by V. G. Lee
Miriam leaves me on the step and goes back to her desk where I hear her unwrapping another piece of Nicorette chewing gum.
Also a smoking ban in place at Corner Coffee Shop. Martin has been under siege. For several days Coffee Shop staff made allowance for him to continue smoking unobtrusively, keeping his cigarette concealed beneath the table top. Manageress arrives back from skiing holiday and says regretfully this can’t go on. Concealed cigarette is an increased fire hazard. It’s on the cards (what cards?) that either the table top will ignite or Martin’s trousers will.
Deirdre told me that Martin was ‘incandescent’. He’d penned a letter to the Listening Ear, copies to a government health minister whose name has gone completely out of her head. Talks of taking this issue to the highest court in the land.
Expect fuss to die down shortly but then see Martin’s polemic in the newspaper, headline: Small town - small minds, and outlined in red to denote fury of writer. Realise Deirdre’s Martin is Martin J. Storm of the ladies’ toilets correspondence. This inspires me to post off an immediate response, my headline, Victory for Planet Clean Air! As always sign myself A. Oakley but on a whim add Fire and Pollution Prevention Officer.
In meantime spot Martin standing in seedy outside niche between Smiths and the Corner Coffee Shop, puffing his cigarette and looking bitter.
April 24th
The Bittlesea Bay Cafe is packed with tourists all bearing bulging rucksacks. Deirdre wants them banned. (The rucksacks not the tourists, although she’s not too keen on them either). She says individual rucksacks take up as much space as a child or a small adult. Do not point out that Deirdre with her flowing scarves, various draperies, handbag, key purse and huge sheaf of hair takes up as much space as three medium sized adults. NB. Do not spend all my life shuttling between cafés although on re-reading previous entries it seems I do.
‘He’s coping...I think,’ she says, responding to my inquiry about Martin’s smoking ban. ‘However more to the point I’m worried about Lord Dudley.’ She looks worriedly towards the sea.
‘Why?’
‘I think he’s got ear mites.’
‘Not a big problem - better take him to the vet.’
‘Yes, but say I take him to the vet and the vet finds cancer or diabetes - I’m in to the tune of minimum, three hundred pounds and a lot of heartache - then at the end of all that Lord Dudley still dies.’ Her pink lipsticked lower lip trembles, blue eyes fill with tears.
‘We’re only talking ear mites Deirdre.’
‘Could be cancer of the ear.’
‘Is he off his food?’
‘No way.’
‘Has he stopped sitting in his box lid?’
She smiles maternally, ‘Bless him, he loves that box lid.’
‘Then if it’s anything, it’s ear mites.’
‘He’s had such a hard life, poor lamb.’
‘Rubbish,’ I say brusquely. Lord Dudley is nothing like a lamb. He’s a spoilt fluffy cat with one or two winning ways, including using Martin and Deirdre’s white leather sofas as scratching posts. Deirdre has taped sheets of cardboard around the corners of each sofa so that now they look as if they’re still in the process of being unpacked.
‘You’ve changed,’ she says reproachfully. ‘Once upon a time you’d have been as worried as I am about Lord Dudley.’
‘Deirdre, how would you be feeling if Martin left you for two months?’
‘Relieved. No really, I’d make the most of my time alone. Put a positive slant on the situation. Tell myself, ‘hey dude, time waits for no man’. Woman in your case. Tell me,’ she hunches forward across the table and lowers her voice. ‘Why don’t your lot take more care of themselves? I’m talking cosmetically here. I’ve read about ‘lipstick lesbians’ but I never see any.’
‘You probably do see them but they look just, well almost the same as you.’
Deirdre sits back in her chair, appalled. ‘I hope not. No offence but I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a lipstick lezzer. You know, certain things go with that territory and I’m not in the market for suck it and see.’
She waves her hands as if drying nail polish. As always find it difficult to be offended by Deirdre being offensive. An almost biblical phrase pops into my head; she knows not what she says.
‘Can we leave this discussion for another time, Deirdre?’
‘Whatever. Only throwing ideas up in the air, crunching the numbers, moving the goal posts. Keep your wig on.’
Have to laugh - or I’d cry.
April 25th
Antirrhinums are all up and jostling each other. Ditto cornflowers and foxgloves, although these are straggly. Have twenty-two tomato plants, at least as many courgettes, and my sunflowers are a foot high and beginning to block out the light from the bathroom window. Oh yes, sweetcorn also going great guns. Only fear is that I’ve planted everything at least a month too early. Janice said, ‘Pity you don’t have a greenhouse but then where would you put it?’ Told her ‘Non-supportive remarks don’t help!’
However as I trawl round Woolworth’s I spot the very last plastic mini-greenhouse in the store. Trudge home up hill as the funicular railway (my usual route back from Woolworth's) is not working because staff are having a training day behind locked doors. This happens at least once a month. Laughter and the clink of glasses can be heard as I stagger past carrying greenhouse.
Set it up and manage to fit tomatoes and sweetcorn inside. Wrestle paste table from shed and put that in spare room. Clear all my windowsills of seedlings so house looks half respectable in preparation for Georgie’s longed-for return at end of month. Still no word, she always leaves things to the last minute.
Spare room now looks a green and rather intimidating place to enter. Will have to enter it though as it also houses Tilly’s litter tray.
Laura rang from somewhere in the Cotswolds, ‘Iris recommends a covered litter tray.’
‘Does she?’
‘She reckons they’re more hygienic.’
‘Are they?’
‘You can get special liners for them.’
‘Can you?’
‘You’re a bit anti-Iris aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m anti-Iris’s recommendations. How’s the walking?’
‘Great!’ In the background I can hear Bonnie Tyler singing.
‘Where are you?’
‘Pub, look got to go. Iris alert.’
Nic telephones to confirm a date in May for afternoon tea. I tell her about my plastic mini-greenhouse. She tells me about her large glass greenhouse. Apparently, already she has produced a courgette the size of her thumb and she’s watching it with interest.
I ask her what else she’s growing.
‘The works,’ she replies.
She tells me a tale of how, years ago, about three girlfriends before she met Simone, she went out with a woman called Stevie. They shared an allotment. When they split up, Stevie got custody of the allotment and Nic was almost more heartbroken about losing the allotment than losing Stevie. I agree that losing an allotment could be very painful.
Nic finishes off with, ‘Heard anything?’
‘Not yet. Any day now.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
Somewhere in the room with her I hear Simone saying, ‘Did you say it?’
‘Say what?’ I ask.
‘We both wanted to say that although we know it’s going to be okay, whatever happens we’re here for you as well. You’re a good mate, Margaret.’
Am touched.
April 26th
Miriam still low. Says it makes her sick; her mother is spending all her pension on new clothes. Says mother is having late life crises. Says life at present, what with not smoking and feckless mother, is hellish. Reveals that our boss Tom Matthews has been a tower of strength.
‘Because Margaret, you’ve not really been there for me,’ she says reproachfully, which is true but in the circumstances unfair.
Consider Miriam’s unfairness wh
ile walking home. Reach conclusion that my cheerful, jokey exterior is perhaps too convincing but what can I do? Surely not in my best interests to walk round with a face similar to Miriam’s. I can almost guarantee that Miriam’s sour expression will not attract the younger women she so hankers after.
I am unhappy. Of course I’m unhappy but I can’t give in to it. Think irrelevantly about Tom Matthews being a tower of strength, which reminds me of Frankie Vaughan who’d had a hit with A Tower of Strength. He’d been Mum’s favourite singer till Frank Ifield came along with I Remember You and an ability to yodel, notwithstanding an extremely wide neck, oily hair and voice. Bring myself back to Tom Matthews and how little I know about him and that perhaps Miriam now knows more than I do and does that worry me? ‘Not really,’ I tell myself as I mount our front steps.
Unlock front door. Door pushes against the morning’s post. Bank statement, double glazing offer, also a small light blue envelope. My heart is truly in my mouth as I recognise Georgie’s sprawling handwriting. Carry letter into kitchen. Stroke Tilly who is lying fast asleep on the kitchen table. Tilly looks up sharply, forever surprised that it’s me and not the grim reaper.
Georgie’s letter more frustrating than disappointing. Not really a letter at all, only a few lines.
‘Dear Margaret, If it’s okay, I’d like to see you on Saturday. If this is a problem you can leave a message at this number. Should arrive around one. Love Georgie.’
No address. Edinburgh postmark. I read and re-read the words. Try to imbue Dear Margaret and Love Georgie with romantic meaning. Concentrate on Love Georgie. Far more promising than, say, Yours Sincerely, Georgie, or Yours Faithfully, G. Truman. Allow myself a flicker of hope. After two glass of wine, flicker becomes a flame.
April 28th
Buy exquisite pale green duvet set in Debenham’s, buy pink broderie anglais pyjamas in Marks and Spencer, also an organic chicken, vegetables and fresh cream based pudding. Go back for flowers; lilies and tulips. Go back (ridiculous I know) for toilet rolls with silver fleur de lis pattern.
Stagger up my road under weight of full rucksack, also carry many carrier bags. For once don’t feel like beast of burden. Feel: happy. HAPPY. HAPPY! Maybe misguidedly happy but can’t help it. I overflow with optimism. Am convinced that it is not possible for Georgie to just stop loving me. She will have missed me like hell. I imagine how pleased I’d be to see me after an absence of nearly two months. Considered how many lovable qualities I possessed. Lovable. I am not the same as Deirdre in the successful, sensual, sexual departments but yes, I believe I am lovable. I can endear myself. Count many people I have endeared myself to during lifetime. Run out of fingers.
Self-congratulation cut short by sight of Janice’s white lorry parked outside the house. This is not a Janice day. A Janice day is Tuesday. Realise that Janice hadn’t come on Tuesday. I had been so wound up with thoughts of an imminent Georgie I hadn’t noticed.
Janice has constructed a precarious bridge of scaffolding planks from my top step to the back of her lorry. She’s using this bridge to run her wheelbarrow back and forth. And here’s Janice, wheelbarrow loaded with weeds and shrub clippings. Note that even in repose Janice looks sullen. She sees me and pauses, deserts barrow and jumps nimbly down onto the pavement. Sort of lopes towards me. I’ve never consciously noticed a woman loping and somewhere inside my head I register that loping is attractive - an at ease with own body and self image way of getting about. Without any salutation Janice grabs my carrier bags. ‘You should get a cab when you’re this loaded,’ she growls. ‘Ridiculous!’
I grin foolishly, ‘Thank you Janice’.
Feel like Deirdre at her explosive best. I tell Janice, ‘Brilliant news, my partner Georgie’s coming home the day after tomorrow.’ I’m hurrying to keep up with her.
‘Big deal,’ Janice says.
‘It’s a big deal for me.’
‘Big deal,’ Janice says.
Ignore this and say, ‘Look Janice is it all right with you if I don’t help in the garden today. I’ll do my share in the week and I promise that the next time you come I’ll be out there.’
‘What if there isn’t a next time?’
‘You wouldn’t leave me in the lurch, would you?’
‘Might do.’
Decide this is Janice attempting humour so ignore it. We edge past her wooden bridge and up the steps. She waits while I open the door then dumps carrier bags on doormat.
‘Better get on,’ she says.
I go through the house like a whirlwind. Throw open windows. Down below see Janice labouring away. She’s taken off her fleece. Under it she wears a white singlet. Only April but she’s already tanned. Her muscles ripple pleasingly. Find I’m still smiling. Thinks: No bad thing for Georgie to find there’s a Janice tilling our soil. Make her realise that I’m not the type of woman to let the grass grow under my feet. On the contrary, all grass (particularly couch) now in back of Janice’s lorry.
Shake duster out of bedroom window. ‘You’re doing a grand job,’ I shout. She turns her back on me and continues digging.
Next door Deirdre comes out through her patio doors and surveys her decking, hands on hips. She calls out to Martin who’s lurking inside, ‘Oh do come into the garden - it’s a fantastic day. We could have lunch in the gazebo.’
Hear Martin’s barked reply, ‘No way!’
Deirdre sees me, ‘What can you do with him? You don’t fancy lunch in my gazebo, do you?’
‘Sorry Deirdre, Georgie’s back day after tomorrow.’
Deirdre raises her eyebrows and says, ‘Thank god that woman finally smelt the coffee.’
I have no idea what Deirdre means but this is one of her frequently used phrases. It has superseded last month’s frequently used phrase about her and Martin not singing from the same hymn sheet. Query: Are Deirdre’s many phrases common parlance and she more tuned in to the zeitgeist than I am?
Think again: actually reference to Georgie smelling the coffee quite apposite. Have read in Listening Ear’s property section that permeating home with aroma of fresh ground coffee, newly baked bread and orange peel seduces reluctant buyers. No oranges and have never baked bread before so could seem a. contrived or b. go horribly wrong. But coffee - yes. Smother memories of our issues around coffee and rummage in back of kitchen cupboard for percolator, unused Christmas gift circa 1999, plus pack of fresh coffee that came with it. Coffee now five years old so not so fresh, decide on trial run with Janice. Janice leans on fork and says, ‘Don’t drink the stuff. Causes headaches and is addictive.’
‘Smells good.’
She sniffs it and almost smiles, ‘Yes it does.’ She hands the mug back to me. ‘But I like tea.’
April 29th
Went to bed early in anticipation. Read a chapter of my book about Augusta, Byron’s half-sister, which sends me off to sleep within ten minutes. Am woken by telephone ringing downstairs. Switch on bedside lamp. Clock says one-thirty. Tilly lying next to me looks surprised then expectant. Is it breakfast time already?
‘It’s not breakfast time,’ I tell her but she scrambles off the bed and waits in the doorway looking as if she should be wearing an old threadbare dressing gown and hair curlers.
‘Tilly, it’s not breakfast time - now get out of my way, you daft cat.’
Hurry downstairs. Pick up receiver, ‘Hello.’
Whispering.
‘What?’
Louder whispering.
‘Can you speak up? Is that you Georgie?’
I just about make out, ‘No it’s me.’
Of course it’s Laura.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ I say.
‘Half past one.’
‘I mean what do you want?’
‘Just to talk.’
‘Can’t you talk to Iris?’
‘She’s asleep. Margaret, I hate this camping lark. I want to go home.’
‘Well go home in the morning.’
‘I’m not allowed to. Iris
says we came away to refresh our relationship and by god that’s what we’re going to do.’
‘That sounds romantic.’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘I’m not laughing. Look you must make the best of it. You can’t stay in the Cotswolds forever. There must be work Iris needs to do in London?’
‘Not till next Monday.’
‘There you are then. It’s Friday already.’
‘I’ve never been so miserable in my life.’
‘Well you’ve had a very easy life in that case. I must go to sleep. Georgie’s back tomorrow.’
‘Lucky you.’
Pour a glass of milk. Give Tilly a tiny morsel of Whiskas.
‘Don’t be sick.’ I switch off the hall light.
May
May 1st
Yesterday Georgie arrived when she said she would, dead on one o’clock. I’d imagined her driving all the way down from Edinburgh during the night passing through the changing scenery, dawn breaking as she gunned along, desperate to get back. Reality was that she’d reached Bittlesea Bay the evening before and stayed at a hotel on the seafront. Had I been out and about in Bittlesea Bay that evening, as Martin was, I might have seen her and her new woman, Stella, walking hand-in-hand on their way to meet Nic and Simone at Carlito’s Way, the best Italian style restaurant in town.
Her car was a new one. I was watching through the Venetian blinds and as it slid into the parking space outside our house I paid no attention. This was a maroon car - I was looking for Georgie and our navy blue Citroen. Then she got out and carefully locked her door - turned and stared up at the house, a curious expression on her face. Not sad or anxious: resigned. She didn’t see me watching. With determination, I was thinking, I’ve got a fight on my hands but I will win it!
Georgie didn’t use her front door key, she rang the bell. I opened the door and, as I bobbed my head forward to kiss her, she stepped backwards.