Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (31 page)

‘I think you do. Pam told me that a friend of hers knew a woman at work who was best mates with this other woman who worked with a landscape gardener called Janice. And this Janice was,
sick, puke, yuck
, potty about a friend of mine who lived in a twee sounding outpost in Sussex. I said, “Can’t be my friend. She’s still pining for her last partner.” Then Pam said, “Her name’s Margaret Charlecote.” And there can’t be that many Margaret Charlecote’s in your twee sounding outpost.’

Found nothing to say.

‘Well?’ Laura prompted.

‘Could you repeat that?’

‘What, “Her name’s Margaret Charlecote”?’

‘No, the bit that came after
sick, puke, yuck.
’

Walked on the beach for an hour. Even in winter, the first break in the weather and the beach gets busy. I noticed lots of couples, admittedly most of them straight but all holding hands. Began to calm down. Looked for things that might interest Janice if she were with me, the dogs chasing sticks and discarded plastic bottles, the late seagull fledglings, fat and brown-feathered, sitting feathers ruffled on the pebbles, the kids and adults bouncing stones on the waves.

Sit on a bench and think of Janice, how she lightly touches my elbow when I’m crossing the road, picture her face and that rare smile.
Margaret, keep the faith,
I tell myself.

December 20
^th

Go with Miriam to now definitely gay-friendly pub. Have seen advertisement in
What’s On
in the local. Small rainbow banner proclaiming Delicious Home Cooked Food, Fine Wines, Local Beers, Live Music before 9pm and, in tiny italics,
Gay Friendly
.

Pub dressed for Christmas: in corner twinkling tree, much tinsel looped above the bar, and posters wishing us all a
Very Happy Christmas
.

‘This is nice,’ I say to Miriam when she comes back with our drinks.

‘What about the rest of the lgbt community?’

Respond mildly, ‘It’s a step in the right direction.’

‘Right direction be damned, I’ve a good mind to write to the
List.
..’

Now I’ve stopped writing it seems everyone else has started. This afternoon Deirdre showed me her long list of complaints about Bittlesea Bay’s populace which she intends to send after the Christmas postal rush. Final paragraph: W
hy can’t we ship fifty percent of this town’s population, including children under twenty, abroad, and import sophisticated continental types who will start wine bars, restaurants and create a cosmopolitan ambience?

Back at table in gay-friendly pub I smile warmly at the landlord, who looks a little concerned by Miriam’s lowering brow and brusque manner.

‘Don’t do that,’ Miriam says sharply.

‘Do what?’

‘Grin at matey over there.’

‘Why not?  No good encouraging us to come to his pub and then finding out we’re miserable and aggressive.’

‘There’s a principle at stake.’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Miriam, can we just have a pleasant evening?’

Miriam relaxes and actually smiles at me. ‘Ok. It’s great, isn’t it? Feeling cheerful.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll notice I’m not asking why. I’m giving you space. I’ve learnt a bit about human nature, spending time with my caring, sharing vicar.’

‘I’m very pleased.’

‘So anything doing? Any action? Hanky panky afoot?’

‘Nothing to report as yet.’

‘At least Georgie’s a dim and distant memory.’

‘Yes, just about.’

Miriam fidgets with her watch strap then says, ‘I wanted to say that since the two of you split up I feel we’ve become proper friends. All the years we’ve worked together - you always seemed completely absorbed in yours and Georgie’s life; there wasn’t much room for anyone else.’

Study Miriam in yellow light of pub, which is not kind to her and surely not kind to me either. Realise I like Miriam.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m glad we’re friends. It’s odd, only a matter of months since she left for good yet I feel so different. I
was
complacent and set in my domestic couple routines. In a way I don’t blame her for leaving, only the dishonesty.’

Later in the evening, when both of us have settled into a mellow good humour, the landlord brings over two free drinks. Miriam manages to get in a few words with him about the lgbt community as a whole, but pleasantly, her words slightly slurred. On the way home she tells me that the vicar has advised her to replace irritability with compassion, which she finds much easier to do after a meal of scampi and chips washed down with several glasses of wine.

December 22
^nd

My last day at Russell’s. Receive a Russell’s gift voucher for thirty pounds, a very large poinsettia, and a biscuit barrel.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Peter tells me.

‘No way,’ I respond with great enthusiasm as if wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.

December 23
^rd

In Deirdre’s gazebo. Quite warm as she’s lit her oil-powered outside heater. In fact almost too warm. Deirdre resentful as she feels that she has been forced out of the house by Martin. He’s playing the electric guitar she bought him for Christmas, has been out first thing to buy the
Jerry Lee Lewis Songbook
from a local music shop.

‘I’ve had
Your Cheating Heart
up to here,’ Deirdre says, and, ‘Who is Jerry Lee Lewis? Wasn’t he an American comedian? Why can’t Martin have someone contemporary and quiet for an idol?’

Admit that, although I did used to like
Your Cheating Heart
(also one of Mum’s favourites) Martin’s bangra treatment has rather overwhelmed the poignancy of the lyrics.

Sudden cessation of sound from Martin and we enjoy the tranquillity of the low hum of her outdoor heater. Slowly become aware of tap-tapping sound coming from the kitchen. It continues. Deirdre seems unaware of the noise. I notice Lord Dudley in kitchen window, which means he’s journeyed over several work surfaces to reach this spot. He flattens his relatively flat face against the glass and stares meaningfully at Deirdre.

I say, ‘Deirdre, I think Lord Dudley’s trying to tell you something.’

‘Oh blast it,’ she says, but good humouredly. Raises her voice, ‘Come out of there you little devil.’

No response from Lord Dudley. Tapping sound ceases abruptly, then after thirty seconds begins again only more frantically. Lord Dudley makes a silent miaow.

Deirdre shouts, ‘I mean it. You’re in trouble if I have to leave my gazebo...’

Lord Dudley peers back over his shoulder into kitchen. Hear an annoyed squawk and then a large seagull marches out of the kitchen onto the decking. It riffles its feathers irritably. Deirdre beams. ‘Clever boy,’ she says, and then to me, ‘I speak the language of animals.’

December 24
^th

Determined to keep cheerful, although there’s been no word from Janice. Laura has arrived and says, ‘You’ve got her mobile number - ring the woman.’

But I won’t. Laura in over-excitable mood and spending much time on the telephone to Iris, Pam and her mother.

December 25
^th

Laura and I trudged up the hill towards the twinkling lights of Simone and Nic’s festive front garden singing
Last Christmas
by George Michael at the top of our voices, as Laura said she couldn’t stand the peace and tranquillity that descended on the earth at this time of year.

‘Actually, last Christmas you gave me your hat,’ Laura said cheerfully.

It was a misty Christmas morning, about eleven. We’d been asked over for mince pies and rum punch before dinner. Laura and I agreed that, as we’d individually been eating mince pies since they’d appeared in the shops at the end of September, we’d make straight for the punch.

‘But we mustn’t overdo it,’ Laura said.

‘You mustn’t. Moderation in all things, that’s my motto.’

‘It would be.’

Looking up we could see that several women were already packed into Nic and Simone’s loggia. Nic calls it her ‘ship’s prow’ after several whiskies, when she imagines herself to have been a ship’s captain in a previous life.

The front door flew open and Deirdre streamed out. ‘Where have you been? I’m feeling very isolated being the only straight woman at this gathering. You didn’t walk did you?’

‘Yes, it’s a lovely morning.’ We marched briskly between the two inflated reindeers tied to the gate posts.

‘Is it?’ Deirdre wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d have driven you - you should have rung.’

‘We did.’

‘Or left a message on the answerphone.’

‘We did.’

‘C’est la vie.’ Deirdre shrugged her diamante shoulders. ‘Martin bought me this jumper - he has immaculate taste.’

‘It’s very you,’ I said diplomatically.

‘Happy Christmas. Merry Xmas. Season’s Greetings. Yuletide smackers,’ Simone shouted, edging Deirdre aside, grabbing me by the shoulders and kissing me loudly on both cheeks.

‘Like my earrings?’ she swung a large plastic Christmas tree earring into my face.

‘They’re very you,’ I said diplomatically.

Behind me, Laura prodded my back. ‘They’re vile,’ she shouted. ‘They look like they came out of a cracker.’

‘Actually they did. Come here you little devil,’ and Laura’s head disappeared between Simone’s big and bouncy breasts.

‘Did you-know-what arrive?’ Laura asked when she came up for air.

‘She did.’

‘Oh, you mean...’ Deirdre said, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

‘Will you lot stop letting in the cold air and get up here,’ Nic yelled from the top of the house steps.

We trouped inside, cramped ourselves into the loggia. Everyone was shouting, five women making a huge, boisterous, happy noise.

‘Ter-rah!’ yelled Laura.

‘Surprise, surprise!’ shouted everyone else.

A sixth woman, Janice, stood silent and sullen, pressed between the window and Simone’s gigantic Art Nouveau jardinière.

‘Happy Christmas, Margaret,’ she said and started coughing.

‘Happy Christmas, Janice.’

And then she smiled and I smiled. I pushed my way through to her. ‘Why are you here? I didn’t know you’d be here,’ I burbled.

‘Deirdre organized it. I asked her to. As a surprise, and then I thought, oh bloody hell suppose she doesn’t want to see me after three weeks.’

‘Of course I want to see you.’

Nic stood in the doorway wearing a plastic apron, a gravy boat in one hand and a whisky glass in the other. Above the noise she roared, ‘Mince pies and rum punch being served now in the dining room. Any spills on my new maple effect laminate must be reported immediately to the chef, i.e. me!’

We explode out into the hall. I want to talk to Janice but feel inexplicably shy.

Laura is ahead of me talking to Nic. ‘I thought Janice would be more of a live wire,’ she says.

‘Bronchitis. Every time she talks she coughs.’

‘Shouldn’t she be in bed?’

‘She wanted to see Margaret?’

‘She hasn’t wanted to see Margaret for at least three weeks, why would she want to see her now that she’s got bronchitis?’

‘Who’s got bronchitis?’ Deirdre asked.

‘I have,’ Janice said and started to cough.

We assemble in the dining room. Deirdre starts telling Simone about her new approach to life for the coming year: ‘Chicken salad or chicken shit - we all have a choice.’

‘What about vegetarians?’ Laura asks.

‘Fruit salad or fruit...’

‘Cake?’ Simone swallows a chunk of cake and wipes her hands fondly on Laura’s head. ‘Deirdre, where’s your Martin?’

‘Watching television.’

‘He’s not in the front room. Nic got in
Hellraiser 1 to 20
to keep him occupied while we all have a laugh.’

‘He’s watching television at home. He says women en masse get up his nose.’

‘That’s not very festive spirited of him,’ Laura says dipping a stray cup into the rum punch. ‘This is lovely stuff, Margaret, you should have a slurp.’

‘I’ll get you a glass, Margaret,’ Janice says quietly, stifling a cough.

Deirdre, who doesn’t drink but does eat, tucks into the mince pies, tossing her blonde hair, and tells everyone, ‘Martin believes Christmas is a Capitalist plot to keep the proletariat content while they’re being crushed under the government’s boot heel. Martin’s very clever. Almost a genius. When he was in his teens he won Mensa.’

‘Crikey,’ I say.

Laura says, ‘Deirdre are you sure he didn’t say,
When I was in my teens I wore Menswear
?’

Deirdre looks perplexed. Crumbs drop among the diamante. I hug her, ‘Take no notice, Laura’s teasing you. Martin’s a smashing chap.’

‘He is. Not sociable but very generous. Take this jumper...’

Laura: ‘No you take it; diamamte is bad for my sinuses...’

Janice says, ‘That’s enough now, Laura.’

Simone raps on the table with a spoon. ‘Can we have a toast?’

‘Toast! Not after six mince pies and a bucket of grog...’

Quite amiably, yet firmly, Janice puts her hand over Laura’s mouth. Laura subsides.

We all shut up. Nic fills our glasses. Deirdre murmurs that an orange and passion fruit drink might be nice but is satisfied with a Diet Coke. Finally Nic stands at the head of the table and raises her glass. ‘A toast to Christmas and all our friends, present and... Simone what’s the opposite of present?’

‘Departed? Dead? Not present?’

‘Whatever, whatever,’ says Nic. ‘Merry Christmas to everyone.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ we shout, swig back our drinks.

Janice takes me by the elbow and leads me out to the loggia. Suddenly, with only the two of us, it does feel a bit like standing on the prow of a ship. We face each other and Janice says, ‘Phew!’

I say, ‘Phew indeed,’ and for once don’t feel like a prim and proper