Diary of a Provincial Lesbian (30 page)

‘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 10
^th

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 11
^th

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

December 12
^th

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 14
^th

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 15
^th

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 16
^th

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 17
^th

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 hats. ‘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 S
outh 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.

‘Sing up,’ she bellows.

‘Snow was falling, snow on snow,’ I shout.

‘Snow was doing what, darling?’ man asks.

‘Falling snow on snow.’ My voice is lost in the noise. Elbows, shopping bags, other hard, indiscernible implements press into me. No sign of vicar, no sign of Miriam’s sombrero, no sign of children and their parents. I experience feelings of intense panic. Am going to be crushed against this glass window. Will slither to the ground and my body will be discovered completely flattened at eight o’clock when the precinct closes. Actually begin to slither but suddenly my scarf is gripped, my arm is gripped. I hear the distinct words, ‘Yes it is Margaret,’ as my body is wrested past the window, in through Marks & Spencer’s double doors and deposited in the relative quiet at the back of a stack of wire baskets.

‘We nearly lost you there,’ Martin says. ‘Whose stupid idea was it to go singing carols in that mob?’

Deirdre said, ‘We saw you from the Coffee Shop. Come on, our coffee’s getting cold.’

Return with them to Coffee Shop. Martin orders a
Coffee Ice Magnifico
for me and a Danish pastry. Says if I don’t want it, they’ll probably manage to get it down. Feel very grateful. Sit quietly listening to their shopping exploits, only rousing myself to duck sideways as Carol Parade passes our window looking completely unscathed, although Miriam’s sombrero now at an odd angle.

December 18
^th

Telephone call from Laura.

‘You’re a dark horse,’ she started with.

‘Am I?’

‘You kept that one close to your chest.’

‘Did I?’

‘I expected you to be in mourning over the fair Georgie for at least a decade.’

‘Laura, what are you talking about?’

‘Janice, the galloping gardener.’

Went cold, then hot, then cold again.

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’