Diary of a Provincial Lesbian Read online

  Was it a good evening? I think so. Martin told a funny story about Mussolini who is one of his heroes. Martin’s heroes aren’t everyone’s heroes. Fortunately he does draw the line at Hitler. Then Nic and Simone did an hour on their upvc windows and Laura gave a demonstration of how to correctly dance the tango using the broom for a partner. Returned it to the cupboard saying, ‘You haven’t half got a lot of cleaning equipment in there. All Pam’s got is a brush and pan.’

  Deirdre looked appalled. ‘What about a hoover? We couldn’t live without our Dyson, could we Martin?’

  ‘Indeed we couldn’t.’

  This was meant to be humorously sarcastic as its touch and go whether Martin even knows where the Dyson lives. Or perhaps he thinks that’s the name of the person who irons his shirts. Dyson, when you hang my shirts up, could you colour match them to my fresh underpants?

  ‘Pam’s got floor boards. She just brushes the bits into the cracks between,’ Laura said blithely, checking her jaw line in the mirror over the fireplace.

  ‘Eeugh!’ Deirdre resolves never to visit Laura and Pam’s flat were she to be invited.

  Georgie says, ‘Is this talk about cleaning very interesting? Margaret, the music’s stopped. Put something lively on.’

  Riffle through our collection of CD’s. Consider putting on the late Kathleen Ferrier warbling, What is life to me without thee, what is life if thou art dead? Instead find Emmylou Harris who everyone except Deirdre, who hates music, will like.

  True to form Deirdre first asks for the music to be turned down, then appeals plaintively, ‘Haven’t you got any background music? Must there always be singing? What happened to good old peace and quiet?’

  Georgie, Martin, and Nic retire to the front room to talk about work. Georgie designs lighting systems for the leisure industry as in clubs and casinos, Martin designs music systems for a similar market, Nic took a course in home electrics, so they have much to discuss. Which leaves me, Simone, Deirdre and Laura. For five minutes conversation is sporadic and then we hit on why can’t Laura be satisfied with any of her girlfriends. This pleases Laura who loves the opportunity to talk about herself, pleases Simone who likes hearing about trials, tribulations or serious illness, pleases Deirdre as she loves giving advice, pleases me because I can relax and stop worrying that the evening has been a failure and it is probably my fault.

  Later, as we’re getting ready for bed, Georgie reveals that she can take or leave Deirdre and Laura.

  ‘They’re self satisfied and empty headed,’ she says.

  I don’t immediately defend my friends because yes, they are both the above but also funny, affectionate and resourceful. As usual say nothing. No, actually I say, ‘You may be right,’ but pull my face into an unattractive apologetic grimace. Which seems as if I’m apologizing to Georgie for the quality of my friends. I should be apologizing to Deirdre and Laura.

  Snuggled up in bed with the light out I say, ‘What about Martin?’

  Georgie makes an irritable movement of her shoulders. ‘He’s all right. At least he has something sensible to say.’

  Georgie falls asleep while I am still trying to remember one sensible thing I’ve said that evening.

  Jan 19th

  Came home via supermarket. Bought six tins of cat food, three bottles of cat milk plus bag of cat litter for Tilly who now prefers to use the indoor facilities. Staggered up the steep incline that is our street, momentarily wondering how people like Sir Edmund Hillary had managed to climb Mount Everest even with bearers bearing shopping.

  Miriam’s mother has made a miraculous recovery. Tom treats us to chocolate éclairs at lunch time by way of celebration. Miriam visibly moved by Tom’s thoughtfulness.

  Owe Georgie a fiver.

  Jan 22nd

  Bought copy of the Listening Ear and yes, they’ve printed my letter. But not all of it. They’ve left out the opening paragraph welcoming the influx of ten lesbians to Bittlesea Bay and only printed the section about the need for more dog toilets and calls for increased vigilance by dog wardens and the non-dog-owning public. Glad I didn’t use my real name. Signed myself A. Oakley as in Annie Oakley. Spent two hours writing a letter of complaint to the local about discriminatory editing of readers’ letters. Does the Listening Ear have a problem with the burgeoning lesbian community?

  Jan 24th

  Receive email this morning from old school friend, Tabby, saying she is visiting another old school friend, Nina who lives in Tunbridge Wells and wonders if she could break her journey at my house. Problem: the last time I saw Tabby was at my engagement party to Ronald twenty-five years ago. Although we have kept in touch via Christmas cards and the odd email she has no idea that my proclivities came to their senses soon after. Show Tabby’s email to Georgie. She says, ‘You haven’t seen her in a quarter of a century, why would you want to see her now?’

  Which suddenly makes me insist that it is of vital importance that I do see her now.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because longevity in relationships is priceless!’ I almost shout.

  Georgie gives me a steady look and then goes upstairs to her office in the box room. I hear the door close. March up stairs, fling open box room door and demand, ‘Well shall I or shan’t I?’

  She looks up from her laptop as if within the last minute she’s completely forgotten my existence. ‘Whatever,’ she says.

  ‘What exactly does “whatever” mean?’

  ‘Whatever you want to do, just do it but let me get on. I’ve several important calls to make.’

  Do not like being dismissed so important calls can be made, however try to imagine myself to be Rose from Upstairs, Downstairs and bob a curtsey before saying, ‘Would you like a coffee while you make your calls, ma’am?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  Georgie is not amused or has never in the distant past watched Upstairs, Downstairs.

  ‘Are you saying “no thank you” because you’re annoyed with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look, I know you want a coffee. You always have a coffee about now.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll have a coffee.’

  Unhappy with Georgie’s resigned tone but take her a coffee. She thanks me without looking up. Wonder if there is any significance about coffee. Is coffee - Georgie drinking it and me making it, making us both irritable?

  Answer: inconclusive. I email Tabby:

  Dear Tabby, change this to Hi Tabby, which looks more casual but not as casual as Yo Tabby. It would be lovely to see you again after such a long time. I didn’t marry Ronald, I fell in love with his sister would you believe? To cut a long story short I now live with Georgie, also a woman but not Ronald’s sister although she remains a good friend.

  Tabby replies within the hour: See you around 5pm on Tuesday 27th.

  Meet Miriam in The Corner Coffee Shop. We order two Coffee Ice Magnifico’s. Our mugs contain a small amount of cold coffee topped with three inches of ice-cream and pink marshmallow, a chocolate flake sticking out of each summit. Miriam and I often discuss diets. Usually Deirdre and Martin’s diets. Today, guiltily we do not discuss diets, we just luxuriate. I tell Miriam about the forthcoming visit of old school friend and she reveals that she still lives with her mother.

  ‘Do you get on with your mother?’ I ask cautiously, knowing mothers can be tricky subjects.

  ‘She’s a feisty old lady,’ Miriam says which tells me little. It’s the sort of description I’d give of my own mother when first discussing her, only moving on later to ‘She’s a miserable old bat’.

  Almost immediately Miriam moves on saying, ‘She can be cantankerous.’

  ‘In what way?’ I arrange my features into a diplomatic expression before biting off a chunk of chocolate flake.

  Miriam looks evasive. The tip of her nose pinkens and she pulls a tissue from her anorak pocket.

  ‘So this is where the two of you hide out!’ Our shoulders are gripped and both our faces plunged into ice-cream. We come up
spluttering.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom Matthews says. ‘Mind if I squat?’ and he pulls up a chair looking eagerly at Miriam then me, then back to Miriam.

  I say, ‘Just talking about mothers.’

  He strokes his long chin. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,’ he says.

  ‘Well you have to, if they die,’ I say cheerfully. Realise that the early evening Corner Coffee Shop crowd amused by the spectacle of two women doused in cream are now listening to our conversation. Many, possibly mothers are frowning in my direction.

  ‘My old mum’s a jewel, Tom says. ‘I’d be devastated if anything happened to her.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Miriam who I’ve obviously completely misunderstood. I push aside Coffee Ice Magnifico and stand up. Say, ‘Better see about Georgie’s tea.’

  ‘Georgie?’ Tom queries. ‘Your fellah? Your better half?’

  ‘My partner.’

  Leave. As I pass the Coffee Shop’s window I see that Tom has commandeered my Magnifico and is talking to Miriam. Cannot see Miriam’s face.

  Jan 27th

  Central heating radiator in guest bedroom not working so get Georgie to bring early model, electric fan heater down from loft. This causes much swearing and ill natured thumping as fan heater, a relic from Georgie’s bedsit days, has hidden itself away in the twenty-fourth of twenty-four cardboard boxes.

  Downstairs in kitchen I prepare my four cheese lasagne, which invariably results in dinner guest later experiencing either horrific or erotic nightmares. Adorn table with leftover Christmas crackers, Christmas paper serviettes, Christmas red and gold candles.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Georgie says on her way through to the sitting room. ‘It looks as if you’ve got Cardinal Wolsey coming to dinner. I need a drink.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ I say soothingly. Pour both of us double strength gin and tonics with moon and star shaped ice cubes. Carry them into sitting room. In doorway regret non removal of Marigold gloves.

  ‘Cheers,’ I shout gaily.

  ‘Cheers,’ she mutters grimly. Takes mouthful then looks suspiciously at glass, ‘Go easy on the gin next time.’

  Work out that Tabby’s train was due in ten minutes ago which means her taxi should be arriving at any moment. Take off apron, rubber gloves; switch on porch light, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Don’t personally care for the classics but every birthday am bought a classical CD by Georgie’s parents. This my own fault as on first introduction I’d enthused over their extensive collection and said that my one ambition was to turn the back bedroom into a classical music library.

  Take Georgie in a refill, have one for myself. Light candles. Set Four Seasons back to the beginning. Georgie appears in kitchen doorway looking more relaxed. ‘You are a fraud,’ she says. ‘You just want to impress this woman.’

  ‘Well why not?’

  We have one of those rare split seconds of total communion and then the phone rings. It is Tabby saying there are no taxis at the station, it is pitch black and she’s being watched by several sinister looking men. I say, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll collect you. Be there in five minutes.’

  Georgie stares at me with stunned annoyance.

  ‘Margaret I can’t possibly drive, I’m well over the limit.’

  ‘I’ll drive.’

  ‘You’re well over the limit.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if I lose my license - I hardly use the car.’

  ‘I’ll bloody drive.’

  In silence we drive to the station. From the tense line of Georgie’s jaw I can tell she’s absolutely furious. We pull into the station forecourt; pass a line of four waiting taxis. Immediately recognise Tabby, her sergeant major posture hasn’t changed at all. The six metal buttons of her double breasted military style winter coat look as if they’d been regularly spit and polished. Know then that I am mad to have invited her. A door in my memory has swung open. I’m remembering the young Tabby, remembering that I didn’t like her, remembering that nobody liked her apart from another girl called Nina, who nobody liked either.

  I hurry forwards. Kiss her cheek. She rears back as if I’ve made a pass at her. ‘Have you been drinking?’ are her first words of greeting.

  ‘Only a small g & t. We didn’t expect to be driving this evening.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I should let myself get in a car with the two of you in this state.’ We stand silently. ‘Oh very well. I expect taxis down here don’t come cheap.’

  She marches ahead of me towards the car. Gets in next to Georgie. I slip into the back seat.

  Tabby’s visit abominable. Appeared insulted by crackers, picked at lasagne while clasping her stomach with spare hand, drank only tap water, disliked central heating, also fan heaters. Said fan heaters were death traps. Introduced her to Samson, Delilah and Tilly in certain knowledge that pets can often be excellent bonding agents.

  ‘Do you have any pets?’ I ask.

  ‘I prefer people,’ Tabby replies grimly.

  From nervousness I squeak, ‘As pets?’

  Later when Georgie has retired to bed with trumped up migraine Tabby says, ‘That was a nasty trick, dumping Ronald for his sister. There was nothing wrong with Ronald. I wouldn’t have said “no” to Ronald.’

  ‘As I mentioned in my email I fell in love with his sister.’

  ‘Well where is she?’

  ‘As I mentioned in my email I’m now with Georgie.’

  ‘First you fall in love with Ronald, then his sister, now Georgie, who’s next? You were like that at school - no staying power. We always had to bring in a substitute for the second half of a hockey match.’

  Show Tabby to her room. Offer her a choice of novels.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says with a shudder as if I’ve offered her pornography instead of an Anita Brookner, a Margaret Drabble, and a Pat Barker. Marches into guest room saying, ‘Now for a start we’ll have this off,’ and unplugs the fan heater. Shuts bedroom door firmly in my face.

  Would like to discuss the Tabby phenomenon with Georgie but she is feigning deep and satisfying sleep. Query: why did Tabby agree to stay if she so disliked and disapproved of me? Tossed and turned for some time. It’s not pleasant to be disliked and disapproved of in one’s own house by guests. Not what one expects.

  Finally Georgie switches side lamp on and sits up.

  ‘I know what you’re fretting about but listen and then go to sleep. Your mate Tabby will be just as dreadful to her friend, Nina, tomorrow. She can’t help being dreadful. It’s her nature and not anything personal about you. Ok?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I just do know. You act. I think. Sometimes that works in your favour, this time it didn’t. Now can we get some shut-eye?’

  We settle down, Georgie lying on her back, me tucked under her arm, my head resting on her shoulder, ‘Sorry about Tabby.’ I whisper.

  ‘We’ll laugh about this tomorrow.’

  With relief we waved Tabby off to the station in a taxi the next afternoon and then we did laugh.

  February

  Feb 1st

  A word about the Bittlesea Bay Café which is one of my favourite places. It looks out over green hills dotted with patches of gorse that by mid-March become vivid splashes of yellow - also out over the seafront and the sea. There’s a terrace balcony where we sit when the weather’s ok, the home-made cakes are delicious, gateaux divided into generous wedges, huge cream teas from Easter Bank Holiday onwards. A nice touch is the large metal water bowls left out for all visiting dogs. Dogs are allowed in the café provided they stick to the smoking area.

  Georgie says it’s not very clean which I dispute. She has a habit of running her hand across unfamiliar table tops and sometimes being unpleasantly surprised by what adheres. No matter, I love it. Deirdre loves it. She says ‘Unbeatable’, smacking her lips as if the café’s a mouth-watering plate of food. ‘Where else could you find such a view?’

  Which is very loyal of her as she’s travelled
to India, Australia, Greece, Holland, Italy, Canada and Cornwall and must have found an equally fabulous view in at least one of those exotic places!

  This afternoon, by the time I arrive, Deirdre is already ensconced. As always she looks almost larger than life, wearing a cream and pale pink patterned trouser suit, her stylish raffia handbag colour matched to ensemble by way of attached cream and pink silk roses. Also pink scarf, pink lipstick and pink cheeks. Outside its six degrees centigrade, inside and Deirdre’s dressed for a summer wedding.

  ‘I’ll be Mum,’ she says as I strip off my fleece, woollen waistcoat, hat, scarf, gloves.

  Cheerfully we remark on how this is the first time that the metal tea pot has poured without soaking the tablecloth, however the metal milk jug more than makes up for this and we mop up the mess with two paper serviettes.

  ‘Wow! Is this fantastic or is this fantastic?!’ exclaims Deidre taking in the view of anoraked dog walkers battling against the wind. Her gaze pans back to my carrier bags, ‘Been shopping?’

  ‘Just the Hospice shop.’

  She leans forward and says sotto voce, ‘Would they have any really old, antique fabrics in a place like that? You know, the sort of stuff that’s worth a fortune but the old dears that run the place haven’t got a clue.’

  Deirdre, as a successful designer with accounts at Debenham’s and John Lewis, has never been near a charity shop. She did once come with me to a boot fair out in the countryside, again in the hope of purchasing quantities of antique fabric, and was appalled at what she saw as the poverty of stalls and stall holders.

  ‘Eeuw?’ she’d squealed standing on the edge of the field and looking shocked. ‘So depressing.’

  I looked across the table into her eager face, ‘I don’t think so.’