Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (25 page)
Janice! All these months I’ve been puzzling over just why Janice looked so familiar and now I know.
Asked Georgie where’d she’d been all night. She said, ‘I slept in the car. A bit chilly but I’ve done it before.’
‘When you were with Stella?’
‘Yes. Towards the end we had some almighty rows.’
Now we are polite. We respond to each other over barriers of our own making. Somehow we have set each other free. I don’t quite understand how this has happened.
September 30
th
I’ve asked Georgie to leave.
October
October 5
th
Georgie left today. The third time, counting in February, April and now. Each leaving has been very different: shock, despair, miserable relief. She’s found a flat in Brighton, which is twenty miles away, not far from where she used to live. At this moment I can’t imagine we could ever be friends in the future.
Spent some time thinking that these last few weeks – how, as miserable as they’ve been, they’ve been good for me. I’ve seen Georgie objectively and realised that the woman I loved was in part a fabrication, part a memory. How I’d held on to the Georgie of our early years, been comforted by rare glimpses.
I remember seeing us both reflected in the supermarket window months ago, when we’d physically differed so much - see now that our outer differences were an (incarnation?) of our inner differences.
Thinks: in my imagination Georgie grew taller, more attractive, cleverer, sophisticated, while I dwindled into small, indistinct, boring, unattractive and finally worthless. Discussed this phenomenon with Laura rather than Deirdre, as Deirdre too blanket dismissive of unpleasant thoughts or considerations. Laura surprised me. Said she was aware that I’d come to see myself negatively in comparison to Georgie and hadn’t known how to deal with it. Said I became a shadow or the grey background to the colourful desirable woman I saw Georgie to be, enabling Georgie to become even more colourful and desirable. Laura felt that, in the months after Georgie had left, miserable old bat that I was, my old self had started to re-surface.
Laura reveals that she is now in therapy and finding it all very interesting, particularly information relevant to herself. Iris is also in therapy and they’re getting on better than they ever have before, discussing their mutual self-fascination.
Generously, Laura brought the conversation back to me saying, ‘Not laying down any hard and fast law here, Margaret, but I think with you the key thing is to feel the same size as any future partner. This in the abstract of course. If you feel small and worthless, take that as a sign that something’s going wrong.’
‘What about you? How do you think you and Iris suit each other?’
‘We are different faces of the same coin.’
‘Will I ever meet her?’
‘Hard to tell. You know me, I like to compartmentalize.’
October 7
th
Meet Nic and Simone in town late night shopping. This time they don’t try to avoid me.
‘How you doing?’ Nic asks, putting her arms round my shoulders.
‘Ok.’
‘It didn’t work out then?’
‘No.’
Simone asks, ‘For the best, perhaps?’
‘I think so.’
‘Will you see her again?’
‘Too early to say.’
They treat me to fisherman’s pie and baked beans in Debenham’s.
October 9
th
Lorraine Carter has been meek and mild to everybody for at least a week. Noreen says that she’s probably dating and getting ‘it’ regularly. Noreen complains that
she’s
not getting ‘it’ regularly at all. She really likes Peter, in fact if he wasn’t such a slow coach she thinks she could fall for Peter, but in the meantime she’s got to fill the vacancy any way she can.
‘What do you do when you’re frustrated, Margaret?’ she asks.
I tell her, ‘My partner left me recently so I’m not bothering too much about the lack of ‘it’ at the moment.’
‘Oh shame!’ says Noreen. ‘Did he go off with another woman?’
‘It’s painful, Noreen.’
‘Sorry. Must be awful. Did he go off with another woman?’
‘
Too
painful to talk about.’
October 11
th
Feeling a bit better, although it is still easy to get shaky when anxious. Also back to normal with Miriam. We have resumed eating our sandwiches on the office step and Tom has retreated behind his closed door.
Miriam tells me that all is not well in the Tom and Barry camp. Tom has developed an aversion to Barry’s feet. Says he’s been over-exposed to them. Has told Miriam, ‘They stick out at the end of the bed even though we’ve got a king-size. Every morning I see them: long, white and bony. I’ve appealed to Barry not to wiggle his toes. His last partner found toe wiggling a turn-on. Believe me, Miriam, as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing worse than white, wiggling toes.’
The vicar suggested Barry wear socks in bed of a colour decided by Tom, but Tom says it’s too late for socks; his aversion has travelled right up Barry’s legs. Leg warmers perhaps?
However Miriam and I are relieved that it’s Tom going off Barry rather than the other way round. Miriam said, ‘I couldn’t stand anybody else with a bleeding heart in this office.’ As always her sympathetic self.
October 12
th
Prune Tilly’s rose bush then stop for boiled eggs and toasted soldiers. From my position at the kitchen table I’m able to watch Deirdre’s Lord Dudley entertaining himself with a gigantic caterpillar. At least I think it’s a gigantic caterpillar. Very nasty looking: oily black, fat, about four inches long with a sort of hard carapace. Each time it curls up, Lord Dudley pokes it open with his paw. This scene, depicting nature red in tooth and claw, is distracting me from my soft boiled eggs. I go outside and find a plank of wood. Bat the bug behind the plant pots. Have uneasy thought that were Janice with me she would disapprove of my batting bug. Put Janice from mind. Return to eggs. As I settle down, the bug crawls back into view. Seems quite chirpy. Sort of ‘second round’. Lord Dudley delighted. Out I go again and bat bug firmly back behind the pots, while also registering what a fearsomely disgusting bug it is. Could not imagine what it will turn into; something slimy with scales and wings. Not a dragon. A small dragon would be okay. Surround bug with more pots. Return to stone cold eggs. One of my toasted soldiers a little blackened and curled, looks suspiciously like batted bug. Cannot eat any more. Bug again appears. Thinks: if this bug was a human being or a scruffy animal I would not keep batting it. Go out with old tea cup. Upend over bug. Slide piece of cardboard underneath. Feel queasy as I meet with invisible resistance. Carry teacup etc up slope and push cup, cardboard and bug through gap in fence into Mr Wheeler’s garden. Turn round to find Lord Dudley in hot pursuit. He also disappears through gap in fence.
October 14
th
Find half-finished letter beginning
Storm Force 8!
and can’t think what it refers to. Have not read the
Listening Ear
for several weeks. In Deirdre’s having tea and muesli bar (Atkins has been deserted for muesli and okra diet). See this week’s issue. Deirdre follows my gaze and says, ‘Definitely not my kind of newspaper. Martin buys it for the letter page. Some daft correspondence with an A. Oakley. He’s convinced she’s a spinster, embittered, possibly retired or in part time work.’
‘Could almost be me.’
‘That’s what I said, but you’re off the hook. Martin says you’re too young and incapable of either base cunning or crass stupidity. Another muesli bar?’
‘No thanks. Should you eat five at a time?’
Deirdre nods her head. ‘Absolutely. I’m dieting, but no way am I going to starve myself. Anyway, now A. Oakley’s gone silent, Martin says she’s running scared or in a loony bin.’
Murmur that ‘loony bin’ rather an unpleasant term and also say ‘poor woman’.
‘Nonsense. It’s a fantastic word. I love it. She’s in a bin full of loonies. Completely gaga!’
Wince internally. Later, at home, reflect on why and how my letter writing has turned into an issue with Martin who I’m very fond of? Move on to, is Martin secretly enjoying the cut and thrust? Move on to whether I should send one last letter or stop this instant?
October 15
th
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 16
th
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.’