Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (8 page)

‘Not this one,’ Martin thunders.

‘Three sides?’

He gives me a stern look spoilt by his newly acquired cappuccino froth moustache. ‘The Atkins Diet is the only diet that works for life. LIFE. It is a way of life which means these bastards,’ he stabs a nicotined index finger at a photograph of George Best pictured taking a liquid breakfast of white wine, ‘will be out of a job.’

‘Further up, Martin,’ Deirdre says.

‘What?!’ Martin roars. He glares at Deirdre, as if he’s suddenly seen her in a new and unpleasant light. ‘What?!’ he roars again.

‘You’re pointing at George Best.’

‘Exactly my point. This rag of a newspaper stinks. Why can’t they leave him to drink himself to death in peace?’

‘Especially with his new liver. That should last at least twenty years,’ offers Deirdre.

‘I don’t know about that,’ I say. ‘And to be honest vis a vis the Atkins Diet, I realise it works but not everybody would thrive on such a drastic mix of food.’

Which is the wrong thing to say because Martin and Deirdre have now been on and off the Atkins Diet for almost three months. I could see that, were I not a woman, Martin would have liked to take me by the scruff of the neck and eject me from the Corner Coffee Shop. Instead he fixes me with a steely glare and rasps, ‘If it was good enough for our hunter gatherer ancestors it’s fucking good enough for me.’

Silence falls on our table. Again I bite back my words concerning our gorilla ancestry and their love of vegetation. Deirdre looks almost tearful. ‘We’re each in control of our own destinies,’ she says blinking rapidly. Seeing Deirdre upset we quieten down. The unpleasant moment passes and we agree that the Daily Mail is an unspeakable paper before dividing it up between the three of us to read quietly. After half an hour of peace Martin looks at his watch and says, ‘Does anyone fancy going back in the Odeon and watching
Mission Impossible 2
?’

This time when we emerge from the cinema it is eight thirty. We buy two take-away pizzas and eat them in my kitchen, washed down with red wine. I’m in bed by ten. And so my anniversary passes.

March 22
^nd

Woken just after two by blood chilling sounds - like cats fighting only more savage and louder. In between the cries, the sound of manic scrabbling at the back gate. Where was Tilly? No time to reason that Tilly didn’t go outside anymore because in my mind’s eye I saw poor Tilly dangling from the slavering jaws of a dog fox, her own small cry overwhelmed.

Shot out of bed. Also no time to locate ski pole but did grab torch. Raced downstairs almost tripping over Tilly sitting crouched on the bottom stair. Switched on hall light and examined her. Very frightened, start of nervous incontinence cycle imminent if I didn’t put a stop to the dreadful screeching coming from outside.

Rushed through house and unlocked the back door. The dreadful crying ceased but the scrabbling noise became more frantic. I rounded the side of the house and shone my torch. It was a badger. In my opinion and having only ever seen a badger in the distance or on television this was the biggest badger ever, a giant of the species. We were about twelve foot apart. Badger looked over his shoulder at me (no particular reason for assigning male gender to Brock). His eyes caught in the torch beam glinted - insanely?

What did I know of badgers? Only the bit on
The Archers
where Phil and David Archer go on about badgers giving their dairy herd TB. Now why did I think I’d also heard that enraged badgers charge humans when cornered and were capable of leaping more than five foot in the air and fastening their teeth into that person’s throat? Horrid image of me staggering back into the kitchen trying to dislodge furious and possibly rabid badger.

Headline in
Listening Ear
, ‘Plucky lone woman slaughtered by renegade badger!’

‘Calm down badger,’ I ordered which had no effect at all.

I picked up a plastic flower pot and tossed it at him. It glanced lightly off his back. Immediately he turned and rushed towards me. I screamed, stepped back, dropped torch, panicked. Badger every bit as terrified swerved to his left into an alcove between the shed and our fire log store. I picked up the torch and switched it off.

His head was pressed against the fence in the theory that if he couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him. I noticed a patch of white against the black of his dusty fur coat. He trembled as I gingerly tip-toed past. Pulled the top and bottom, back gate bolts, lifted the latch, wedged the gate open with a piece of wood. Retreated back to the corner of the house and waited.

Took two minutes for badger to find his courage - peel away from the fence and trot through the open gate.

March 23
^rd

This afternoon found myself dwelling on animals, wild and domestic. Am I starting to feel more of a rapport with my furred and feathered friends than with human-kind? Would not like to think that were true but when recounting badger tale to Miriam at lunch found myself referring to Mr Badger quite easily as if describing Mr Wheeler trying to escape from my garden. Then went on to a rambling story about how Mr and Mrs Golden Eagle couldn’t have baby eagles because their eggs were infertile due to farmers’ blanket use of TNT sprays.

Miriam looking very puzzled, ‘I thought farmers couldn’t use TNT anymore.’

‘Oh no they can’t. This is Mr and Mrs Golden Eagle circa 1970.’

‘Oh,’ says Miriam, ‘so we’re not talking recent history?’

Going home I realised that in the past week alone I’d also told Miriam about Tilly’s ability to talk, about a duck and two ducklings Georgie stopped the car for last spring, that seagulls could be trained to lower their voices by the firm repetition of ‘That’s quite enough’, and my aunt’s Minah bird that swore. Aunt and Minah bird dead at least fifteen years.

March 24
^th

Miriam querying my badger story. Says she repeated story to naturalist family friend who’d said, ‘what was badger doing off beaten track?’

If badger’s ‘beaten track’ was now outside my kitchen window surely I would be woken every night from now on. Had I? Admitted I hadn’t. Put forward my own theory that badger had somehow fallen off ‘beaten track’ and into my garden by accident. ‘From a helicopter?’ Miriam quipped. And now I continued firmly, liberated badger had returned to wherever his ‘beaten track’ was and would be more careful in the future.

March 25
^th

Reported back to Mr Wheeler; one flat left empty with fan light window open in Crawford Road, one lost dog - black and white, answers to the name of Findlay, one estate agent’s board sited at a hazardous angle over the pavement.

‘Nothing else to report Margaret?  Are you keeping an eye on front garden dustbins for multiple empty bottles and lager cans?’

‘Yes Mr Wheeler. Saw none. ‘

‘Any leafleting needed re. the dog?’

‘Taken care of by owner.’

‘Should I get onto the estate agent?’

‘Done it’.’

‘Excellent Margaret. You’re proving an asset to the Watch. Now what about that open window? Perhaps give the police a bell - don’t want squatters moving in, do we?’

Agree that we don’t. Realised that I was standing to attention, hand positioned on breast as if I was carrying a musket.
Present arms, Margaret. Stand at ease.
Made my body relax, slumped shoulders.

I was in Mr Wheeler’s kitchen. It was old fashioned but clean and very tidy. On the dresser was a silver framed photograph of Mr Wheeler and his wife, possibly the same age as I am now. I looked away.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Better get on.’

Mr Wheeler ignored this and put a light under the kettle, ‘I’d like you to hang on for a moment. Just a quick word although I dare say it’s none of my business. Sit yourself down.’

Pulled out kitchen chair. Red plastic seat which reminded me of my childhood kitchen furniture only we’d had turquoise blue plastic seats. Hoped Mr Wheeler wasn’t going to give me a lecture on wasn’t it time I stopped this lesbian nonsense and became a pillar of the community? Watched him make tea in a pot with tea leaves. He let it brew. Put a chrome tea strainer and a sugar basin decorated with pink flowers on the table. Cups, saucers, teapot, milk jug, sugar basin - they all matched. Pretty and feminine. Reminders of his beloved wife.

‘Biscuit?’

‘Thank you.’

Custard creams.

Mr Wheeler pulled up the chair opposite and poured the tea.

‘Now I’m not one to interfere - or perhaps I am.’

He didn’t smile. First I shook my head then I nodded. He continued, ‘I’ve noticed your...pal, hasn’t been about recently.’

‘No.’

‘And you’ve been looking ruddy miserable.’

Said nothing to that.

‘Would I be right in thinking the two of you have had a falling out?’

I sighed deeply. How would Deirdre handle Mr Wheeler?
I don’t discuss my personal life with neighbours, Mr Wheeler. Could cause bad blood if there was reconciliation. Neighbours taking sides - Martin says that’s how wars are caused.

But I’m not Deirdre, I’m Margaret and I’ve grown to like Mr Wheeler which makes me interpret what could be nosiness for concern, so I say, ‘We’re having a trial separation till the end of April. Hopefully after that we’ll get back to normal.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘And what if you don’t?’

‘I
will
be ruddy miserable.’

‘Can I give you some advice?’

‘As long as you don’t mind if I don’t take it.’

‘Fair enough.’ He stood up and walked over to the dresser, picked up the photograph. ‘My wife didn’t die, you know. Everybody in this road thought she did because that’s what I told them. We kept ourselves to ourselves pretty much so nobody expected to go to funerals and anyway people have their own lives to live. Actually she left me. Is still alive. Lives in Doncaster with a chap called Trevor. My son says he’s not a bad bloke. What I wanted to tell you was that I wasted years hoping she’d come back. Years.’ He looked at me, a deep frown on his face as if he was trying not to get upset. ‘Even now, if she walked through the front door I’d be so darn pleased, but the waiting hasn’t been worth the candle.’

‘But Mr Wheeler, Georgie’s only been gone a few weeks - I couldn’t just start re-arranging my life - if she doesn’t come back I’d be devastated for a very long time if not forever.’

I gulped hot tea, my eyelids blinking rapidly. He put the frame down and came back to the table.

‘Of course you’d be devastated. What I’m saying is don’t let whatever happens, good, bad, or tragic flatten you. Flatten
you
Margaret. The stuff inside that makes
you
tick! You have to consider yourself because nobody else will. Take it or leave it. I hope your Georgie does come back and you both live happily ever after.’

He looked as if he might say something more but he didn’t.

Finished my tea, admired the African violets on his windowsill all the while thinking, Mr Wheeler’s got a bloody cheek, who does he think he is, but not really annoyed. I recognised a gem of truth in what he’d said. I thought of that awful word Georgie had used, ‘whimper’. I didn’t want to be a Margaret always desperate for her approval.

On the doorstep he held out his hand and I shook it. Went home.

March 26
^th

This afternoon Deirdre arrives while I’m in the middle of planting up my seed trays. For meadow project am propagating sweet peas, foxgloves, cornflowers, stocks and antirrhinums. Deirdre settles herself on my carrier bag of recycled egg cartons but doesn’t seem to notice.

‘I’d make the tea myself but I’m knackered,’ she says.

‘Why’s that?’ I ask, absorbed in scattering minute antirrhinum seeds over moist compost.

‘My garden of course. The jewel in my crown. Been on my feet all morning organizing Janice.’

‘Janice?’

‘The gardener. Can’t make up my mind whether I like her or not. She asked me not to call her ‘pet’. Didn’t ask pleasantly mind you, asked with attitude. Sullen. Yes, sullen sums her up. Garden looks fantastic though. Fan-bloody-tastic! I just wish I had the time to enjoy it but I’m up in London early evening. That’s why I’m dressed like this.’

‘Oh.’ Study Deirdre’s outfit. She’s wearing a grey pashmina over a green tweed trouser suit, a purple velour hat, the brim pinned to the crown by a splendid dirk brooch of silver and amethyst.

‘I think I look very Liberty's crossed with Harvey Nichols? What do you think?’

‘You look splendid and very rich.’

She beamed and rubbed her hands together, ‘Good. Rich, that’s how I want to look - I’m doing dinner with a connection who’s gi-normous in food labelling. Are you going to make that tea or am I going to die of thirst?’

Put kettle on. Rummage for Deirdre’s Earl Grey tea, my peppermint tea.

‘No milk,’ she shouts, ‘I’m avoiding dairy. Got cake?’

‘Can you eat cake on Atkins?’

‘I’m off Atkins for the day; I’ll do double Atkins tomorrow.’

We drink tea. Deirdre scrutinizes my seed trays and says, ‘Is all this fuss really necessary?’ She waves her hand at the trays, plastic pots, small sack of peat free compost, packets of seeds, roll of kitchen foil, milk bottle full of water and atomizer. ‘Surely it’s easier to buy full grown? You can’t turn round for trays of annuals in every single shop. Even the pub on the corner’s got a plant stand outside.’

‘I like growing from seed.’

‘Well if you’ve got time on your hands...’

I change the subject, bringing it back to her, ‘So, the Atkins Diet is a movable feast at the moment?’

‘Sort of. I absolutely agree with Martin that Atkins is a diet for life only neither of us can resist white bread and chips. So weekdays (apart from today) it’s Atkins, weekends its Atkins plus bread and chips.’