Diary of a Provincial Lesbian

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Diary of a Provincial Lesbian Page 12

by V. G. Lee


  June 9th

  Miriam very difficult. Realise she’s unhappy but how does she think I feel at the minute?

  She broke up with the woman she met at the Hove barbecue within a matter of days. In Miriam’s own words, before the dastardly deed could be accomplished. Feel Miriam should get out more even if she just stands in the middle of the shopping centre and listens to what’s common parlance these days. (Admittedly words ‘common parlance’ not often heard. Possibly never ever heard in Bittlesea Bay Shopping Pavilion.) Am inclined to wonder if Miriam’s sometimes unfortunate choice of phrasing has anything to do with relationship floundering. When we ran out of conversation neither of us had the gumption to get stuck in, doesn’t sound in anyway romantic or even brutally erotic.

  Miriam also talking of chucking her job at the Hospice Shop. She has taken against Mrs Ferguson. Also says she’s met no one under eighty and why should she wear second and third hand togs when own mother shops in British Home Stores and Marks and Spencer?

  ‘Why indeed?’ is my reply which leaves Miriam vaguely dissatisfied.

  June 14th

  Another letter from bank, this time with red underlining. Telephoned. After usual security checks the clerical assistant said in a very smug voice, ‘So you’re experiencing financial difficulties Mrs Charlecote?’

  ‘Miss Charlecote.’

  ‘It says Mrs on your records.’

  ‘I didn’t have the energy to get it altered after the first twelve attempts.’

  Pause while clerical assistant decides whether I am being facetious, or amusing. Decides on the latter and chuckles briefly. ‘Miss Charlecote. Right. Now if you are experiencing financial difficulties...’

  He leaves the sentence hanging in the air - sounds almost like a threat. Briskly I say, ‘So I’d like to increase my overdraft facilities in expectation of substantial funds due in at the end of this month.’

  ‘And might I ask where you expect these funds to come from?’

  ‘No you may not. It’s a highly personal matter but the funds will be arriving forthwith.’ Made voice haughty - rather grand dowager talking to impudent whippersnapper.

  Overdraft agreed, which gives me two and a half weeks to find a well paid part time job to complement my lowly paid part time job.

  June 15th

  Deirdre returned from her horticultural tour of Devon and Cornwall. Was away five days. Martin livid. Very hot weather and the nose has suffered sunburn. Also Martin has been exposed to sight of semi-naked tourist families and found the experience repugnant. Wants to know, why were clothes invented if nobody’s going to wear them?

  Martin information relayed to me via Deirdre as Martin has taken to his bed and is threatening not to get up till it rains.

  I said, ‘But he’s never taken against scantily dressed holidaymakers in Bittlesea Bay?’

  Deirdre explains, ‘He doesn’t have to rub shoulders with tourists here. It’s house to car to Corner Coffee Shop and back. The metal chairs in the Coffee Shop puts the nudies off - chilly on the bum!’

  ‘So what about the Eden Project and the Gardens of Heligan?’

  ‘Fabulous! Fantastic! Breathtaking!’ She waves a wedge of carrot cake up and down in front of her rosebud mouth. (We are sitting at my kitchen table and it is a supplemented Atkins day for Deirdre.) ‘Personally I think they need a bit of a re-think. Small could be beautiful. There’s no need to let tropical plants get so big. I mean they’re enormous. We both suffered from terrible neck ache. And you can’t help looking up because everyone else is looking up and you’re worried you’re going to miss something. But at the end of the day one green canopy is the same as the next.’ Bites into cake and munches with great enjoyment. ‘Yum, yum. And not enough benches either. And too many people Oohing and Aahing. You’d think they’d never seen a tree before. I’m glad I went don’t get me wrong, but have to admit we had a better time on our detour to Bluewater. I could live in Bluewater. I don’t think Martin would go that far but he certainly would spend some quality time in there. Great food, all the major outlets, clean toilets, a multiplex...’

  June 16th

  Miriam away with abscess on undisclosed part of body. These days Miriam seems to be away at least two days in each week.

  Tom Matthews sits on the corner of my desk and begins to tap out a Morse code message with my Parker pen.

  ‘I’m worried about Miriam,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’ Move draft letter to the Listening Ear re. prevalence of elderly folk joyriding their mobility scooters down the main shopping mall in Marks & Spencer. How long before a serious accident occurs?

  ‘I think she’s suffering from depression.’

  Wonder if this might be a good time to ask for a rise or even to suggest that I take over Miriam’s afternoon stint as she’s proving so unreliable?

  ‘You two are good buddies; would you go and see her?’

  ‘We’re not very good buddies.’ Memo: Must ask Deirdre if word ‘buddies’ is becoming popular. Have noticed that it is one of Tom’s favourites.

  ‘The pair of you have been chewing the fat on the outside step for years; you must know each other inside out. I’d go myself only...you know... boundaries to be observed, etcetera.’

  ‘I could telephone,’ said reluctantly.

  ‘Why not just turn up? En passant.’

  Tom gets off my desk and seems to be considering seating himself in Miriam’s swivel chair, instead he twirls it round. ‘You know Margaret, I wanted to say, out in the open...’

  Fortunately before Tom can get anything out in the open the telephone rings and he goes back into his office and shuts the door. Makes no further attempt at conversation for which I’m relieved. Wish Miriam would pull her socks up.

  Arrive at Miriam’s flat and peer through the railings. It is only 2pm, a hot and sunny day, but the front room curtains are closed. Go down the steps and ring the bell. Hear shuffling footsteps and the door opens about four inches. There is Miriam with a Fairisle scarf around her head. She does indeed have an abscess.

  ‘Margaret,’ she says with some difficulty.

  ‘Hello Miriam. Tom and I thought you might like a visitor.’

  ‘I suppose he thinks I’m skiving?’

  ‘Not at all. He’s worried. Can I come in?’

  She reluctantly steps aside and I walk into the hall.

  ‘Keep the noise down, Mother’s sleeping.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to make any noise,’ I said.

  ‘You’re making quite a bit of noise now. Didn’t Georgie ever tell you - you have a very penetrating voice?’

  ‘What a horrible thing to say.’

  ‘Don’t take it to heart. I didn’t mean it unpleasantly. Obviously an abscess the size of a ping-pong ball doesn’t put me in the best of tempers.’

  Miriam grips me by the arm and hustles me into the front room. It is in semi-darkness.

  ‘Why are the curtains pulled?’

  ‘I’m depressed. I don’t want sunshine, it makes me feel worse.’

  ‘When you’re depressed you need all the vitamin D you can get.’ I begin to open the curtains.

  ‘Really Margaret, you are getting very bossy - it’s not nice.’

  ‘Get me a cold drink,’ I boss.

  ‘There’s nothing in the house.’

  ‘Tap. Let it run.’

  ‘I don’t like you in this mood.’

  ‘I don’t like you either but I’ve come to see how you are and I intend to do just that.’

  While Miriam is getting my water I begin to tidy the room, thump the cushions, stack books and magazines. Miriam comes back with two glasses of water drizzled with orange juice. We sit. Find little to say. Miriam wants to show me her abscess. I refuse to look. Miriam asks me if I will take a photograph of it, I won’t have to actually look at abscess, she will position the camera?

  ‘Whatever for?’ I ask.

  ‘Posterity.’

  Again I refuse. ‘Let’s go on the beach,’
I suggest.

  She shakes her head and has to retie her scarf. ‘I see enough of that damn beach every day as I come in and out of here.’

  ‘Fancy a jumble sale on Saturday?’

  ‘Margaret I’m looking for La Dolce Vita!’

  ‘Fair enough but the jumble sale is at St Dunstan’s at two o’clock. There’s a dog show.’

  ‘Whoopee!’ Miriam says.

  Visit hardly an unmitigated success.

  June 17th

  Meet Mrs Ferguson (Hospice Shop) in Morrison’s. No chance to avoid her, we are hemmed in by trolleys. Initially think that I am unrecognized then Mrs Ferguson holds up a tin of baked beans in front of my face and asks, ‘What does the label say about salt content?’

  Writing on label far too small to read without magnifying glass but glibly say, ‘Salt content low.’

  ‘Good.’ She drops the tin in her trolley. ‘Your would-be pal Miriam’s left me high and dry.’

  ‘Not my pal,’ I whinnied a laugh. ‘Very helpful when trying on jackets that one memorable occasion - that was about all.’

  ‘Well she’s gone. Vamoosed. How’s your mother?’

  ‘Amazing recovery. In Scotland now staying with friends. Such a resilient woman.’

  Mrs Ferguson goes on to enquire whether I’d like to step into Miriam’s shoes. Explained that Mother, although so resilient, might relapse finally at any moment. Say, ‘In many ways Mum’s hanging on by the skin of her teeth.’ Which conjures up picture of my old mum in cowgirl outfit dangling by her teeth from an outcrop of the Rockies. Mum’s teeth false and about to part company with Mum in favour of outcrop. ‘Actually, Mrs Ferguson, what I’m looking for is a paid part-time job.’

  Mrs Ferguson said, ‘There’s a morning cleaner wanted at Russell’s. Six pounds fifty an hour, cash in hand. My granddaughter works there. Ring personnel. Tell them Mrs Ferguson, Noreen’s granny, will give you a reference.’

  Thank Mrs Ferguson profusely. Am almost reduced to curtseying. Barricading trolleys move on and I depart unctuously backwards down the aisle.

  Telephone Russell’s, a big mail order catalogue outlet similar to Argos only a few minutes walk away. Well ten minutes walk away. Come in for an interview now, they say. Do just that. Get job. Start Monday.

  June 18th

  Postcard from Laura of a 73 Routemaster bus. She writes, Chin up!

  Do not tell Deirdre about cleaning job when she pops in for a cup of Earl Grey, because she believes that no matter how poor you are, the trick is to think and behave as if you’re rich - says thinking rich automatically draws riches to you. She will advise me not to do cleaning job, that far better to spend my time meditating on cheque for several thousand pounds dropping through letterbox.

  June 19th

  Go to jumble sale. Do not intend to go but somehow find myself in the area of St Dunstan’s Church Hall at ten to two. There is a long queue and many dogs wearing bows, neckerchiefs and natty coats. Everyone is barking or shouting.

  Two minutes to two and several women in headscarves at front of queue begin to rap on door with their ten pence piece entrance fee. Someone yells: Let the bloody dog see the rabbit for gawd’s sake! Queue rocks with laughter. Doors open and we start to run. It all comes back to me. I’d spent the Saturdays of my teens, twenties and thirties at jumble sales. I run. I’m a solid woman. In the old days I’d have used my weight and elbows to get to the front. Heart’s no longer in it. I’m smiling. I’m running for the fun of it. For the dogs with their leads tangled and their jolly snapping eyes. I wish Georgie was with me and then I don’t. She’d hate it. Would not fit in.

  There is the vicar behind the White Elephant. She gives me a thumbs up sign and later tells me that sales on my bric-a-brac were magnificent. I see a little girl pouncing on my mink coloured teddy bear, she looks - thrilled!

  At refreshment stall buy a cup of tea and a Bounty Bar. Take these outside to where the dog show has already started. Sit on grass at the edge of the Show Area.

  ‘Hello,’ says Miriam flopping down next to me.

  Am quite pleased to see Miriam as for the first time in some weeks she is smiling.

  ‘Just met the vicar.’ Her smile changes to slight smirk reminiscent of Laura recalling Iris. Suddenly feel rather proprietorial about vicar. To forestall any of Miriam’s ‘phrases’ turn my head away and concentrate on Dog Show. Miriam hums irritatingly at my side, pulling the heads off innocent daisies.

  There are prizes for the Best Dressed Dog, Dog who looks most like its Owner, most Lugubrious Dog, Longest Tongue, and Waggiest Tail Dog. Everyone claps the winning dog and its owner. Everyone gasps and cheers over the prizes; a giant rubber bone, a box of dog treats, a plastic bowl with DOG written on the side. The afternoon seems to race past. The vicar comes out to give the final prize for Overall Winner. Miriam gasps and cheers the vicar. Prize - a tartan dog blanket goes to a black and tan mongrel wearing a tiny black stetson who has also won the Waggiest Tail contest. His name is Sprout.

  June 21st

  Dreadful day! Began cleaning job. Met Noreen outside store at seven-twenty am. She looks nothing like her grandma. Mrs Ferguson is a big, strong, no nonsense woman. Noreen has an intense little face and hands that seem permanently clenched. Look down at her flip flops and see that her toes are also clenched.

  As Peter the under-manager unlocks the security grilles and the front doors, Noreen says to him, ‘I bet you hate getting in this early, he ought to try it for a change.’

  Peter replies, ‘He bloody ought to.’

  Inside the store, Noreen immediately races across the shop floor and round behind the line of counters. I follow hot on her heels trying to look equally intense. We halt in front of a bucket, mop and a strange electrical item that isn’t quite a hoover. She shakes its handle at me to take, ‘Mind, it’s heavy.’

  It is heavy.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A floor polisher. Park it behind the counter for now, then fill your bucket from the tap in the men’s lavatory.’

  Want to enquire after possibility of filling bucket from tap in women’s lavatory to avoid possibility of bursting in on Peter or him bursting in on me but Noreen pointing firmly at men’s lavatory door. Lavatory empty but unpleasant place to linger. Hurriedly fill bucket. Noreen appears at my shoulder and directs me to put two capfuls of floor cleaner into water and pops a paint scraper in my trouser pocket. This to remove chewing gum or other unknown bodies that have stuck to the floor. She leads me back out into the store.

  ‘Today you have one hour fifteen minutes to wash this floor. Take mop right to left, left to right. Rinse mop frequently. If he’s about, watch your mop head. If it looks dirty, change it otherwise he’ll make you change it. And he’ll count that as a black mark against you. Then polish.’

  ‘I’ve never used a polisher before.’

  ‘It’s not easy. Takes brute strength.’

  Thinks; if Noreen at half my size can manage the polisher - should be a piece of cake.

  ‘If there’s time, wipe the display cabinets down with a damp J cloth. Once you’ve got the hang of this there’ll be the lavs to do but I’ll manage for now. Okay?’

  I nod. Noreen disappears round back. Swab floor. Floor enormous and filthy. Already eight-fifteen, judge that there isn’t time to use paint scraper. Rush back and forth in fear that any moment mysterious and threatening HE might turn up.

  Noreen puts a streaky mug of coffee on the counter. ‘Don’t stop,’ she says.

  Looks grimly at my floor. ‘Give us the scraper. You can’t ignore chewing gum - it will bugger the polisher.’

  Bent double, Noreen zigzags in front of me finding multiple instances of chewing gum which I’ve taken to be a pattern in the floor tiles. She straightens up. Drops scraper plus ball of blackened chewing gum into my pocket and rushes off. Ten minutes later she appears again to whip away my untouched coffee, hisses, ‘Lose bucket and mop. Get polishing. His lordship’s car’s arrived.’

 
I race mop and bucket off shop floor, run back to the polisher, plug in. Switch on. It nearly takes my arm off. Careening across the floor (polisher not arm) like...like...like a high speed, enraged giant turtle. Try to bring polisher to heel and it dashes off in the other direction leaving streaks on my still damp floor. The double doors swing open and a trouser-suited woman bounds in. Did everyone in Russell’s bound or rush? I drag the polisher back towards me and yell, ‘We’re not open yet.’

  Woman lunges for the handle of my polisher. I fight her off.

  ‘Let go. I’ll call security. Help! I’m being attacked.’ Polisher races up and over my feet causing me excruciating pain. ‘Ow!’ I wail.

  ‘That’s not how you do it,’ woman shouts.

  ‘How I do it is none of your bloody business.’

  ‘Give it here.’

  ‘No. Clear off. Help!’

  Suddenly she lets go and I let go, deciding it’s not worth being injured in defence of a floor polisher. Liberated, the polisher skids across the floor knocking over my carefully positioned Danger, Wet Floor signs. The power dies as woman pulls out the plug. Noreen appears, followed by Peter. Noreen shouts, ‘It’s her first day.’

  Woman shouts back, ‘God almighty, I’m away a week and come in to mayhem. And you are?’ She looks furiously at me.

  ‘Margaret Charlecote.’

  ‘Margaret who?’

  ‘Charlecote.’

  Woman steps back, hands on hips, eyes - malevolent, as if the name Charlecote is an absolutely despicable one and not a worthy, historic name brought to England by William the Conqueror.

  ‘Well how do you do,’ she says sarcastically. ‘I’m Lorraine Carter - the manager. Noreen, stop whatever you’re doing till you’ve made sure this Margaret Charlecote knows how to use a polisher.’

 

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