by V. G. Lee
Also I’ve bought her a white shirt from Thomas Pink; slightly fitted styling. Next month, March 20th, first day of spring, is our anniversary. I visualize Georgie wearing a pair of black, high waisted, flamenco style trousers and this shirt. Collar open, sleeves turned back from her wrists. ‘Ho-lay!’
Think back to our first ever meeting, Georgie on one bench me on another, Brighton seafront, March 20th 1994. I’d said, ‘Do you think that seagull’s in difficulty?’ and she’d answered, ‘It’s not a seagull it’s a paper bag,’ and we’d both started laughing. At that time Georgie lived in Brighton, I was there on a week’s holiday getting over the break-up of a four week relationship. Georgie was with someone but that was almost over although it took her nearly a year to get completely disentangled and move in with me. She has a heart as soft as butter.
Later in the morning took my card and CD in to show Deirdre. Deirdre very sniffy about the CD.
‘Not my type of music,’ she said.
Did not say, ‘Deirdre, what is your type of music?’ Instead asked cheerfully after Martin’s Valentine gift.
‘We don’t bother. It’s not our scene. It’s all commercial, mass produced sentimentality,’ Deirdre said disparagingly. ‘We bought Lord Dudley a card though, and a new velvet collar, some expensive cat treats and a Percy Pig cuddly toy to keep him company in his basket at night. We love Lord Dudley.’
‘I know you do,’ I said as Lord Dudley entered on cue looking every inch the handsomest cat in the street, the blue of his new collar setting off the bright yellow-green of his eyes.
Very sunny in the afternoon. Almost like spring. Noticed first green points of the daffodil leaves poking through the mud. Deirdre and I walked along the seafront, then ventured onto the pebble beach. Sat on Marks & Spencer carrier bags brought for that very purpose and studied the sea.
Deirdre said, ‘Can we see France from here?’
I said, ‘I certainly can’t. Without my glasses on I can hardly see you.’
‘I think I can see France.’
‘I don’t think you can. On the map we’re round a corner, so that a bit of land blocks our vision of France.’
‘Maps are often wrong. They were drawn by humans and humans are fallible.’
Couldn’t argue with that. Very mellow. Georgie back tomorrow. Planning a dinner of Chicken a L’Orange, roast and boiled spuds, beans and cauliflower cheese.
Feb 17th
Well no I couldn’t say ‘no’ to Mr Wheeler, neighbour and Neighbourhood Watch representative. Actually not actually neighbourhood watch, it is Mr Wheeler’s own invention Wheeler’s Watch. There are two other watchers; Mrs Mugsby and Mrs Ballantyne. Mr Wheeler says they’re a pair of nosey parkers so he’s putting their nosey parkerness to good use. Wonder how he’s classified me?
I hadn’t seen Mr Wheeler for some weeks. Usually whenever I’m out in our garden, he is out in his, always with an eloquent supply of advice on what I should do about our fencing, our brick path, our drain covers. There was no Mrs Wheeler. She’d died before we’d come to live next door. Deirdre who’s lived in her house for fifteen years says that in those days Mr Wheeler wasn’t so interfering, in fact when she’d seen them out together it had made her feel quite ‘gooey’ as they’d seemed genuinely fond of each other.
‘Not that any of us know what goes on behind closed doors,’ she’d added cryptically.
Georgie retired to her office at five to five telling me I was on my own and the best of British, Mr Wheeler climbed up our steps at 5pm. sharp.
It was a cold day so I asked him in. He agreed to stand on the front door mat and no further. Glanced suspiciously at the pictures on our hall wall as if they might contain scenes of an erotic lesbian nature.
‘How are you Mr Wheeler, I haven’t seen you in weeks. Been away?’
I waited with my head on one side and an encouraging smile.
‘As a matter of fact I’ve been the victim of a hit and run incident.’
‘That’s dreadful.’
‘Yes. I came out of the supermarket, was carrying my bags to the car when I was knocked over. A silver Toyota shot out of a parking space and hit me.’
‘And they didn’t stop?’
‘They stopped just long enough to gather up my bags of shopping. That’s what they were after - all my stuff for the weekend including a turkey and a shoulder of lamb.’
‘They must have been very hungry to attempt something so drastic.’
‘I can see I’ve got a woolly headed liberal in you - there is no such thing as a hungry Toyota driver. You get hungry, you sell the car, you become a cab driver, you don’t run over pensioners.’
‘Of course not. Disgraceful. Incomprehensible.’
Mr Wheeler shook his leaflets at me, ‘Nothing incomprehensible about unmitigated wickedness. There you go again making excuses when I’m the poor bugger who’s been used and abused. Who’s making excuses for me?’
Insisted that I quite understood, that I should have stopped at disgraceful, and what did he want me to do because nothing was too arduous if it meant such hooliganism, sorry unmitigated wickedness, could be stamped out.
He handed me one of his pieces of paper, ‘This is a map of your area. Two hours an afternoon, twice a week - just keep walking and watching. Not too much to ask of an able bodied person, is it?’
I agreed that it wasn’t. Saw Mr Wheeler back down our steps. Suddenly had a thought and called out, ‘Have you asked Deirdre at number forty-two? She’s very able bodied.’
‘She refused. Said if anyone tried it on with her, she’d knock them into the middle of next week.’ For the first time a small admiring smile crossed Mr Wheeler’s face.
Feb 20th
Miriam reports that she is certainly meeting women but no one whom she’s really clicked with as yet. Says she is trying to perfect a light, slightly flirtatious note. Blushes and corrects herself, is trying to perfect more the possibility of her tone becoming flirtatious should an opportunity arise. Unfortunately has been gently reprimanded by Mrs Ferguson, the manageress, for being over zealous with the younger women customers.
‘Let them fend for themselves. Don’t hover. They don’t want us old ladies fussing over them.’
Miriam privately most offended as Mrs Ferguson must be twenty years older than herself which she knows shouldn’t be an issue, because aren’t we all women and why should she expect a woman twenty years her junior to look at her, Miriam, when she’s dismissing Mrs Ferguson, who admittedly is happily married and wouldn’t be interested in Miriam anyway? Also Mrs Ferguson has advised her against smiling at the customers, and also to keep chit-chat to a minimum.
Went in myself this afternoon on the way home from work to buy a Denbyware plate I’d seen in the window. Also a chrome tray. Also a picture of swans in flight. Also a leather waistcoat that might suit Laura if she lost two stone. Knew Mrs Ferguson by sight from my frequent visits to the Hospice Shop so made straight for her with proposed purchases.
She said, ‘Swan pictures are so uplifting even when the swans are indistinct,’ and I agreed.
Said, ‘You’re right; you can’t have too many swan pictures or trays either. Trays have so many uses.’
Mrs Ferguson had nothing to say regarding trays. Decided not to elaborate. As she wrapped the plate, first in newspaper, then in a very old and creased Safeway’s carrier bag I said, ‘Is the lady with the pepper and salt coloured hair in today?’ knowing full well that I’d left Miriam back at the office up to her elbows in the filing cabinet drawer.
‘She only works here in the mornings,’ Mrs Ferguson replied.
‘What a pity. Lovely woman. Invariably knows what suits me. Worth her weight in gold.’
Feb 21st
Deirdre asks me to pop in and witness Martin, the boy genius who’s been on a wine tasting afternoon. Martin lies on the settee wearing his dressing gown by way of a smoking jacket, a crystal glass of red wine resting perilously on his stomach.
‘The c
hap running the course says Martin has the nose,’ enthuses Deirdre.
‘I have the nose,’ Martin echoes twitching his nostrils. He raises his head, raises his glass to the nose, ‘Ah the aroma of fresh raspberries with the underlying tang of summer in Provence.’
‘What are you drinking?’ I ask.
‘Diet Coke. I’ve had a bucketful of vin extraordinaire. The nose and the gut need time to recoup.’
Feb 23rd
Monday, 1pm. Miriam arrives in the office in a state of wild excitement. Apparently on Friday a woman went into the Hospice Shop, bought a plate and then asked after her. Referred to her as a lovely woman and said that she, Miriam, was worth her weight in gold.
Miriam ebullient. ‘What do you think? Have I hit pay dirt at last?’
Privately find this a rather offensive phrase but in no position to criticize Miriam. Reply weakly, ‘Whether you have or haven’t, it’s very positive news.’
‘Mrs Ferguson said the woman comes in the shop almost every week and she’s spotted her peering in the window countless times. The next time she sees her, if I’m there she’ll point her out to me.’
‘What did Mrs Ferguson say the woman looked like?’
‘Quite ordinary but so what? I’m not looking for Marilyn Monroe?’
I realise that from now on I’ll have to take a completely different route back and forth from work and that for ever more the Hospice Shop is barred to me. Miriam continues burbling on, ‘I think I’m in love. I’m so happy. This is the best day of my life.’
‘But you don’t even know the woman.’
‘I feel as if I do. She’s ordinary. I love ordinary. I’m not going to tell mum, not until we’re going out. Don’t you say anything, although I don’t mind if you mention it to your close friends but I don’t want this getting out on the Bittlesea lesbian grapevine...’
Return home by new and dismal route. With sinking heart I remember that this is my first Wheeler’s Watch afternoon. Droop indoors. House very quiet. Cats all asleep by individual central heating radiators. Note from Georgie to say she’ll be back around nine but not to bother about food as she’s eating with a client. Go upstairs. Put on my Wheeler’s Watch sash over my winter coat and pin my Wheeler’s Watch badge to the lapel. Also belt on my small, standard issue, waist satchel containing a torch (even though it’s broad daylight), a whistle, note book, pen. NB. Must acknowledge that Mr Wheeler has put a lot of time and energy into this scheme, although I believe Mrs Mugsby, his Number Two, performed the needlework. Feel extremely bulky. Outside it’s started to rain but Mr Wheeler has told me on the telephone the night before that rain must not be used as an excuse for failing in my civic duty. Find unflattering hat. Leave house comparing Georgie’s jet setting life of Scottish jaunts and dinner with clients to mine.
See Mr Wheeler standing in his bay window. He nods to me in stern approval as if he’s my commanding officer and I’m a raw recruit, which of course I am.
Go over in my head the Wheeler’s Watch instructions. I’m to look out for people and vehicles behaving suspiciously, for excessive smoke issuing from buildings, screams, raised voices, dogs barking, cats and babies crying. Also have been told to make myself conspicuous, as my very presence marching up and down the roads of my watch, will act as a deterrent.
See nothing and nobody. Everybody is indoors waiting for the rain to stop. There is just me. However do begin to enjoy myself in a strange way. Quite pleasant to have a bona fide reason for staring into the front windows and gardens of complete strangers. Peering into their cars. Flashing my torch unnecessarily into alleyways.
Finally meet an old neighbour from when I was single and lived two roads away from where I live now, name of Sylvia Preston. Elderly widow. Good cake maker. She asks me in for tea and good cake. Drapes my coat over a clothes horse in front of her roaring fire. Sits me down in an armchair on one side of the hearth, sits herself down on the other side. She tells me that my old house has gone to rack and ruin. There have been a succession of owners, each worse than the last. The present incumbents are strangers to soap and water and play their music morning, noon and night. They are worth keeping an eye on.
She then takes me on a tour of her house showing off the many improvements her son-in-law has made, but of course she says, he has his eye on the main chance, i.e. her early demise because her heart’s not the heart of a twenty-year-old.
I finally leave, promising to look in again. Bump into a soaking wet Mr Wheeler who has been secretly trailing me. Accusingly he says, ‘You’ve been in that house for twenty-seven minutes.’
‘She was furnishing me with insider information,’ I say and his eyes widen in disbelief.
Feb 24th
Many responses to my letter re. successful public lavatories. Mrs Adele Fisher writes: Personally I find the presence of a suitable man in the ladies’ toilet reassuring. I feel no embarrassment at the offer of a toilet roll from the male sex, only gratitude.
Letter from Mr E.Stanley saying that male lavatory attendants in female lavatories were due to the council’s lunatic, politically correct, everyone’s the same, policy and that he would personally ensure that Mrs Stanley no longer used the Bittlesea Bay facilities. Email from someone called Grey Beagle to say, Hey babe, the guy has to make a living. Cut him a little slack! Email from Suzie B saying, Saucy so-and-so. Is lavatory attendant up for grabs? Which particular toilet can I find him in?
Finally letter from a Martin J. Storm complaining that such a trivial letter had been printed in the first place. The man is employed by the council. He is not an ogre. It’s a ‘public’ lavatory not the Savoy. How often does A. Oakley use this facility or is she just one of the band of trouble making, nitpicking females that bedevil this town?
Note from the Editor to say that this line of correspondence had gone far enough.
Feb 25th
No time to discuss progress in Miriam’s love life at lunchtime as Georgie and I were driving up to London to have: first, drinks at the Glass Bar at Euston Station; then, dinner with her parents at a restaurant in Islington.
I’d never been to the Glass Bar before although Georgie is a regular being in London more often, meeting up with work connections. Was amazed and charmed. Resembled Doctor Who’s tardis - tiny on the outside, spacious within - enough room for several settees, armchairs, coffee tables and masses of women. Would have liked to go over the room with a tape measure and then compared inside measurement with outside measurement. Said as much to Georgie.
Georgie immediately welcomed as if she’s an old and dear friend of everybody. I stood behind her, my smile about level with her shoulder. Suddenly felt I had a deeper understanding of what HRH Prince Philip might have gone through. Obviously many of his ill-judged remarks were a form of attention seeking.
‘This is Margaret,’ Georgie finally remembered me. ‘Margaret, meet Rosemary, Sandra, Abi, Chris, Tanya, Lizzie, Jo Anne... ’
‘Nello,' I said. Damn! Made ready to recount amusing story of Tilly’s extraordinary vocabulary but nobody had noticed, although fleeting frown flew across beloved’s brow.
As always when I came into London with Georgie to meet her friends I regretted my choice of clothes. Suddenly my charity shop refurbishments looked exactly that. My wide, flapping trousers which I’d seen as boho-chic looked ridiculous, everyone else wore boot leg jeans, the collar of my shirt was unfashionably huge and there wasn’t a patterned shirt in the room never mind a pattern of gaily wrapped toffees. How did I invariably get everything so wrong?
‘Hi, what do you do?’ I asked Lizzie or maybe Sandra.
‘I’m a choreographer - modern ballet and jazz dance.’
Swallowed ‘Crikey’ and ‘Well I never’, said instead, ‘So how do you know Georgie?’
‘She designed the lighting for our company’s last production: Women on Women want Women on Women. Georgie’s brilliant! How do you know her?’
‘I’m her partner. We’ve been together nearly ten years. Anni
versary next month.’
‘Great,’ she said, making ‘great’ sound somehow like ‘dreary’. ‘Better get a drink. You’re ok, aren’t you?’ She nodded towards my almost empty glass.
‘Yes. Fine. This is more than a sufficiency.’ I kicked myself in the leg, hard.
Sandra or Lizzie disappeared into crowd around the bar. Could see Georgie at the crowd’s centre. I sighed. Drooped. Slumped. Suddenly my glass was whisked out of my hand and replaced with a full one.
I stared into a rather sombre face. Tanned but not like Georgie’s tanning booth tan. Tanned like someone gets when they work outdoors. The woman must have been at least ten years my junior. She was my height; brown hair cut short, steady brown eyes. Nothing really distinctive about her and yet the thought sped across my mind that she was quite unique. Not in an immediate physical attraction way, just an observation, a first impression. And I knew absolutely that this first impression was true.
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I’m Margaret.’
‘I know. I heard someone introduce you. I’m - ’ but she got no further, another woman grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her across the room. ‘Bye,’ she called out. ‘Take care.’
Which was nice. Which for a little while transformed the evening.
Met up with Georgie’s parents. Georgie adores them. I’d adore them if they’d adore me. They quite like me but ideally they want a much grander partner for their only daughter. I don’t mind. Or I didn’t mind. My happiness held right up till we left the restaurant. We stood on the pavement saying our goodbyes, buttoning up coats, kissing cheeks.
The parents looked fondly at me as if I was at least an endearing puppy. One with high spirits and boundless, bounding good nature. I didn’t mind that either.