Diary of a Provincial Lesbian

by V. G. Lee

  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 20th

  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.

  ‘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 22nd

  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 23rd

  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 24th

  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 25th

  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.