls; once March is reached they wake up at odd hours throughout the night particularly if the lifeboat boom goes off down on the seafront which it invariably does once a fortnight at 2am. Then the entire gull population takes to the night sky, vocally and arially (if there is such a word). Their cries monopolize the dawn chorus. I lie in bed and for some unfathomable reason imagine the seagulls have instead become a million penguins. The gradual build up of their voices seems genial and stationery; penguin bodies still, penguin heads swivelling, ‘Morning neighbour, Mum, Dad, brother, sister... chimney, window ledge, trellis, black, white and ginger cat... ’ They have a word with everything and everyone, yet nobody wants a word with them. Sometimes I can hardly hear the interviewer on
Farming Today
trying to encourage a shy farmer’s wife into an effusion over her home made cheeses for the squall of seagulls/penguins. In the autumn they quieten down. An almost eerie silence falls over Bittlesea Bay lasting till now. All those seagull/penguin families have taken themselves off to the beach for the winter, riding the waves, big brown feathered babies, ‘peep-peeping’ hopefully at their parents but by then they’re almost on their own.

Eventually got up, had bath, took telephone call from Laura who suddenly can see no point in
her
life, past, present or future and has a hangover due to drinking three pints of cider and a bottle of wine. Pause for her to light a cigarette and me to replenish my chamomile tea then she asks, ‘From what I’ve told you about Iris, do you think she has a sense of humour?’

In no mood for kindly prevarication reply, ‘No, not in the slightest.’

Laura seems surprised.

Checked emails. Thirty-three. Thirty from internet book group. Don’t know how they find time to read so many books plus write reviews. I open only emails with exciting titles such as ‘Piracy and sodomy on the high seas’. Also an email about achieving beautiful nails, an offer from Tesco.com offering vouchers if I buy a fridge freezer or plasma television from their electrical department and a message from Friends Reunited asking if I’d like to renew my subscription.
‘There are school friends waiting to speak to you! 
Very disappointed. Nothing from Georgie. Could easily have cried but tell myself that thirty-three dud emails is a small disappointment compared to troubles overseas or being called Jack Straw and always needing to swallow repeatedly when being interviewed.

Laura rang again to say she felt a little better and had eaten a cheese and chutney sandwich. She brooched the topic of nobody she knew owning up to a liking for Branston Chutney. I said, ‘Everybody’s a food snob these days.’

Laura said, ‘Iris has taken against Chardonnay.’

‘Why?’

‘She says she much prefers Sauvignon Blanc. What do you think?’

‘She’s talking out of her hat.’

‘Iris doesn’t wear a hat, she has a kagool with a hood,’ Laura informs me good naturedly. She continues for another five minutes extolling Iris’s virtues, finally I cut in, ‘Do you know what day this is?’

Laura pauses then says, ‘Yes of course I do, that’s why I rang. I thought I’d distract you.’

I swallow, ‘Well you have a bit. Thank you.’

Then Deirdre takes over. Arrives with sandwiches and insists I come with her up onto the cliffs. We sit on a bench for almost an hour looking out to sea. It feels almost warm. Down below us beach enthusiasts run about with bare legs and fleeces. Sandwiches delicious. Also a flask of very sweet hot chocolate.

‘By the bye,’ Deirdre says, ‘My gardener bod can’t consider your garden till the beginning of April.’

‘Did you tell her about my steep slope?’

Deirdre looks thoughtful then says, ‘I said, “As you can see it’s in quite a state”. I may have said, “Rather you than me”.’

‘Thanks.’

Onwards to meet Martin in the foyer of the Odeon to see the afternoon showing of
Terminator 3.

Came out. Deirdre announced, ‘That’s the best film I’ve seen in a long time.’

Can’t quite agree but say nothing. Martin also says nothing. Deirdre looks a little anxious adding, ‘Although I don’t think a lorry with a crane on it could travel that fast - do you?’

‘Possibly,’ I said, one eye on Martin. Still no reaction. ‘Coffee at the Corner Coffee - my treat?’ I ask.

Corner Coffee Shop quite busy with late afternoon shoppers. Send Deirdre and Martin off to bag table and I queue up for Martin’s cappuccino, a
Coffee Ice Magnifico
for me and Deirdre’s passion fruit and orange juice which, as expected, the Corner Coffee doesn’t stock. The Corner Coffee Shop of Bittlesea Bay Town Centre is not an establishment catering for the passion fruit crowd. Deirdre is visibly disappointed with plain orange juice and eyes my
Magnifico
with ill concealed envy.

Martin is still saying nothing about the film but has found a copy of the Daily Mail and is now displaying fury over the front page article claiming the Atkins Diet is dangerous.

‘Of course it’s a plot by the processed food manufacturers because for the first time their profits are actually under threat.’ He’s looking truculently at me.

‘There are two sides to every debate,’ I diplomatically reply.