Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (14 page)

June 2
^nd

Went out to do some gardening. Meadow fine. Weeds - wildflowers, poppies, foxgloves, cornflowers make a pretty, untidy mix. Rest of garden looks neglected, particularly my vegetables. Notice that Lord Dudley, since his own back garden has been decked and cobbled, is using the depressions in which I’ve set my courgettes as a lavatory. Know Lord Dudley is the culprit because even as I survey courgettes he arrives and begins to scrabble the earth. Most dispiriting.

Go back indoors. Sit at the kitchen table and decide to cut a couple of inches off my fringe. Feel much better, although fringe looks quite peculiar; a wispy long outer fringe behind which a thicker, shorter sub-fringe lurks.

Last week, when Laura came down for the afternoon I offered to cut her hair as felt it was beginning to resemble a large ramshackle bird perched at an angle on her head. She was adamant. Said there was something manic and frightening about me with a pair of rusty hairdressing scissors and that in the past when cutting her hair I’d laughed immoderately, which she also found unsettling. Said that anyway, Iris liked her hair just the way it was, plenty to pull on in moments of frenzied passion. Deirdre with us at the time, wrinkled her nose and said, ‘Eeugh, much too much information if you don’t mind. What about good old love and affection?’

June 3
^rd

This afternoon read in
Listening Ear
that bogus electric, gas and water meter readers are roaming Bittlesea Bay on the lookout for vulnerable, lone women. They flash an identity badge before insisting the meter needs urgent reading. In response to ‘But your lot only read it last week’ they reply ‘The government requires us to double check - it’s in your own interests ma’am.’

Apparently the impostors’ use of ‘ma’am’ is found to be reassuring. To illustrate the article was a photo of a ‘lone woman’ displaying an empty handbag. Cut article out for Mr Wheeler. He’s compiling a Newsletter packed full of grim warnings. Quite apart from burglary, mugging, hit and run (his particular favourite), there are the natural hazards of fork lightning, falling trees, wild dogs, wild cats, also an Uneven Pavement Phone-in. The list of dangerous possibilities seems endless.

I suggested I write an article about my own badger incident. He suggested he write it up for me as he knows quite a bit about Bittlesea Bay badgers which would make article sound more informed rather than ‘hysterical’.

Resent use of word ‘hysterical’ but do understand that Mr Wheeler, although a relatively decent chap, does have a chip on his shoulder re. woman-kind, what with his wife leaving him, and him being brought up by an aunt who didn’t like boys and never bothered to learn his christian name, just called him ‘Wheeler’.

Apropos of impostor article, I had moved on from this and was dallying in the Property Section when there was a knock on my front door. (It is extraordinary how many visitors choose to clatter my letter box or rap on fragile glass of fanlight rather than use the doorbell.) I opened the door and there stood a woman vicar. She held up her hands and said, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m not looking for god recruits, just bric-a-brac for our jumble sale.’

Although impostor article still in the forefront of mind did not like to ask woman vicar for a form of identification. Studied her closely. Dark grey trousers, black V-neck pullover with visible dog collar in V-neck. But could that just be a shirt worn back to front? What did I know of components of genuine dog collar? Studied vicar’s face. Pleasant expression. But then, had the bogus meter readers worn pleasant expressions? Probably yes.

‘I don’t have any bric-a-brac,’ seemed the safest response.

‘Surely some bits and bobs, nick knacks, objets d’art, clutter?’

‘Not that I can immediately lay my hands on, however if you come back on Monday around this time I could sort something out for you.’

‘Fair enough.’ She put her hands in her trouser pockets and whistled through her teeth. ‘In return can I give you a tract?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Do you know what a tract is?’

‘I have some idea.’

‘Really?’ She raised her eyebrows and looked bogusly surprised.

‘What if it were a diamond?’ she said.

‘I still wouldn’t want it.’

‘You’re pretty entrenched in your likes and dislikes then?’

‘I might be.’

Vicar seemed to lose heart in tract and looked up the road, ‘Okay. Is it worth knocking next door?’

Had brainwave. Deirdre had been severely feng shuied during the previous week. In her gazebo were six boxes of decorative items that the feng shui expert had deemed unconducive to the free flow of Deirdre’s yin and yang. I said, ‘Try number forty two, but don’t offer a tract. Keep it simple.’

Hurried upstairs to front bedroom window to watch possibly bogus woman vicar’s next move. Yes, she was going up Deirdre’s path. Ringing the bell this time. Not in a position to see Deirdre but did see vicar raising her hands and smiling. I lip read, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ Then vicar stepped inside.

Half an hour later, passing through the hall found a tract pushed through the letter box. Picture of a jolly farming couple leaning on a five barred gate, field of corn in the back ground. MAKE HAY WHILE THE SUN SHINES! printed across a clear blue sky. On the other side of the card was written
Jumble Sale, St Dunstan’s, Saturday 19th, 2pm. 10p admission
.

June 3
^rd

Telephoned Deirdre before I went off to work. For the first time ever Martin answered.

‘Hello, yes, who is that?’

‘It’s me.’

‘You. Who are you?’

‘Margaret.’

‘Hello Margaret, Deirdre’s not here. She went off at the crack of dawn with a woman vicar.’

‘What?!’

‘What do you mean, “what?’’ Martin said tetchily. ‘There’s no mystery, they haven’t run off together. Woman’s an antique dealer as well as a vicar. Marriage of god and mammon - anything’s possible these days.’

‘But where have they gone?’

‘To her antique shop. I’ve just paid over two thousand pounds for some flossie with a mystical sounding name to clear out one stack of junk and Deirdre’s whizzed off to buy another. Got to go, my cappuccino awaits.’

June 4
^th

Letter from bank. Did I know I was two hundred pounds over my overdraft limit? Answer, no I didn’t. Checked bank statements. Realised pleasing and unexpected surplus cash on previous month’s statement was due to Janice not having cashed her cheque. This surplus - inspiration behind a flurry of purchases towards a new, less dispirited look for Margaret. Now bank statement showed Janice’s cheque plus my purchases. Considered where money would come from to placate bank. Wondered whether antique dealer vicar might be willing to pay for bric-a-brac. Assembled possible bric-a-brac on kitchen table. Impressive quantity, but with exception of aunt’s antique brooch, each bit almost worthless except in sentimental value. Sat at table and wept. Tearfully, I lined up ornaments, vases, cuddly toys, novelty earrings, and saw the development and decline of my relationship. So much stuff from the early years, dribbling away to the diary and the book, as if Georgie had been saying,
here you are Margaret, something to get on with to stave off loneliness once you’re on your own.

On a sudden thought I went upstairs and into the loft. Georgie and Stella had both been in there rummaging through crates and boxes. There it was; a big, open carton in one corner, the head and arm of a mink coloured teddy bear sticking up. I manhandled the carton back through the trap door and took it down to the kitchen. I sat on the floor and unpacked it piece by piece. All my presents to Georgie. Teddy was the most recent, given that Christmas, still with a piece of tinsel round its waist and a heart-shaped card saying... well something sentimental about strings attached to the hearts of lovers. I thought how she must have squirmed reading that.

I would have sat there all afternoon if Janice hadn’t disturbed me by banging on the window.

‘What’s the matter?’ she shouted.

I stood up and let her in. Said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you now the garden’s finished.’

‘I was passing. So?’  She looked at the chaos that was now my kitchen. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Georgie didn’t take her mementos with her.’

‘She wouldn’t, would she? Would you like a cup of tea?’ Without waiting for an answer she began to fill the kettle.

‘Make yourself one as well,’ I said.

‘I intend to.’

Which made me laugh a little. Janice was so...Janice. What you saw was what you got. Her head in the open cupboard, helping herself to the biscuit barrel and the tea caddy, she said, ‘Are you up to getting rid of it all?’

I said, ‘Supposing Georgie comes back?’

‘Is that likely?’

‘I don’t know. What would you do?’

‘Doesn’t matter what I’d do.’

I began to pack it all back into boxes and carrier bags. Took the heart-shaped tag off the teddy bear and tore it up. Set the bear aside. Almost to myself I said, ‘What I’m trying to do is take back my heart,’ which made me start crying again. Janice didn’t hug me like I might have expected her to do. She went on making the tea and setting biscuits out on a plate. Eventually my crying stopped and I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. We took our usual places at the table and she said reasonably, ‘Don’t hang on to that teddy bear if it’s going to make you cry.’

‘I really won’t. Perhaps I’ll keep it as the representation of my soft side.’

‘You’d need a giant teddy for
your
soft side. Now tell me, has Deirdre been in to see the garden yet?’

I told her that no, Deirdre had been too preoccupied with her feng shui expert followed closely by a newfound interest in antiques. However she and Martin were popping by for drinks and nibbles on Sunday afternoon.

June 6
^th

Panic stations. Has been raining for three days but now the sun is shining, revealing my wildflower meadow to be a weed infested eyesore. The cowslip circle planted for next spring has disappeared beneath the vigorous growth of dandelions, buttercups and common vetch. What were supposed to become lofty pink spires of sorrel to give the smaller plants definition have keeled over. Everywhere there is grass, admittedly not couch grass, a special meadow grass, but to mine, Deirdre’s and Martin’s untrained eyes, long grass is grass that needs mowing. When Janice arrives, again unexpectedly, I am manhandling geranium filled flower pots from outside the kitchen door up to adorn the meadow or to distract from the mess.

‘Margaret,’ Janice says, ‘what are you doing?’

‘Trying to make this look better. I’m sorry Janice, but Deirdre will take one look at this meadow and her ‘Eeugh! will ring out across the back gardens.’

Janice insists that I stop and come with her to the top of the garden and sit on the bench.

‘I haven’t got time to sit on the bench.’

‘Yes you have.’

I follow her up the stone steps and sit down. We’re high up. Level with my pointed, storybook roof. Each side of the roof, rows of terraced ice-cream coloured houses lie stretched out in front of us as far as the sea. My gaze pans down to my wildflower meadow. It’s a circle, diameter of about twenty feet. Glance at my watch: there’s still time to mow it and add terracotta pots around the perimeter. If Janice could be persuaded we could manhandle the stone birdbath up the hillside and set it in a central position.

‘Breathe deeply,’ Janice says.

I breathe.

‘Look at Tilly,’ Janice says, pointing.

Tilly is in the meadow circle, lying on her back, paws in the air. She looks euphoric, rubbing the back of her head against the fresh green leaves of cat mint. Janice says, ‘Did you know that two dozen species of insect rely on the ox eye daisy?’

‘No I didn’t.’

Scrutinize my own ox eye daisies nodding gently. Know that at least one of two dozen species of insect will be a colony of ants.

Janice interrupts these rueful thoughts, ‘Margaret what made you decide on a wildflower meadow?’

Which humbles me. Answer: for all the wrong reasons. I mutter, ‘To be different. To make everyone look at me in a new and admiring light. As a woman with her own ideas for a change.’

Cast furtive look at Janice. She doesn’t look as disappointed in me as I expected. Her eyes half close.
Don’t fall asleep Janice, there’s still work to do
.

‘You love Tilly, don’t you?’ she asks.

‘Of course I do.’
‘You feed the birds. I’ve never seen so much stuff put out for them.’

‘Yes.’

‘You let trays of seedlings take over your house?’

Uneasy apprehension seeping in that Janice is about to come out with a life-changing,
In that case why don’t you
...

‘You let the badger out. That showed courage and compassion. I remember you said it was trembling.’

The more instances Janice finds in my favour, the more miserable and unworthy I feel.

‘What does all that say about you?’ Janice asks.

‘It says, Janice, that you are putting two and two together and coming up with six. I am not a “nature” person, I’m materialistic. Don’t have an original thought in my head. I like nature as long as it’s under control and conforms to acceptable standards.’

‘I don’t agree but fair enough. Come on then. What shall I do? Mow the lawn. You bring up the rest of the pots.’

She says this absolutely without artifice, as if, if that’s what I want, then why not just do it? I stare down at the embryonic meadow. Nothing at all in the way of impressive colour yet. Just yellow and white, buttercups and daisies.

‘Margaret, this meadow won’t ever look beautiful in gardening terms. Yes, in a suburban run of well tended gardens it is an eyesore,’ she warns.