Diary of a Provincial Lesbian

by V. G. Lee

  ‘Hello Margaret.’

  ‘No kisses?’

  ‘Best not.’

  The fight drained out of me. I’m not much of a fighter, am I? Instead I welcomed in someone I didn’t know very well. Georgie was distant, coupled with an old-fashioned courtesy, as if any argument and discussion was already over and she wanted to show generosity to the losing side - me.

  I led her through into our kitchen diner. Coffee percolating away, making cheery bubbling noises and filling the room with its seductive aroma, chicken and roast potatoes illuminated in the oven window. Georgie took in the table, tablecloth, matching napkins, wine glasses, the bottle of open red wine.

  ‘Ah well, Margaret, the thing is... ’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I didn’t expect lunch.’

  ‘But one o’clock is lunchtime.’

  ‘We never usually have a roast dinner for Saturday lunch.’

  ‘But this isn’t usual. This is special - a welcome home lunch.’

  ‘Margaret, I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  She waved at the table, ‘This. I need to be somewhere else in an hour’s time. I came because I wanted to clear matters up and felt a letter just wouldn’t be fair to you.’

  ‘Sit down,’ I said. Still she hesitated. I pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘If you want to stand for an hour it’s up to you Georgie.’

  She sat. I moved away the cutlery and side plates. ‘Wine?’ I asked. She shook her head. I filled my own glass. Tried to drink it but found I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. Put the glass down and hid hands under the tablecloth. I looked properly at Georgie. She seemed surprisingly relaxed, was staring past me and out into the garden. She wore a suit I’d never seen before. Georgie rarely wore suits, only for very special occasions. This one was grey linen. Not really warm enough yet for linen. She looked like a visitor from a warmer country. Confident, attractive. In a casual way prosperous. Deirdre would have been impressed. Then she focused her gaze on me.

  ‘Margaret...’

  ‘Georgie...’

  She smiled at me with genuine pleasure. ‘You’ve changed your hair - it looks great.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled back. A compliment when I’d expected a verbal blow undermined me and my eyes filled up. Georgie stopped smiling.

  ‘Please Margaret - I’m sure you’d worked out that I probably wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘As you can see I hadn’t worked that out otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered with this meal.’

  ‘But you must have had an inkling. The situation hasn’t been perfect between us for a few years. We’ve been a couple in name only. Both of us deserve something better.’

  ‘Have you met someone else?’

  ‘Yes. Her name’s Stella.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘When did you decide to leave me?’

  ‘As you know I’ve been spending more and more time in Scotland...’

  ‘So you’ve been living with both of us.’ A thought suddenly occurred to me. ‘And where else apart from Scotland?’

  Georgie reached for the bottle of wine and poured herself half a glass, took a gulp not a sip, before answering, ‘Spain. Stella has a house out there.’

  ‘And is that where you’ve been for the last two months?’

  ‘Stella doesn’t like the British winters.’

  ‘Does everyone know about you and this Stella?’

  ‘Who’s everyone?’ She started to sound truculent.

  ‘Friends, your parents, neighbours?’

  ‘Some of them know.’

  ‘Deirdre and Martin? Laura?’

  ‘Good heavens no. They’re your friends not mi...’

  The timer on the oven buzzed and both of us started. I got up and switched the oven off. Then switched off the percolator.

  ‘So Georgie, what’s to discuss?’ This time I managed to hold my wine glass steady.

  ‘I felt you needed an explanation. Closure, is it called?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘And also - obviously - although the house is yours I’d like, if it’s ok with you, to take my stuff away and maybe some of the furniture.’

  Later: Deirdre slipped quietly into the kitchen - no mean feat for Deirdre who is usually incapable of arriving anywhere without a fanfare. She’d brought a bottle of wine.

  ‘You can drink it with me or on your own, whichever you prefer. I don’t want to be in your way.’

  ‘You’re not. Sit down. I’ll get glasses.’

  ‘No, stay where you are - I’ll get glasses.’

  ‘How did you know I’d need more wine?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Martin spotted them the other evening. They walked past the Corner Coffee Shop window. We weren’t sure what to do but in the end Martin said, whatever’s going on it would be best if you heard it from Georgie.’

  ‘Deirdre, I’ve been such a mug.’

  Deirdre tentatively patted me on the head. In her words she is not a touchy feely person. She said, ‘No you haven’t. Georgie’s the mug.’

  May 3rd

  Didn’t go to work. Rang Miriam and told her I wouldn’t be in for the next week and to make any excuse.

  Not the worst day of my life. Nobody died. But definitely the most painful, bewildering, awkward, embarrassing, demeaning day I’ve lived through. I should have gone out and left them to take what they wanted, or I should have told Georgie to get lost, and if she wanted anything she’d have to sue me to get it. I was frightened I’d lose my home. That all the money and power seemed to lie with the two of them and I’d get squashed along the way.

  Took morning off work. Dressed with care. I’d lost weight so my trousers and shirt looked good on me. So did my red and white-blonde hair. Unfortunately I couldn’t do much about the sad, drawn face under the hair. I found some old makeup and brushed on mascara and blusher, drew in a fuller set of lips because mine seemed to have shrunk to a thin pale line. Earrings to distract from eyes that kept filling with tears.

  Again I watched Georgie arrive. Watched as she walked round to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Stella. Stella’s legs swinging out, model girl fashion. She wore a pale blue suit, fitted jacket above the knee-length skirt, expensive-looking shoes with high heels and viciously pointed toes. Her hair was a tangle of dark brown curls swept up onto the top of her head. She wore sunglasses and she looked over the dark lenses at my house like an estate agent might before making a valuation.

  The two of them absolutely matched each other. In all our years together Georgie and I had never been a matched pair. I’d thought superficials didn’t matter, that inside we matched up perfectly.

  I’d left the front door open and they walked in. Georgie called out ‘Margaret’ and my name seemed to echo as if the house was already half emptied.

  I came out into the hall.

  ‘This is Stella,’ Georgie said. There was pride in her voice, almost as if she wanted to share what she saw as her luck in finding such an attractive woman.

  ‘Hello Stella.’

  ‘Hello Margaret,’ she said with unnecessary warmth. ‘This is so embarrassing.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? But go ahead, embarrass yourselves.’ I went out into the garden.

  May 4th

  This time did go out while a transit van took away all Georgie’s possessions and many of ours. Left Tilly with her favourite cushion and litter tray in Deirdre’s conservatory for the day. Caught the train into London and met Laura in Kew Gardens. Walked among bluebells and wild garlic. Saw many squirrels.

  Laura said, ‘Why not stay over and go back tomorrow?’

  Said, ‘I’d rather get back. Not fair on Deirdre and Tilly.’

  ‘Not fair, not fair. Being so bloody easy going’s what’s got you into this mess.’

  She then apologized.

  Walk through house. Everywhere there are gaps like missing teeth. The freezer has gone, the
tumble drier, two wardrobes, a bed, the leather armchair. Georgie’s study is empty. Then there are all the small things. It’s as if I’ve been burgled. I keep discovering items that are missing. She’s taken the decorative chimney pots from the garden and Georgie doesn’t even like gardening or sitting in gardens.

  I see that Janice has also been. There’s a note saying that if we don’t start planting soon, it will be too late. Then Hope you’re okay. Not okay at all.

  May 5th

  So much for this diary. It was going to be witty and light-hearted. It was going to be hilarious in places. Of course I’m only an amateur diarist. Feel like an amateur in all spheres which is self pitying and I WON’T indulge in THAT! I’ve read the Diary of a Provincial Lady three times. It still makes me smile. I begin with Georgie’s inscription, To dear Margaret, with love from Georgie, Christmas 2003. I’ve read that dozens of times and tried to work out how I’ve got from ‘with love’ to where I am now. Wonder what she bought for Stella, Christmas 2003?

  Another thing I think about. How did EM Delafield prevent her real life from creeping in, even if her diary was fictional? There must have been some dark events during the months she was writing the articles and yet the tone of the book remains so consistently cheerful. Or perhaps for her, writing and living were two very different occupations.

  Georgie has gone. In reality she’d gone two months ago. I expect that everyone who knew us, knew this would be the outcome of our ‘trial separation’. To paraphrase Deirdre, if I’ve understood her correctly, I’m the woman who failed to smell the coffee.

  May 11th

  Janice - garden.

  May 13th

  Sent postcard to Nic and Simone cancelling our arrangement.

  May 17th

  Janice - garden. Am back at work but absolutely hate it. Miriam is on holiday with her mother so there is just me and Tom every day. Can’t help myself but I know the office is filled with my misery.

  May 19th

  Work. Wheeler’s Watch.

  May 22nd

  Tell Mr Wheeler that I can’t continue with WW. He looks disappointed, so agree to see how I feel in a month’s time.

  May 24th

  Miriam back from holiday. Says it was a nightmare. Not to be repeated. Says she has aged by at least ten years. Weather and food good though.

  May 25th

  Janice. ‘Meadow’ nearly finished. Deirdre itching to see it. I’ve said a stern ‘No peeking’. Imagine Deirdre will be a) hugely disappointed as meadow bears no resemblance to Deirdre’s idea of a designer garden, b) hugely relieved, because it will be no competition for her ‘Italianate courtyard’. (If this sounds sour it isn’t meant to.

  May 29th

  Went with Miriam to a barbecue near Hove.

  Miriam very red and hot under the collar when she suggested it. Said firmly, ‘Absolutely no strings attached Margaret. The two of us are in the same miserable boat so we might as well join forces and prop each other up now and then - as in provide moral support.’

  I ask, ‘Who invited you to this barbecue?’

  ‘Woman called Ingrid. Gave her a pound off a man’s trench coat the other afternoon.’

  Took train then walked. Arrived in the middle of what seemed like a private party. Six women who looked surprised and suspicious as we walked up the front path.

  ‘I’m a friend of Ingrid’s,’ Miriam said, holding out her carrier bag of wine bottle and packet of Walls Pork Sausages.

  Women exchange looks indicating that Ingrid is not a special favourite.

  ‘Better come in then,’ tall woman in cook’s apron says. ‘Wipe those feet.’

  I hand over my bottle of wine and box of organic chocolates. Woman in apron says accusingly, ‘Are you a Green?’

  Sees my bewildered expression and says with slight irritation, ‘I mean are you one of those women who disapprove of everything; a good cigarette, a fine wine, second home in the Dordogne etc?’

  Answer cautiously that while there are things I disapprove of, nothing on her list particularly incenses me although I’m neither a smoker nor a second home owner.

  ‘Do you like classical music?’ she shoots at me.

  Feel that our entry to barbecue hangs in the balance. Miriam steps in, ‘Margaret likes all music, blues, country, classical.’

  Woman in apron’s face breaks into a relieved smile, ‘Ah classical - how can there be space in one’s life for any other? Go on through to the garden. Help yourself to a drink.’

  We hang up our jackets and walk out into the garden leaving everybody in urgent conversation back in the house. I admire the garden while Miriam commandeers the only deck chair without a proprietorial cardigan, newspaper or bag on it and is arranging her limbs in an attractive and congenial manner.

  Women troop out. They are smiling. Have obviously decided to be hospitable. We are introduced. We introduce ourselves. Miriam says emphatically, ‘Margaret and I, we work together, that’s all. There’s no hanky panky.’

  Privately wish Miriam didn’t use such terms as ‘hanky panky’ but it seems to do the trick as she’s soon engrossed in conversation with a ‘younger woman’ about the Bayeux Tapestry. Both seem very knowledgeable. Everyone else seem to have a smattering of knowledge re. Tapestry as there’s much head nodding and ‘Oh I couldn’t agree more. Priceless.’

  I sit on the grass. I say little. Feel I am dull company and that I’m emanating a dull, dark aura. Wonder how long this will persist. Have read that it can take up to two years to recover from bereavement. Two years of me emanating a dull, dark aura and I’ll have no friends left. And what if the dull dark aura becomes an intrinsic part of my personality. Oh no, let’s not invite Margaret, she’s a real old misery!

  Try to inconspicuously look at my watch. A woman whose name I don’t remember pulls her deck chair closer and says in a good-humouredly aggressive voice, ‘So which classical composers do you rate?’ She waves what looks like one of Miriam’s pork sausages in my direction. Try to picture the shelf of unplayed classical CD’s gathering dust at home. Think of all those years pretending to Georgie’s parents and even a little to Georgie that I loved classical music. Say, ‘Actually they’re all very good.’

  ‘Yes, but you must have a favourite.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Woman slaps her knee with free hand, addresses assembled company, ‘Margaret says all classical composers are very good but she doesn’t have a favourite.’

  Shouts of Come on now, I don’t believe it, not possible.

  Miriam says, ‘You’re fond of Strauss.’

  ‘Which Strauss? Richard, Johann the elder, the younger?’ asks woman with sausage.

  ‘They’re both very good.’

  Woman with sausage looks at me sternly, ‘I don’t think you like classical music at all.’

  ‘I didn’t say I liked it, I acknowledged that all the composers were very good composers.’

  ‘So what do you like?’

  ‘Country and jazz. Particularly modern stuff.’

  Feel I am the focus of all eyes apart from Miriam’s - she is staring very hard at a tall conifer.

  ‘Well Margaret,’ woman says, ‘I suppose you’re old enough and ugly enough to know your own taste but country and jazz wouldn’t be my choice.’

  I get up from the grass and walk back to the house. Behind me I hear woman appealing, ‘For heaven’s sake, what did I say? Surely she is old enough and ugly enough to engage in a spot of lively debate. She should keep out of the kitchen if she can’t stand the fire...’

  Retrieve jacket from hall. Miriam has followed me, ‘Margaret, don’t go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really do have to go home.’

  ‘Would you mind if I stayed? Becky and I seem to have clicked. Timing’s crucial. If I rush off now with you, I’ll be sending out the wrong messages.’

  ‘That’s ok. See you Monday.’

  ‘See you Tuesday. Bank Holiday, remember?’

  On walk back to the sta
tion pass woman in trench coat looking very hot and bad tempered - wonder if this is Ingrid?

  May 30th

  Spend day cleaning drain grilles and drain covers. At the time very satisfying. In retrospect when I find myself considering drain grille and cover cleaning as a possible career move, become deeply depressed.

  May 31st

  Go with Deirdre to Charleston, home of Bloomsbury set’s Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant. Deirdre finds entire place (house, furnishings, artistic atmosphere) depressing.

  In Duncan Bell’s studio, which I find moving in its stark simplicity and lack of comfort, Deirdre checks out his paint brush bristles to see whether he washed them properly. She is reprimanded by the female usher for touching the artefacts.

  ‘It’s only a lousy cheap brush,’ she whispers. ‘No wonder his pics are such daubs.’

  Also criticizes Charleston’s shop for being disorganized, ‘Whatever happened to good old customer service?’

  Also Charleston’s tea shop, which doesn’t open till lunch time.

  ‘What kind of a tea shop is this? Where’s the business savvy? Here are visitors; behind those locked doors are cakes and cuppas panting to be sold. Duh?’

  Tea shop doors finally open and Deirdre rushes ahead of orderly but slow queue. ‘Grab seats in the garden, Margaret,’ she bellows. I choose two chairs out of about twenty unoccupied chairs. After ten minutes Deirdre arrives with carrot cake and tea.

  ‘There’s absolutely no sense of urgency in there,’ she says sitting down.

  ‘It’s a beautiful garden.’

  She nods, mouth full of cake, ‘No worthwhile water feature though.’