Free Diary of a Provincial Lesbian by V. G. Lee Page A

although I dare say it’s none of my business. Sit yourself down.’
    Pulled out kitchen chair. Red plastic seat which reminded me of my childhood kitchen furniture only we’d had turquoise blue plastic seats. Hoped Mr Wheeler wasn’t going to give me a lecture on wasn’t it time I stopped this lesbian nonsense and became a pillar of the community? Watched him make tea in a pot with tea leaves. He let it brew. Put a chrome tea strainer and a sugar basin decorated with pink flowers on the table. Cups, saucers, teapot, milk jug, sugar basin - they all matched. Pretty and feminine. Reminders of his beloved wife.
    ‘Biscuit?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Custard creams.
    Mr Wheeler pulled up the chair opposite and poured the tea.
    ‘Now I’m not one to interfere - or perhaps I am.’
    He didn’t smile. First I shook my head then I nodded. He continued, ‘I’ve noticed your...pal, hasn’t been about recently.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And you’ve been looking ruddy miserable.’
    Said nothing to that.
    ‘Would I be right in thinking the two of you have had a falling out?’
    I sighed deeply. How would Deirdre handle Mr Wheeler? I don’t discuss my personal life with neighbours, Mr Wheeler. Could cause bad blood if there was reconciliation. Neighbours taking sides - Martin says that’s how wars are caused.
    But I’m not Deirdre, I’m Margaret and I’ve grown to like Mr Wheeler which makes me interpret what could be nosiness for concern, so I say, ‘We’re having a trial separation till the end of April. Hopefully after that we’ll get back to normal.’
    ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘And what if you don’t?’
    ‘I will be ruddy miserable.’
    ‘Can I give you some advice?’
    ‘As long as you don’t mind if I don’t take it.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ He stood up and walked over to the dresser, picked up the photograph. ‘My wife didn’t die, you know. Everybody in this road thought she did because that’s what I told them. We kept ourselves to ourselves pretty much so nobody expected to go to funerals and anyway people have their own lives to live. Actually she left me. Is still alive. Lives in Doncaster with a chap called Trevor. My son says he’s not a bad bloke. What I wanted to tell you was that I wasted years hoping she’d come back. Years.’ He looked at me, a deep frown on his face as if he was trying not to get upset. ‘Even now, if she walked through the front door I’d be so darn pleased, but the waiting hasn’t been worth the candle.’
    ‘But Mr Wheeler, Georgie’s only been gone a few weeks - I couldn’t just start re-arranging my life - if she doesn’t come back I’d be devastated for a very long time if not forever.’
    I gulped hot tea, my eyelids blinking rapidly. He put the frame down and came back to the table.
    ‘Of course you’d be devastated. What I’m saying is don’t let whatever happens, good, bad, or tragic flatten you. Flatten you Margaret. The stuff inside that makes you tick! You have to consider yourself because nobody else will. Take it or leave it. I hope your Georgie does come back and you both live happily ever after.’
    He looked as if he might say something more but he didn’t.
    Finished my tea, admired the African violets on his windowsill all the while thinking, Mr Wheeler’s got a bloody cheek, who does he think he is, but not really annoyed. I recognised a gem of truth in what he’d said. I thought of that awful word Georgie had used, ‘whimper’. I didn’t want to be a Margaret always desperate for her approval.
    On the doorstep he held out his hand and I shook it. Went home.
     
     
    March 26 th
    This afternoon Deirdre arrives while I’m in the middle of planting up my seed trays. For meadow project am propagating sweet peas, foxgloves, cornflowers, stocks and antirrhinums. Deirdre settles herself on my carrier bag of recycled egg cartons but doesn’t seem to notice.
    ‘I’d make the tea myself but I’m knackered,’ she says.
    ‘Why’s that?’ I ask,