Diary of a Provincial Lesbian

by V. G. Lee

  October 15th

  Peter the under-manager has asked Noreen the head cleaner to marry him. Noreen is over the moon, although expressed apprehension re. not having done ‘it’ with Peter. Is concerned that a) Peter won’t be up to the job, b) that she has done ‘it’ with Donald the warehouseman and also the delivery driver whose name she doesn’t know, and will Peter be disappointed in her if he ever finds out, which is on the cards as particularly Donald is a known blabbermouth? Vis-a-vis Lorraine Carter, Noreen tells me He (meaning LC) has advised Peter that he (meaning Peter) will be professionally marrying beneath him, which is a sure recipe for unhappiness and also disastrous vis-a-vis his (meaning Peter’s) career.’

  Ask what Peter had said in response. Peter said, ‘My Noreen’s not as green as she’s cabbage coloured.’

  Imagined Lorraine Carter’s response: ‘Oh surely she is.’

  Have reached the conclusion that LC, although a lesbian, doesn’t like women. Of late her animosity towards me has slid beneath the surface. Have no doubt it waits like a drowsing shark.

  October 16th

  Reluctantly accompany Mr Wheeler to Vera and Morag’s Autumn Bring and Buy Sale. Have never walked the streets with Mr Wheeler before, at least not without my Wheeler’s Watch sash and on the look out for tom foolery, hooliganry and chicanery. Find myself marching - swinging my arms, head well up, trying to keep my jaw line at his same right angle to neck.

  ‘This is what it’s all about,’ he says.

  Assume he’s not referring to the same ‘it’ as Noreen, and wait several minutes without Mr Wheeler elucidating before I ask, ‘What is it all about?’

  ‘Fresh air. Oxygen. Life.’

  So we march along, the sea in the distance. Today is a misty blue. The leaves of the plane trees that edge the pavement are turning from green to gold. Some are already fluttering down. Nothing dry enough yet to make a satisfying crackle underfoot. Know exactly what Mr Wheeler means, however personally wish that the afternoon’s life destiny didn’t end at an Autumn Bring and Buy Sale in a Nissen hut behind Morrison’s Supermarket.

  At door we pay our entrance money and receive free raffle ticket. Mr Wheeler says ponderously, ‘Go forth, Margaret, and buy until the pips squeak.’

  Thinks: sod that, I’m spending two pounds then straight off home. Spend twelve pounds. Hear pips protesting rather than squeaking. Buy one blackberry and apple pie, one oozing Victoria sponge cake, two patchwork cushion covers and an embroidered tablecloth. In raffle win bottle of Amontillado Sherry. Am about to take it from raffle organizer (large woman wearing wrap around floral pinafore not seen since the 1950s), when Mr Wheeler materializes at my side and says, ‘Why not let them keep the sherry to raffle again?’

  ‘I won it fairly and squarely,’ I retort.

  ‘But charity, Margaret.’

  Let my eager hands fall to my sides. Woman in apron beams at Mr Wheeler as if he is a Greek god or similar heroic figure. ‘Thank you Mr Wheeler,’ she gushes.

  Repress own retort of, ‘Don’t thank him, thank me.’

  ‘Well done, Margaret.’

  Feel patronized by everybody. Feel treated like a bloody child. Make resolution to go nowhere in the future with Mr Wheeler. Someone taps me on the shoulder. It is Morag, ‘Would you like a kitten?’

  Say ‘No’ brusquely.

  Immediately imagine thin starving kitten crouching by dustbins and add, ‘Why?’

  ‘Vera found one crouching by the dustbin last night. It’s very thin. Starving. We’d keep it but there’s Jenny (budgerigar) to consider.’

  Say I will let her know this evening. Morag says, ‘We thought of raffling it off later - to keep Bring and Buy interest at fever pitch.’

  Say sharply, ‘Under no circumstances will you raffle a poor starving kitten. I’ll take the damn cat.’

  ‘Oh, what a nasty temper,’ Morag says, but slaps her hands together as in a job well done.

  Am amazed to spot Deirdre turning over the linen stall. She is literally turning over the stock, heaving up the neatly folded piles and dumping them back down again so she doesn’t miss any piece of antique fabric that might be lurking underneath.

  Morag, who is still with me, clicks her tongue and says, ‘I folded that linen myself. Such an unpleasant go-getting, walk over the poor and needy, type of woman.’

  Agree wholeheartedly that Deirdre is exactly that and sidle over to linen stall.

  ‘What you after? Not your normal stamping ground?’ I say.

  Deirdre doesn’t look up, intent on fingering material with an expert touch. ‘Saw you giving up the sherry. You’re a daft ninny. Haven’t had a sniff of anything decent here - it’s just a pile of dog’s doo-doos.’

  ‘Buy something anyway.’

  ‘I’ve parted with twenty pence just to come in this rat hole. What’s in the carrier bags?’

  Show Deirdre my purchases. For once she’s impressed. Not with cakes: with cushion covers and tablecloth. She holds them up and scrutinizes carefully. ‘Not bad. Tablecloth maybe eighty years old; cushion covers, early American patchwork. I’ll give you a fiver.’

  ‘I paid seven.’

  ‘Seven then.’

  ‘No, ten.’

  ‘Ten! I’m a friend. By rights you should hand them over as an early Christmas present.’

  Deirdre gives me a tenner. I give tenner to stall holder. Deirdre’s eyebrows disappear into her curls.

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Not in here. I’m starting to itch. And don’t at any future time offer me that cake or pie. They must be full of germs, ticks, fleas, termites...’

  October 18th

  Kitten very plain. About ten weeks old; grey, black and white. Thin. Has bags under her grey eyes. Am smitten. After Morag and Vera leave I sit with her and try to entice her into chasing a piece of string. Finally kitten stretches out tentative paw. Remain on the floor; kitten wakefully asleep next to me. Think that this has not been a bad day. Amend thought to this has been a good day.

  Think a bit about Deirdre and the conundrum of me liking her with all her obvious faults far more than I like Morag and Vera, who are decent good women.

  Think a lot about Janice. But that is about all I’m good for at the moment: thinking.

  October 19th

  Caught Deirdre in flagrante kissing Smeg today. She looked slightly embarrassed and said, ‘I can’t help it. I love Smeg.’

  Smeg powder blue with chrome name plate and very handsome, as opposed to Dyson who is yellow and grey and untidy looking, as opposed to Atkins who is invisible and a hard task master, as opposed to Martin who is pale with ruddy cheeks and built on cuddly scale.

  Enquire after Deirdre’s relationship with newly acquired pink iPod, birthday present from Martin and capable of storing thousands of Deirdre’s favourite tunes. Deirdre shakes curls. Says she has no time for iPod. She has not one single favourite tune. Can tolerate three minutes forty-five seconds of Barry White under party conditions but that’s about it.

  ‘Where is iPod even as we speak?’ I ask.

  ‘No idea. Prefer Martin vastly to iPod.’

  Put the loves of Deirdre’s life in preferential order: Lord Dudley, Smeg, Dyson, Martin, Nigella (brand name of set of tea, coffee and sugar canisters in powder blue to keep company with Smeg), Tom Hanks, Ikea, Bluewater, John Lewis.

  October 21st:

  ‘We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the ground...’

  Miriam has impressive baritone. Two seagulls sitting on fence of TM Accountancy backyard watch her with look of surprised admiration.

  ‘And it is fed and wa-atered by God’s almighty hand...’

  She stops singing and we begin discussion as to whether it is God Almighty’s hand or god’s impressively large hand.

  ‘Will take that one to my vicar.’

  Gulls cock heads to one side; appear to be much enjoying our quasi religious discussion, beady eyes following the progress of our s
andwiches to our mouths and away again. Miriam used to say we shouldn’t feed them. Says, feed one and there’ll be two hundred waiting out here by the end of the week. Now she says she’s not so sure as vicar still considering question of whether seagulls come within the same category as ‘little children and lambs’.

  Miriam says she is a convert to hymns. Says it’s all very well everybody banging on about country, rock and blues having their roots in traditional melodies but what about the poor old hymn? Murmur something about gospel music and she says sharply, ‘Never mind about gospel music, it’s easy to enjoy gospel music. Hymns take a bit of hard work, test your vocal chords. What hymns do you know?’

  Think hard and come up with ‘Those in Peril on the Sea.’

  ‘Good one, Margaret! And another.’

  ‘To be a Pilgrim?’

  ‘Excellent. A stirring lyric.’ She bangs fist into palm of other hand and the seagulls take to the sky.

  October 22nd

  Lit first fire of autumn by accident. Decided to set light to all till and bank receipts crumpled up and thrown into the fireplace. Forgot that underneath accumulated pile Georgie had laid a fire, complete with paper spills and fire lighters. Fire started slowly but while I was out in the kitchen suddenly burst into life. Unseasonably warm morning but decided to enjoy flames. Another trace of Georgie eliminated.

  New kitten rushed in, stared at flames and rushed out again. As yet, new kitten unnamed. Deirdre has suggested Deirdre in consideration of kitten’s rather regal bearing and fine head. Laura suggested Tiffany then Dolores, then Nebuchadnezzar.

  Sat in armchair trying to pinpoint exactly when Georgie laid the fire. It was the week before she went away. Did she know she was going, perhaps thinking, ‘This is the last fire I’ll lay in this house.’ Was it a relief or a regret? Did she not give it a passing thought? In future, whatever happens, whoever I meet, I’ll let no woman get into the habit of laying fires for me.

  October 23rd

  Miriam, her vicar and Eeugh! ex-school chum Tabby arrive on my doorstep en-masse. They form an apparently good-natured crowd under the overhanging porch roof, jostling and laughing. I watch them from my bedroom window with alarm. Tabby has a large, wheeled suitcase with many labels of destination flapping from the handle and straps. Suitcase appears to be bulging. Tabby definitely not the deliverer of, say, my local paper; no, Tabby looks as if she intends to stay some days. Am about to tiptoe away from window and hide in the back bedroom till my callers have gone away when Deirdre appears in her front garden carrying a designer watering can, which, from the way she’s waving it back and forth, is empty.

  ‘She’s in,’ she shouts over. ‘Probably playing deaf. Knock and ring - that should rouse her.’

  Thinks: sometimes wonder whether Deirdre is friend or foe. Hurry downstairs, fling open front door and shout, ‘Hello and welcome.’

  All three step back, blinking like little owls.

  ‘Do come in.’

  ‘Can I come in as well?’ shouts Deirdre, already tucking watering can behind topiarised weigelia and heading down her path. NB. Deirdre hides watering can because she imagines it is a temptation to burglars, which is also why all her terracotta pots, chimney pots and planters are chained to the wall, the lengths of chain concealed under mixture of pea gravel and purple slate chippings.

  Tabby offers me the handle of her suitcase and says, ‘You’ll have to lift it off the ground. Wheels are muddy. There are pot holes the size of coal mine entrances along your road.’

  Carry case into kitchen. Guests divest themselves of coats etc, laying scarves and gloves on radiator; Deirdre divests herself of her lilac pashmina but keeps it close to hand as mistrusts guests. Hard to imagine Miriam, vicar or Tabby in lilac pashmina.

  ‘I’ll be Mum,’ Deirdre says. ‘Earl Grey for everybody?’

  Everybody disputes Earl Grey. Tabby would like hot water and a little full fat milk, Miriam wouldn’t say no to Echinacea or Peppermint tea, and the vicar wants tea strong enough to stand a teaspoon up in.

  ‘Builder’s bottom tea,’ Miriam says jocularly. Tabby, who’s still wearing her overcoat, shudders and purses her lips but says nothing, silenced by presence of woman vicar with arm draped affectionately round Builder’s bottom tea woman. In a low voice Miriam says to vicar, ‘At least I didn’t say “arse”.’

  Tabby and Deirdre flinch. Deirdre says, ‘And I’m so glad you didn’t, dude.’

  Ask for my tea just as it comes, while opening a new packet of chocolate digestives.

  ‘It comes as Earl Grey tea,’ Deirdre answers briskly and carries tray to table. ‘Now, you’ve got milky Earl Grey, you’ve got watery Earl Grey and you,’ she plonks a mug in front of vicar, tea bag still bobbing on surface, ‘have got Builder’s Bottom Earl Grey. Margaret, your Earl Grey’s next to the kettle and mine’s the cup and saucer. I’m not much of a “mug” woman.’

  Deirdre takes her rightful place at the head of my kitchen table and looks brightly at everyone. ‘I don’t think I know your gaggle of friends.’

  Make introductions. On reaching Tabby, Tabby says firmly, ‘I’m not a lesbian. I’m a single woman rather partial to her own company.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Deirdre through chocolate biscuit. ‘I live with Martin who’s also partial to his own company. We come together for blissful moments.’

  Vicar nods, wearing expression of great understanding and appreciation; says, ‘What more can we hope for than such a coming together?’

  Miriam nudges her, ‘And of course god’s love.’

  ‘Goes without saying. God’s love is omnipresent,’ vicar says.

  Deirdre looks baffled. Tabby strokes her chin and says heavily, ‘In your opinion, vicar.’

  Vicar spreads hands in multi-faith type of gesture and Deirdre says, ‘Whatever turns you on.’

  Feel it is time that I make my presence felt, so ask Tabby, ‘So where are you en route to?’

  ‘Here of course. I assume you received my emails.’

  Assert sorrowfully that I have no knowledge of emails, even as the image of Tabby’s two emails floats in front of my inner eye; the two emails I’d instantly deleted without reading.

  ‘How long were you intending to stay?’

  ‘A week, ten days. Now you’re sans Georgie I thought you could do with some company.’

  Am aghast. ‘Not possible,’ I blurt out. ‘Impossible.’

  Questioning faces turn in my direction. I play for time by dropping my biscuit on the floor and then scrabbling for it. Under the table, retrieving biscuit, look at four pairs of feet: Deirdre’s blue suede bootees, Miriam and the vicar’s matching brown leather walking boots, and Tabby’s black lace-ups. They are laced so tightly, the top of her feet must bear a criss-cross pattern for some hours after shoe removal. I look at her shoes and hate them. She cannot stay in my house even for a night. Truly not possible.

  Deirdre’s face appears at an odd angle, ‘What are you doing down there?’

  Chairs are pushed back; Miriam and the vicar are also peering at me. Not Tabby. I can see from her shoes that she’s standing up. Above me I hear the rustle of the biscuit packet. She’s helping herself to another while I am in torment! Pleadingly I stare meaningfully, first at Miriam, then at Deirdre, finally at the vicar who suddenly grins lopsidedly at me and says, ‘I don’t think you’re in any fit state for visitors Margaret.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say in a meek, mad voice.

  Heads are withdrawn.

  Hear vicar say authoritatively, ‘Obviously we’ve all arrived at Margaret’s house at a difficult time; the best thing would be for us to leave quietly.’

  Tabby expostulates, munching as she does so, ‘I’m going nowhere. This represents my autumn break.’

  Miriam says, ‘If you refuse to leave I will stand here and repeat the word “arse”, or worse.’

  Deirdre queries, ‘Is that absolutely necessary? Now come along -Tabby is it? I’ll drive you back to the station.’

  �
��As I said before I’m going nowhere.’

  From under the table I call out, ‘Please make her go away.’

  Tabby’s face comes into view, to one side and furious. ‘Is this any way to treat an old and valued friend?’

  Miriam’s walking boots approach Tabby’s black lace-ups and Tabby’s head shoots upwards and out of sight, ‘I must protest...’ she protests.

  Vicar grabs coats, scarves and gloves, and she and Miriam frog-march Tabby from my kitchen.

  ‘What about my case?’ she shouts.

  Vicar says, ‘Deirdre bring the case.’

  ‘I’m not strong enough to carry her case.’

  ‘Of course you are. Bring it!’

  Deirdre’s head drops back below table level. ‘You owe me, you daft munchkin.’

  Suitcase rises off the floor. Deirdre’s blue suede bootees pad out of kitchen. Front door slams. All is quiet. Kitten bounces in through cat flap and joins me under the table. Sits watching me eagerly, waiting for play or affection.

  October 26th

  Feel much better. Initially awkward when next see Miriam and Deirdre but not a problem. Miriam robustly kind and Deirdre amused. Says Martin roared and it’s not easy to make Martin roar. On telephone Laura diagnoses a mini-breakdown.

  October 27th

  Receive postcard from Janice. A field of scarlet poppies. She writes, ‘Hope all’s well with you and Georgie’. Then two words heavily inked out. Then: ‘Love Janice’. Inspect inked over words under halogen light plus torch; am certain they are miss and you.

  October 28th

  By way of recompense, agree to go with Miriam’s mother to visit Mrs Ferguson who is in hospital after being mugged. Miriam and vicar had already booked ten days in Venice, the City of Romance, and so were not available.