Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (9 page)

‘Have you lost any weight?’

‘Gained two pounds,’ she mumbles.

‘How many?’

‘Gained four pounds - but can lose that almost over night if I’m really stringent. Extraordinary but I feel that I know Atkins very well. Almost as if he’s the butler, no as if he’s our dietician and close personal friend.’

‘Like Dyson?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Any particular reason for today’s visit?’ I cut open my packet of cornflower seeds.

‘Yes. I’m having a grand open garden soirée next Sunday, weather permitting. One till three. Janice will be there so it’s not like you’ll be on your own as far as the ‘L’ word goes.’

‘What makes you think she’s a lesbian?’

Deirdre flinches. She does not like to call a spade a spade or even a lesbian a lesbian.

‘I heard her talking to the two women who helped her. And there was horsing around and bodily contact. Straight women don’t behave like that with each other. So you’ll come?’

‘Sounds good,’ I say, heart sinking.

March 29
^th

Miriam subdued. Feel I should offer to visit her and her mother again but think at the moment I would rather walk under a bus. Compromise with myself by asking how her love life is, any news from the Hospice Shop?

She shakes her head sadly, ‘Not a sniff. Not a dicky bird. All the young lesbians have gone to ground including my lone admirer. We do get a few in around my age but I find women my age so depressing. They ask for things like well worn in, wide fitting shoes to accommodate their bunions. How gross is that?’

I agree that is pretty gross but say, ‘Surely some of them are presentable. After all you did say you’d settle for ordinary?’

Scathingly as if I am an infant, she says, ‘Margaret, there’s ordinary and ordinary. I’m desperate but not that desperate.’

Leave work. Sun shining. Suddenly decide to take old route home past the Hospice Shop. I will at least cheer Miriam up. Hospice Shop heaving. Good weather has brought everyone out in search of spring outfits. Fight for right to riffle through size fourteens. Finally seize a scarlet jacket and on the trouser carousel find a pair of smart black trousers, the original swing ticket hanging from the label. Push my way through scrum to reach Mrs Ferguson manning the till. She stares hard at me before saying, ‘That will be four pounds fifty.’

Give her a fiver and as she hands me my change she says, ‘We haven’t seen you in lately.’

‘Mother’s been poorly,’ I lie. Mother has been dead nearly five years and wouldn’t have minded, her motto being, If
you’re going to tell a lie tell an elaborate one
. ‘Can’t desert mum now she’s on her last legs.’

‘Oh dear, is she very bad?’

‘Afraid so. A matter of waiting.’

‘How old is the poor woman?’

Judged Mrs Ferguson to be in her eighties - wouldn’t like her to think she’s close in age to fictional dying mother so say, ‘Ninety-seven.’

‘That’s a very good age! You must have been a late baby?’

‘I was a very late baby. The only child with a white-haired mum. Didn’t matter to me. Loved every white hair on her head,’ stopped myself from adding, ‘and eyebrows.’

Felt ridiculously cheerful. As I opened the door I called out, ‘And do say hello to my pepper and salt woman. What’s her name?’

‘Miriam. You wouldn’t like to leave a telephone number? I think Miriam would like a word. I can heartily recommend Miriam as an excellent co-worker and I believe she has a warm and faithful heart.’

‘If you don’t mind I won’t at the present time. There’s a long haul ahead of me with Mum but do tell Miriam that I often recall her cheery face.’

Thinks: that should raise Miriam’s spirits for a while without offering any immediate expectations. Left jacket and trousers in dry cleaners, continued onwards till I came to the seafront. Walked as far as pier where I bought six scented candles and a set of sea shell wind chimes. Walked back. Took funicular up cliff to Bittlesea Bay Cafe.

Greeted warmly by waitress, ‘What you again?’

Took slab of fruit cake out onto terrace. Sat on metal chair with feet resting on railing. Sea almost blue. Sun almost warm. Me almost ok.

April

April 1
^st

This afternoon meet elderly woman in street who tells me to keep up the good work and where is my bucket? Reply that I don’t have a bucket. She hands me a pound coin and asks, ‘Do I get a sticker?’

Realise she’s taken in my Wheeler’s Watch sash and assumed I’m collecting for charity. Explain who and what I am and try to return her pound.

She shakes her head and says, ‘Get yourself a cup of tea, you look perished.’

I am perished. From my front window I mistook brilliant sunshine for a summer’s day of at least sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit, whatever that might be in centigrade.

Decide to head for the supermarket cafe for my cup of tea and as I hurry along spend time counting in my head all the various cafes and tea shops at my disposal: supermarket, Bittlesea Bay Clifftop, Corner Coffee, Debenham’s (magnificent sea view but disinterested staff), British Home Stores, Marks and Spencer, Littlewoods, various Italian restaurants... lose count. As I cross the supermarket car park, I recognise Nic and Simone pushing two full trolleys towards me. At the same moment they recognise me. Simone’s trolley attempts to veer off between two closely parked cars, while Nic’s trolley hesitates.

‘Stop!’ I command, the authority of my voice surprising them and me. They stop as do several other shoppers with and without trolleys. Nic and Simone exchange urgent looks with each other which I know so well. That mutual telepathy running between the long term couple enabling them to arrive at an official line on an embarrassing situation without actual words being exchanged. Once upon a time Georgie and I had it.

I beam at them. A mega-sized reassuring beam. In return they send me relieved, self conscious grins. I hurry up to them and lean across their piled high trolleys to kiss their cheeks.

‘How lovely to see you both.’ And it is lovely. I’m genuinely pleased to see them and in pain too, because they are familiar and linked to Georgie. I know I must not show them how upset I am, how hurt and frightened. I must put them at ease, as I can do so well, with warm and self deprecating humour. I draw inspiration from their shopping, two sacks of peat, trays of petunias, lobelia, alyssum, geraniums, four wicker hanging baskets already planted up, a box of Miracle-Gro.

I manage a boisterous, ‘Aha, gardener par excellence! Forging ahead of the competition! All systems go!’

They both nod. Simone wheels her trolley back into tandem and looks fondly at Nic, ‘She’s done amazing things in that garden. I mean it’s only April the first and already it’s a blaze of colour. We’ve got red, yellow, blue and pink. Every shade of pink I could ask for.’

‘That’s terrific.’

Nic shrugs, ‘Just daffs and tulips. Early days. How about you?’

‘Deirdre’s gardener is going to help me dig up the back and turn it into a meadow.’

They both look perplexed.

‘Wildflowers. Bird, bee and insect habitat,’ I explain.

It slips out of Nic’s mouth, ‘Whatever does Georgie think?’ Her cheeks turn scarlet. ‘Oh, I’m sorry’, she says.

‘That’s okay. Haven’t had a chance to tell Georgie my plans. We’ll talk when she comes home at the end of the month.’

‘Of course you will,’ Simone says. ‘We intended to pop in but what with Nic’s competition and our holiday in Tenerife the days have just rushed by.’

‘No problem. I’ve been pretty busy myself, catching up with friends and family.’

‘I think you’re being very brave.’ Simone squeezes my arm and fixes me with her most sincere gaze.

‘Am I?’

‘Georgie wants her head examined.’

I try a laugh, not much more than a ‘ha-ha’ but good natured rather than embittered. ‘Georgie is her own woman. I’m not holding anyone to me by force. I’m sure we’ll work out a solution and in the meantime I’ve got to get on with my life.’

‘Good for you,’ says Nic. ‘Look we’ll definitely telephone. I want your advice about the back bed - it’s got to have ‘in-your-face-drama’ and you’ve an eye for the right specimen plant.’

They agree I must come over. I agree with them - I must come over. All sorts of phrases fill my head and almost spill out:
Don’t worry about me, I’m not a pining woman. Where is Georgie?
Nor jealous
. Will she come back? Absolutely fine on my own, so much more the real me. Have you spoken to her? Why is she doing this? What did I do wrong?

Say goodbyes. I saunter away from them and into the supermarket toilet where I study myself in the chipped mirror. Inside I feel as if I’m teetering on a cliff edge, convinced I’m about to crash onto the rocks below. I decide not to bother with cups of tea, instead I’ll do my shopping for the weekend. Use the pound coin to get a trolley. Another image intrudes. There is Georgie and there am I, the one pushing the trolley into this very supermarket. Georgie says, ‘Margaret, you and the trolley wait here in the dairy section while I scoot round and get what we need.’

Off Georgie scoots leaving me with the responsibility of the trolley and the limited vista of milk, cheese and spreads, or yoghurt, cream, crème fraîche.

I am in turmoil.

April 2
^nd

Miriam complaining about her mother again. Says mother has trouble recalling long words which is especially irritating as mother is an anagram fanatic. Miriam feels unhealthy interest in anagrams has lead to this problem in the first place. Mother calls out, ‘I see three syllables. I see an
m
and the vowels
a
and
u
. Complete word sounds like “mubala”.’

Mother spends a vocal entire evening trying to work out alternative for ‘mubala’. Just before going off to bed she shouts, ‘I’ve got it. Laundromat.’

Miriam remonstrates, ‘Laundromat sounds nothing like “mubala”.’

‘Three syllables, an
m, a
and a
u
. Laundromat - mubala. Very similar.’

April 3
^rd

Because tomorrow is Deirdre’s soiree I decide to visit my local hairdresser; Hair Today, Shorn Tomorrow. Michelle does my hair. She is half my age and has no interest in me whatsoever never asking me what I might be doing at the weekend as she assumes that women over forty do nothing. Same applies re. holidays. In fact she hardly even takes an interest in my hair, able to cut it quite well while keeping an eye out for anyone she knows going past the shop window. Sometimes she’ll remember I’m there and say ‘Okay?’ to a section of the mirror about a foot above my head and I’ll reply ‘Fine’ with a conciliatory raising of my eyebrows.

Today I take my seat in my usual ripped black leatherette chair adjacent to the magazine rack. Michelle approaches, wearing an expression of resigned boredom. We both stare at my reflection. Dispiritedly she pulls a strand of hair each side of my face down as far as it will go and says, ‘Same as usual?’ She changes her chewing gum from left side of her mouth to right.

‘I’d like a feathery trim plus white blonde and aubergine highlights.’

Michelle looks puzzled. ‘Aubergine?’ she repeats.

‘Red. Dark red. And white blonde.’

‘What about another copper tint?’

‘No thank you.’

She steps back. Fills her cheeks with air and gently puffs it out before saying, ‘I really don’t think your face can take it.’

Which against my will makes me laugh. ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ I say.

Two and a half hours later and I’m done. Michelle has given me her full attention throughout. I look ...extraordinary. I don’t look like Margaret anymore. Although Michelle has been rendered speechless I can tell she’s impressed because she’s looking at me with something approaching interest.

‘Going anywhere nice?’ she finally asks me.

‘A soiree.’

‘With your boyfriend?’

‘Definitely not.’

In the evening Laura rings to say that she and Iris have booked a walking weekend for the end of April. She’s bought walking boots, a special stick and an inflatable tent.

‘But you don’t like walking,’ I remonstrate. ‘You’ve always said, if it’s not within fifty yards of a parking space it’s not worth seeing.’

Laura is silent for a moment then she says as if after deep consideration that she thinks I may have misunderstood her completely throughout our twenty-five year friendship. ‘I’ve never fought shy of walking,’ she says.

‘That’s a very strange phrase; you’ve never fought shy of walking. What does it mean?’

‘What it says. I’ve never fought shy of walking, you’ve just never been around...’

‘While you were not fighting your non-existent shyness of walking?’

‘Exactly. And anyway, if I’m capable of dancing for two hours non-stop I can certainly do walking. What have you been up to today?’

‘I’ve had my hair dyed white blonde and aubergine.’

‘Sounds like a raspberry ripple.’

‘It looks nothing like a raspberry ripple. What colour is Iris’s hair?’

‘It feels like silk.’

‘Yes, but what colour is it?’

‘Muddy brown.’

April 4
^th

Dress with care for Deirdre’s soiree. Wear olive green combat trousers, black cotton shirt with a Nehru collar which I leave unbuttoned. In fact I leave several buttons unbuttoned. Consider pinning back one side of the Nehru collar with a cameo brooch my aunt left me but decide there’s no point in a Nehru collar if I make it into half a revere. Deirdre telephones while I’m getting ready to say, did I know it had rained earlier and if I didn’t know, she was letting me know so that I could bring a pair of slippers because, as we’d all be walking round her garden, she didn’t want the lounge carpet ruined by muddy shoes. (Not that there is any mud in Deirdre’s garden.) She’d already rung a number of guests and had sent Martin out to
Shoe Fayre
to stock up on cheap fluffy slippers for those guests uncontactable.