Diary of a Provincial Lesbian

by V. G. Lee

  November 30th

  Go with Martin and Deirdre to see The Meat Loaf Story. None of us were ever fans of Meat Loaf but Martin has been given free tickets by someone who did the theatre lighting, and Deirdre felt this would give her a chance to air her new ‘Rock Chick’ leather jacket. Martin seems unsure of this leather jacket - it is a step in a new fashion direction for Deirdre. Jacket petrol blue. On back is an arrow piercing a silver heart and the words, Born to be Very Bad!

  Martin tells us sternly in the foyer, ‘Now understand, you two, this isn’t the real Meat Loaf, so when the chap comes on I don’t want to hear groans of disappointment. You’ll show me up.’

  Apparently, the real Meat Loaf is about six foot-two and this chap is about a foot shorter and square shaped. We troop in. Deirdre is surprised that we don’t have a box and that we have to share our row with other members of the audience. She keeps shuddering and fiddling with her hair.

  ‘Sit still,’ Martin hisses.

  Mini-Meat-Loaf bounces on with wonderful, glorious, fantastic, incredibly beautiful women pretending to be Cher and Bonnie Tyler. The Bittlesea Bay audience goes wild, apart from me, Martin and Deirdre. Martin at least nods his head to the music. Glance at Deirdre. She wears a strange fixed smile which I know means she’s thinking, ‘This is no place for a Debenham’s girl.’

  In the interval, old style ice-cream usherettes march in front of the stage and I’m the first one in the queue. Bring back the tubs. Martin in great good humour, Deirdre icily quiet. Accepts tub between thumb and index finger as if it is a specimen and a poor one.

  ‘Surprisingly good,’ says Martin.

  I agree, Mini-Meat-Loaf is surprisingly good. Also ice-cream tub ‘And what about Bonnie Tyler look-alike?’ I say with enthusiasm.

  ‘I think they both stink,’ Deirdre says, succinctly tapping away with her wooden spoon at the rock hard ice-cream.

  However, when the finale comes, even Deirdre is swept up in the excitement. We - the whole audience - are on our feet singing along to Bat out of Hell.

  December

  December 1st

  Go with Janice to BBBP Society talk held at the Palm Court Hotel on the seafront. Not really a hotel, more a bed and breakfast. We are directed into the dining room where tables have been folded up and leant against the wall. We sit down on a variety of chairs.

  I recognise Monica and other members. Also Morag and Vera. There are at least twelve more people. These Mr Wheeler refers to in a loud undertone as Joe Public. Man in trilby hat introduces himself to Mr Wheeler and says he’s from the Listening Ear and does Mr Wheeler object to being photographed? Mr Wheeler doesn’t mind at all, in fact directs Listening Ear man to his best side. NB. Mr Wheeler’s best side gives the impression that he has a full head of hair, Mr Wheeler’s worst side gives the impression that all hair is trying to escape over a domed hillock.

  Vera, who is Mr Wheeler’s assistant for the evening, hands out photocopies with blurred black and white photograph at the top, possibly of a badger, possibly a bulky black bin bag. Mr Wheeler coughs and we settle down into attentive silence. He explains that he’d hoped to give a slide show but had been unable to lay his hands on the relevant equipment. However, he had put together a series of twelve slides and his neighbour Vera had donated her plastic slide viewer for the evening. Could we pass these around while he proceeds with his talk?

  ‘Please do return both box and slides to me at the end.’

  Feel rather proud of slide depicting the splintered lower section of my back gate.

  At some point during the talk Janice takes my hand.

  December 2nd

  Met Janice in rumoured to be gay pub.

  December 3rd

  Met Janice in pub.

  December 4th

  Janice to dinner. Janice tells me that she and her gardening team have a three week job hard landscaping a big garden in the Midlands. Feel physically sick. So reminiscent of Georgie’s excuses.

  We talk.

  Janice says gently, ‘I’ll telephone you and you can telephone me any time of day or night. I can’t make up for how Georgie treated you. You have to learn to trust me.’

  Promises to be back by Christmas. I take gulp of air and say, ‘Look, I won’t telephone or expect you to telephone me. I want to get over this fear and make a fresh start.’

  Janice lopes off into the night. So far she hasn’t stayed over. I’m waiting for some imaginary green light to proceed. Sit up late with Kitten on my knee. Realise that one of the things I most like about Janice is that she’s so straightforward, treats me as a friend yet we seem to be much more than friends. Georgie was never straightforward. And I recognise that never knowing what Georgie was thinking, doing, feeling was what had undermined me, made me the puppy or the whimperer. I had knowledge now. I wasn’t just...loving in the dark. Oh sod it. Must stop writing and get to bed.

  December 6th

  Receive Christmas card from Tabby. Picture of a horse looking philosophical. Inside, Tabby’s written, where our friendship goes from here is up to you. Season’s Greetings.

  Send card to Tabby. Choose cheerful, cheeky robin. Enclose short note suggesting that perhaps in New Year we might meet up say half-way between each other’s house for lunch.

  December 8th

  Go Christmas shopping with Deirdre. First stop is Ikea. Mildly quibble as Deirdre starts measuring the length, height and depth of a linen cushioned sofa. ‘Christmas shopping, Deirdre? Gifts for other people?’

  She ignores me. ‘Write this down,’ she says.

  I scrabble in my bag for paper and pen. She dictates, I write. She double checks my writing.

  ‘What do you think of the colour?’

  ‘Off-white?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about your white leather settees?’

  ‘Sofas,’ she corrects me. ‘Look, they’re fine for Bittlesea Bay but they do not yell London Town.’

  ‘But we live in Bittlesea Bay.’

  Patiently, as if I’m a small child: ‘We - not you - me and Martin, want our living space, including garden area, to replicate cutting edge London.’

  Squeak, ‘Reproduction Victorian lamp-post?’

  ‘That’s an ironic statement. Can we get on?’

  We get on to coffee tables and shelving. Time passes. For lunch we retire to the car park as Deirdre doesn’t care for Ikea food. She’s packed a hamper. Replete, we tilt the car seats back as far as they’ll go and snooze. After half an hour we make our way to John Lewis. Deirdre points me in the direction of a set of geometric wine glasses for her, and matching pair of carafes for Martin.

  ‘There. Satisfied? Two presents off your list.’

  December 10th

  Deirdre, incandescent, waves the local paper in my face as I enter her kitchen carrying two jars of my home-made mince meat.

  ‘Don’t think you’ll get round me with that,’ she bellows.

  ‘Calm down Deirdre...’

  ‘You’re a fifth columnist.’

  ‘I’m a what?’

  Put down jam jars and take paper from her. Headline: Not so Neighbourly Dispute. Dear Editor, what has happened to the community spirit so prevalent in our little town during the nineteen-fifties? Everyone is out for themselves. Only recently our neighbour planted a Norwegian Maple a mere fifteen feet away from our bay window. These trees grow to eighty feet and more! We feel powerless in our efforts to persuade her to move it before the foundations of our property are undermined. This neighbour represents one of the new breed of incomers; brash, moneyed and beyond reason.

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘I’m not brash, moneyed and beyond reason.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Did you write this letter?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. Your tree’s at least twenty five feet away from my bay window and note the use of “we” and “our”.’

  ‘Then it’s the ugly sisters.’

  Martin appears in the kitchen doorway, frowning.

/>   ‘Martin, I’ve whittled the culprits down to those interfering busybodies next door.’

  He ignores her and picks up the newspaper, frown increasing.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

  ‘Is this true?’ he asks. ‘Will it grow to eighty feet?’

  ‘I have no idea. I thought it was a Japanese Maple. Six foot after ten years.’

  ‘Deirdre,’ Martin says sternly (she quails slightly). ‘I want the correct facts about that spindly little runt of a tree in our front garden. What is it and how big will it grow?’

  ‘Japanese, Norwegian, what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters about seventy-foot worth. I don’t want a bloody tree dwarfing my house and cutting out the light in the library.’

  Leave Martin and Deirdre arguing. Martin saying tree must go, Deirdre saying over her dead body.

  In morning tree gone. Assume Deirdre is dead but see her getting into her car wearing huge sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat, looking like an Italian film star. Do not know why I think this as I don’t know any Italian film stars apart from Sophia Loren who looks nothing like Deirdre.

  December 11th

  Leafless Japanese Maple replacement shivering out in Deirdre’s front garden. Looks as if it needs at least a warm cardigan.

  December 12th

  Go to London. Am staying in Laura’s flat for two nights. Believe her to be at Iris’s flat. Saturday evening follow directions to a party Laura has told me about. Dress with care as I want to make an excellent impression. Wear a red t-shirt with ‘Some Girls have all the Luck!’ written across the front - lucky recent find from Hospice Shop. Am not so sure of my Fab Clothing emerald green tubular long skirt even while appreciating useful pockets for keys, loose change and small torch. Legs constricted so can only take minute steps. Walk down several dark and empty roads, recalling Wheeler’s Watch advice to dress in clothes suitable for a fast sprint.

  Arrive at party to find that I’m the only woman wearing a skirt. Predominant colours worn by party goers: black with a smattering of gold lurex.

  Laura bounces up and says, ‘Blimey you look like a Christmas cracker.’

  Stand on dignity. Ask stiffly whether that is good or bad?

  She scratches her head in affected perplexed manner and says, ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Look I want to tell you - you haven’t seen me in months.’

  ‘But I saw you a week ago.’

  ‘You didn’t...’

  Handsome woman wearing black jeans and t-shirt appears at Laura’s side and takes her arm affectionately, looks inquiringly at me.

  ‘You must be Iris,’ I say, holding out my hand. Notice Laura is trying to cross her eyes and wink at the same time. I falter.

  ‘This is Pam,’ Laura says.

  ‘Ah Pam. I’ve heard so much about you,’ I gush. Pam takes my hand, returns it to me with at least two fingers broken.

  ‘I’m Margaret.’

  ‘Yeah, I guessed.’

  Laura says, ‘I haven’t heard from Margaret in eons. How long has it been, six months? She’s way behind with my life history.’

  Agree weakly that I am way behind. Pam kisses Laura, grins at me, and drifts away towards the kitchen. Laura says quickly and furtively, ‘Pam thinks I stopped seeing Iris at least four months ago.’

  ‘Why would she think that?’

  ‘Because it’s what I’ve told her.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because it’s what Pam wants to hear. She wouldn’t be happy with the truth.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Oh, questions, questions. Iris and I split up last weekend and I didn’t want to come to this party on my own.’

  ‘What about me? I’m your oldest friend.’

  ‘Precisely, and anyway you don’t dance.’

  ‘I can jig around.’

  ‘Not the same thing at all.’

  ‘Aren’t you even upset?’

  ‘Of course I’m upset but I’m not about to wallow in it. Here comes Pam. Say as little as possible. Treat all questions as incriminatory. You know nothing about anything to do with me. Ah, Pam, you’re an angel. How did you know I was gasping for a drink?’

  Enjoyed party. Met many women I knew through Georgie. Was surprised and pleased that they all wanted to talk to me. Did dance. Regretted telling Laura that I could only ‘jig around’. Actually danced rather well.

  December 14th

  Have been roped in by Miriam’s vicar for ‘Christmas Carol Parade’ duties. Miriam has surprised me by disclosing that she plays an accordion. Brings accordion into the office while Tom is away delivering festive bottles of whisky to his clients, and rattles through her repertoire. At the end of an hour, begin to find all tunes sound remarkably similar to one of Mum’s old favourites, South of the Border Down Mexico Way, apart from The Sailor’s Hornpipe and If I Had a Hammer. Try to sing ‘Away in a Manger’ to tune of South of Border etc. This works surprisingly well. Miriam very excited! Says her vicar will be pleased as she’s always trying to put a contemporary slant on old hymns. Vicar says it helps to get the punters in.

  We try others. Find almost every carol, with the exception of Hark the Herald Angels Sing, can be fitted into South of the Border. Miriam muses on whether she should wear a sombrero and a false moustache. Maybe a poncho. She owns several ponchos she’d crocheted for herself during the nineteen-sixties.

  ‘Crocheted ponchos don’t sound very Mexican,’ I tell her.

  Receive scornful look. Miriam says I don’t know what I’m talking about and that I’m on very dodgy ground criticizing her crocheting. Explain patiently that no way am I criticizing her crocheting, on the contrary her crocheting is of first class quality but a) a crocheted poncho doesn’t sound very Mexican and b) in any case is dressing up as a stereotypical Mexican appropriate for a Christmas Carol Parade?

  Miriam looks most annoyed. Says, ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ and packs away her accordion.

  December 15th

  Laura telephoned. Said sorry about the mix-up at party but if you’re making an omelette you have to crack eggs. Replied that I did not wish to be a part of her egg cracking activities.

  Laura said impatiently, ‘Can we move on? I want to talk about Christmas.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Nic and Simone have invited me to their house for Christmas dinner.’

  ‘They’ve invited me as well.’

  ‘Did you know they’d invited your neighbour, Deirdre?’

  Was most surprised. ‘But they hardly know Deirdre.’

  ‘They do now. She called in to offer Nic belated congratulations on her Golden Trowel win. Asked if she could see Nic’s famous clematis folly. Said she knew they wouldn’t mind as she was such a dear friend of yours. Had seen you through your recent bereavement.’

  Could not be annoyed with Deirdre. She is unstoppable. In fact, during the afternoon in she bounced carrying a small bunch of red roses. ‘Saw these and thought of you,’ she said. ‘Kettle on. I know you’ll be livid but I wangled an invite to your mates in the posh house. Throw me out on the street if you’re furious.’

  Switched on kettle. Found vase for roses. ‘Biscuits Deirdre?’

  ‘Not today. We’re on a spiritual biscuit fast between now and Christmas Eve. Its hell but we’re taking it one day at a time.’

  December 16th

  Tom offers us the choice of a festive get-together in the office, a meal at Carlito’s Way or a fifty pound bonus. Miriam and I opt for the bonus then offer to treat Tom to Carlito’s Way as he is partnerless and spending Christmas with his mum - Absolutely no problemo, adore the ground she walks on, she’s one in a million. Tom quite overcome by our generosity.

  December 17th

  Miriam is wearing a sombrero and a false moustache, also a poncho but not crocheted. It’s made of a piece of grey blanket to which she’s appliquéd felt holly leaves and berries. Everyone else, including me and the vicar, are wearing sensible coats, scarves and h
ats. ‘Parade’ consists of the three of us, several small children from the Sunday school and their parents. The plan is to march on the shopping precinct and mingle with the Christmas shoppers.

  Miriam very much in her element. NB. Would have never thought at the beginning of the year that Miriam would be in her element dressing up in pseudo Mexican garb and playing an accordion in public. She sets off at our head hailing passers by with ‘Season’s greetings amigos.’

  We march in twos. I partner a small boy called Simon who is listing all the Christmas presents he hopes to get. ‘The computer's a cert., the scooter’s a cert., the golf clubs are a cert., the...’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘What do you want with golf clubs?’

  Gives me a withering look and continues with list.

  Miriam now about fifteen yards ahead of us playing All You Need is Love. Vicar sprints after her and orders her to stand still so we can all catch up.

  ‘We’ll start with In the Bleak Mid-Winter to the traditional tune please, Miriam?’

  ‘What about South of the Border?’

  ‘We’ll reserve that for Come All Ye Faithful.’

  Miriam twiddles her moustache and says, ‘Certainement, mon Capitaine.’

  Vicar looks about to lose her temper. Miriam deflates. Our small parade of carollers proceeds, singing weakly.

  Shopping precinct packed. No immediately evident Christmas spirit. We are pushed and shoved. I find myself isolated, pressed up against the window of Marks & Spencer. Spot vicar waving hymn sheet above the heads of the crowd.