by V. G. Lee
Reply arrives from Tabby that contagious virus very commonplace at the moment. Several other friends are suffering from it. Says she will be in touch nearer Christmas re. further attempt to link up. Regards to Georgie.
Respond briefly, there is no Georgie. Receive same day reply from Tabby to enquire whether Georgie has succumbed fatally to contagious virus? She hopes not but, if so, her deepest condolences. Email Tabby explaining Georgie’s defection to Stella.
September 10th
Tom’s boyfriend very tall man in his forties. His name is Barry. After several drinks he begins to repeatedly repeat the information that, at six foot-eight and a half inches, he is technically a giant.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Good gracious...That’s astonishing...Well I never...Of all the bars in all the world...One swallow doesn’t make a summer...’
‘Yes, I’m technically a giant.’
‘Well, I’ll eat my hat...’
We all sit on the desks, with the exception of Barry, who stands next to the door frame better to illustrate the problem he has with door frames. I find myself passing round the trays of nibbles; soft cheese and salmon, cheddar cheese and pineapple, mini-quiches, Hula Hoops, and re-filling glasses.
Miriam says, ‘Oh Margaret, some wine spilt over here, get a cloth.’
Think: what am I, the bloody waitress? but keep insincere smile in place. Tom looks smitten and very happy, throws admiring glances Barry’s way. Barry reciprocates by touching the ceiling with the palms of his hands; Tom shakes his head in admiring disbelief. Miriam looks smitten and happy. She is tossing Hula Hoops at vicar and vicar also seems charmed. Rather envy Miriam. Secretly feel that, were my heart free, I would suit vicar far better than Miriam. Imagine myself and vicar nibbling from opposite ends of mini-quiche... However, my eyes do begin to glaze over while half-listening to plans for Harvest Festival at St Dunstan’s. Tom says, although he and Barry are committed atheists, they will certainly send a basket of appropriate produce.
Not a bad evening. I get over chip on shoulder at being designated waitress. Only at the very end, as we go our separate ways at the street door of TM Accountancy, do I feel a real pang. The two couples set off arm-in-arm while there is solitary me, shouting my cheerful ‘Goodnight’ to their uncaring backs.
September 12th
Heaven. Ten days with no Russell’s. Store is closed till Tuesday week. It is Sunday and I lie in bed reading local newspaper. Spot, Sirs, I must remonstrate in the strongest tone regarding your perverse willingness in publishing one A.Oakley’s inflammatory, often ludicrous letters. I feel that A. Oakley is pursuing a personal vendetta against me and many of the male population of Bittlesea Bay. I believe the name A. Oakley to be a pseudonym and the accompanying job titles farcical. If these poison pen letters lurking beneath the flimsy guise of public comment continue I will be forced to forward a dossier of information gleaned re. this contributor to the police. Your servant, Martin J. Storm.
Immediately begin letter Re. Storm Force 8!
September 13th
Briefly meet Janice on terrace of Bittlesea Bay Cafe prior to meeting Deirdre. Janice tells me she is away on a hiking holiday with friends for the next two weeks. Says it was all booked months ago. Do not know why this news should feel like a minor bombshell dropping, but it does. My eyes fill with tears and I have to put on my sunglasses, even though there is not a hint of sun. Janice awkward rather than sullen. I think that we are both aware...but of course that’s absolute nonsense. Nobody’s aware of anything. After a few minutes’ silence we begin talking at the same time: ‘I didn’t mean...’ ‘It’s none of my business...’
Janice gets up, shoulders her bulky rucksack as if she is leaving the district that instant.
‘Speak when I get back,’ she says.
‘Lovely,’ I say and hate the sound of my voice.
Deirdre arrives. ‘Wasn’t that Janice I saw going down the hill?’
‘Was it?’
‘I reckon it was. Now, egg and chips twice - I think you’re in the chair.’
Morosely we both eat our egg and chips. Deirdre admits to having had a small contretemps with her cleaner. She says cleaner has no respect for Dyson and has used an abrasive sponge on Smeg, the recently purchased fridge freezer.
I ask, ‘Has Smeg taken over from Atkins as your new best friend?’
Deirdre sits back in chair, chip poised inches from rosebud mouth, ‘Is that supposed to be sarcastic?’
‘Sorry, Deirdre.’
She smiles and shrugs, ‘Actually Smeg has taken over from Atkins. I just love to fill Smeg with unsuitable food and Atkins doesn’t like having his instructions countermanded, but Atkins can get stuffed.’
A large grey seagull fledgling lands on the terrace wall.
‘Chick, chick,’ Deirdre calls, waving a tomato ketchup covered chip at it.
‘Peep, peep,’ I call, which is the correct seagull fledgling sound to make. I offer it half a slice of bread. Chick must weigh two stone at least, looks at us with its beak open as if astonished. Closes beak. Opens beak. And another thing ladies...
‘Cake?’ Deirdre asks.
‘I don’t think baby gulls should eat cake.’
‘Not the bird. Us.’
‘Too full.’
Deirdre slumps dispiritedly. She’d love a cake but won’t eat alone. I rather crave a piece of cake but cake at lunchtime seems decadent and the road to nutritional ruin. Gull chick flies away up onto the cliff top and Deirdre and I sigh heavily.
September 14th
Visit Mr Wheeler. Have noticed that since his garden has become overgrown there is now a splendid crop of blackberries maturing along his far wall. With St Dunstan’s Harvest Festival in mind have daydream of me arriving at church and enchanting Miriam’s vicar with punnets of same. NB. Am not trying to lure vicar away from Miriam but feel in need of womanly admiration from some source. When Georgie lived here at least she complimented me on my wine glass washing technique and always appreciative of my dumplings once the cold nights set in.
Have discussed this problem with Deirdre, who says ideally I should be able to confirm my own fabulousness. Says if she can do it, I certainly can. Says, if she waited for Martin to confirm her fabulousness in any department – Well it’s not going to happen. Savvy? Which doesn’t help so am back fantasizing about vicar at Harvest Festival: a) administering approval, b) blessing me, c) laying hands at least on my head.
Mr Wheeler says he’s sorry but I can’t have his blackberries, he’s promised them to Vera and Morag who are making fruit pies for their Autumn Bring and Buy. Am I going? Say, I hope not.
Inspect own vegetable plot. Unfortunately it has peaked too early. All that’s left are a few split tomatoes and some desiccated runner beans - nothing that would impress Miriam’s vicar.
Tabby quiet for almost a fortnight then today I receive a postcard, postmark Majorca, Technicolor photograph of sandy beach and frolicking bronzed holidaymakers. Tabby writes: Am having a fabulous time. Re. Break-up. Do you realise, if these were proper marriages, Georgie would have been your third? Might have been wiser to settle for Ronald. Sympathy, Tabby
September 15th
Deirdre arrives absolutely bubbling over with excitement. She’s dressed as a bearer of good news in shocking pink trousers and tunic top cinched in at waist with brocade sash. Also brocade shoes and brocade bow in curls, which bobs about with every movement Deirdre makes and Deirdre is constantly on the move. Hurtling through my kitchen door, she’s waving her cheque book and a sheet of notepaper.
‘Open up the bubbly,’ she yells.
Admit to not having any bubbly.
‘A slice of lemon in a glass of tap will do. Any biscuits?’
Find biscuits. Initially biscuits not to Deirdre’s taste but on re-consideration she scoffs half the packet. ‘Not bad,’ she says. ‘Cast your eyes over this, you clever little munchkin!’
Sticks piece of paper in front of me on the kitchen table. I gasp and read o
ut, ‘For the sum of one thousand pounds I renounce all rights to script entitled Lord Dudley - Indigestion Super Hero!’
‘So?’ says Deirdre, her blue eyes sparkling, elbows on the table. ‘You going to sign on the dotted line?’
‘Have you sold the script?’
Deirdre withdraws elbows. ‘That’s insider information. No can divulge.’
‘Deirdre, a thousand pounds is a lot of money.’
‘I can offer you less...’
‘Will it be on television?’
‘Yours not to reason why...’
‘Did you intend to write me a cheque this very minute?’
Deirdre’s elbows return to table top. ‘I did.’
‘Go on then.’
I sign on the dotted line.
September 16th
My birthday tomorrow. Laura rang to say she’s sorry she can’t make it but she’ll be down next week. She and Iris are going camping again in an effort to resuscitate their flagging relationship. Ask if this is a good idea as Laura is never at her best rubbing shoulders with the natural world. Laura says, on the contrary, she is Nature’s child; it is Iris who always insists on pitching herself against the elements. Why can’t they just enjoy the tranquillity of Nature from a rose covered B & B in a pretty village? Why must it always be walking boots at dawn and gruel?
‘Have a good birthday,’ Laura says. ‘I’ll only telephone if I’m suicidal.’
September 18th
Yesterday my birthday. Laura did not ring. Miriam remembered. Gave me a card and for the first time ever a present, a small ceramic bowl in the shape of a cat’s head.
‘Me and my vicar chose it,’ Miriam said proudly. ‘It’s specifically for used tea bags.’
‘Thank you. Thank her.’
‘Doing anything special?’
‘I don’t think so - not this year.’
‘Well, try and keep your spirits up.’
Felt as if she saw me as an invalid and that was fair enough. I would get better. Another milestone about to be passed. Went home. Deirdre’s and Martin’s car not in their driveway, wondered if Deirdre would be home later for perhaps a small celebration up at the Bittlesea Bay Cafe. Let myself in.
The second I opened my front door I knew something was different, because suddenly there were elements of the house as it had once been. Ahead of me on the kitchen floor were two cat dishes, bulging supermarket carrier bags waited to be unpacked, the atmosphere felt warmer - more alive. From our front room came the rustle of someone putting down a newspaper. Above me, on the landing, Samson and Delilah peered down fearfully through the upper banisters. Georgie was back.
Went into front room. Georgie sitting in the window bay, an uncertain expression on her face. She got to her feet, then half sat down again but straightened.
‘I’ve left my cases in the car. I’ve not just moved back in Margaret, only I had to let the cats out, they were going mad in their baskets.’
Didn’t know what to say or what I felt inside. I hadn’t expected this, was unprepared. Many conflicting emotions. Unpacked the groceries she’d brought. She followed me into the kitchen. ‘Just a couple of nights Margaret - is that too much to ask?’
Felt that it should be but said, ‘Of course not.’ Stopped myself from saying, ‘This is your home as well.’
Made up the single bed in the box room that had once been her study. Opened her birthday card. Nothing flowery or personal. Watercolour of lone woman looking out to sea, her hands on a white balustrade. Happy Birthday Margaret. Love Georgie.
September 20th
At office said nothing to Miriam, which was okay, as these days she expects me to be quite subdued. In the evening Georgie went to see Nic and Simone. She came back late after I’d gone to bed. I heard her steps on the stairs - very slow, as if she was deadly tired. They stopped outside my bedroom door. I almost called out to her but couldn’t.
September 21st
This morning started back at Russell’s. LC away for a few days, fly fishing. Information courtesy of Noreen. Or white water rafting. He likes his sport, Noreen says and, Wouldn’t suit me.
Apart from Deirdre and Mr Wheeler, who have seen Georgie out in the garden, nobody else knows that she’s back. My life feels very precarious. Nothing is definite. It surprises me but I have changed. Have lost my boisterous optimism.
This afternoon we talked properly for the first time. Georgie didn’t leave Stella: Stella asked her to go. Apparently it was Stella who couldn’t stand the day-to-day living with the same woman. She called it the day-to-day tedium. Georgie very defensive of her. Said, ‘She’s used to being independent. She actually liked the set-up of me living with you and enjoyed the excitement of our stolen days together. Stella’s a woman who thrives on intrigue.’
I listened with tight face and chaotic thoughts, as Georgie used me as a confidante and not one third of her drama.
‘Will you continue seeing her?’
She shook her head. ‘She’s met someone else. Someone more flexible.’ Then she bowed her head and started crying.
At first I was frozen, could not even stretch out my hand to touch her. But she was so sad, so heartbroken that her sobs physically hurt me, forced me out of my chair. I put my arms around her and held her head against my breast saying, ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Georgie.’ All the time inside I was crying as well, Why should I be sorry? Why should I?
September 22nd
This is all so odd. I can’t get a grip on the situation. When I imagined Georgie coming back - and hundreds of times I had imagined it - I’d
seen her asking forgiveness, admitting to making a terrible mistake. Stupid stuff, You are the only one, Margaret. It’s taken this time apart to make me realise what my true feelings are. And then a period of adjustment. Perhaps a better relationship built on new knowledge and reawakened emotions. In every daydream I’d never once thought I’d be sharing my home with a woman I hardly knew, who loved someone else but had nowhere else to go.
She’s in such a fragile state of mind. I watch how she touches the furniture: the corner of the table, the arm of the settee, a bookshelf, as if reassuring herself that they’re solid. She was never a talker, now she’s almost silent. She looks beaten down and inside I’m furious with this Stella person for reducing Georgie. It would be easier if I was furious with Georgie as well but I’m not. Which doesn’t mean...which doesn’t mean my feelings are the same as they were. Every morning I wake with a sinking sense in the pit of my stomach at another difficult, unresolved day to get through. Can’t make even the smallest plans.
This evening Janice rang from a call box in the Lake District.
‘Margaret, I’m thinking of coming back early,’ she said. ‘Will you be around at the week-end?’
Told her that Georgie was home, that I couldn’t talk. There was a silence, apart from what I think was the sound of rain.
Then Janice sighed. She said, ‘Ok. You take care of yourself.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I will.’ But the line was already dead.
September 23rd
Met Deirdre in Debenham’s tea shop. Deirdre surrounded by shopping. Tells me with a wide smile that she can’t help being a Debenham’s girl, then sees my face and says, ‘Ok, sit down. I’ll get the drinks. Carrot cake or Danish?’
‘Carrot cake please,’ I say dully.
Sit with my head in my hands till Deirdre returns. She has bought hot chocolate to take away and cake in a bag; says, ‘Come on, we can’t talk in here.’
I follow her out to the car park. We get in the car and she drives down to the seafront. It is a vile wet day and we have the seafront to ourselves. I sit and stare at the waves pounding the beach only yards away, while Deirdre takes the tops off the Styrofoam cups.
‘Choccy’s boiling hot so go steady,’ she says. ‘Now spill the beans.’
Say, ‘It’s not working. It’s an appalling situation.’
‘Whatcha going to do?’
‘What
can I do? Can’t turn on her while she’s so miserable. She needs support, affection, care.’
‘Oh give it a rest. Are you a prize mug or what? She dumped you, Margaret. Georgie was doing the dirty on you. Of course she’s miserable - because she can’t get what she wants. She’s not miserable because she’s let you down, made you unhappy for the best part of a year and is still making you unhappy. Let’s get a reality check here.’
Bow my head over cup. Feel it warm my face and tired eyes.
‘Do you still love her?’ Deirdre asks.
‘I don’t know. No, I do know. I want to make her happy again...’
Deirdre interrupts, ‘You haven’t made her happy in years. You can’t. You don’t have what she wants for her to be happy.’
Almost smiled. ‘Don’t pull any punches, Deirdre.’
‘I’m trying to make you see sense. Georgie is bad news. In less than a week she’s transformed you from a woman in recovery to a tearful wreck. You’re my friend. You’re Laura’s friend. You’re our friend. I want us to go out and have laughs like we’ve always done. I don’t want you doing the anxious chicken bit over a woman who only half-knows you’re alive. Sorry if that sounds cruel. Do you know, you’ve completely spoilt my Debenham’s Day? I’ve a good mind to take the stuff back.’
Whether I want to or not, Deirdre invariably makes me smile. ‘What did you buy, and I’m not a chicken?’
‘Hen, chicken. Whatever. I bought jersey bedding in cream and white. Molds to your body or that’s what it says on the wrapper. And an autumn raincoat; pea-green with a pink and pea tartan lining. Fabulous. Definitely won’t see another one like it in Bittlesea Bay. Ready for your cake?’