Diary of a Provincial Lesbian by V. G. Lee Page B

Iris. Iris has a better figure. You know me; I’ve always been a breast woman.’
    I swallow a piece of mushroom omelette and say, ‘I knew no such thing. Aren’t you being rather superficial? Isn’t Pam upset?’
    ‘No, Pam’s relieved. She says I was much too much of a good thing which is rather complimentary. Now I like Iris a lot. You might not like Iris so I’m going to keep her under wraps for a month or two. Shall I just say she’s controlling in the nicest possible way.’ Laura pauses as if some pleasant controlling memory has occurred to her.
    We don’t talk much about me but that’s okay as I haven’t really anything I want to say.
     
    In bed I think about Laura and how all her many emotional dramas seem to wash over her and leave no mark. I imagine her heart; pink, healthy, unblemished.
     
     
    March 18 th
    Life seems unutterably dreary! This evening met Miriam from work and went with her to visit her mother. They have a seafront flat, unfortunately a basement flat. The sea isn’t visible, only shoes and ankles as pedestrians pass by on the pavement outside, however I exclaim enthusiastically at the sea’s proximity. Only a stone’s throw I say, how wonderful. Lucky you!  
    Expect to meet very old lady wrapped in shawls and genteelly irritable but no, Miriam’s mother looks about the same age as Miriam; maybe even a year or two younger. She is smart, petite and wears a skirt and matching boxy jacket with a large spray brooch of turquoise brilliants on her lapel. She looks ready for a royal garden party right down to her shoes, which are navy blue and cream with a small heel. Am amazed!
    ‘How do you do, Mrs Mason.’ We shake hands. Her fingers feel like a cluster of brittle twigs. Thinks; Miriam must have taken after her father as she is quite a reassuringly hefty woman.
    I am led into a room off a dark hall. It is like stepping back several decades and reminds me of my grandmother’s house only furnished more lavishly. There is a comfortable three-piece suite and many occasional tables. Everywhere I look are pieces of crochet; chair backs, arm rests, doilies, crocheted rugs, even crochet framed in ebony and hung on the walls. While Miriam and her mother sort out sherry and nibbles from a large sideboard I dawdle from item of crochet to item of crochet making admiring noises.
    ‘This is beautiful, breathtaking. What workmanship, hugely accomplished.’ I draw the line at the ‘earth shatteringly stupendous’ teetering on the tip of my tongue.
    ‘Miriam’s a clever little puss,’ Miriam’s mother says fondly. Miriam, looking nothing like a ‘little puss’ grimaces.
    ‘Miriam did all this?’ I exclaim, looking at Miriam in a new light. Unsure at that moment whether a good light or a bad light.
    ‘It passes an evening,’ Miriam says with an apologetic shrug.
    She and I take an armchair each while Miriam’s mother puts her feet up, crossing one neat, nylon ankle over the other.
    ‘Cheers,’ she says, holding up her crystal schooner. ‘Miriam, offer Margaret the Bombay Mix.’
    I take a handful of Bombay Mix and try not to drop them on the immaculate pink carpet.
    ‘Cheers,’ I say.
    ‘Cheers,’ Miriam says. She looks suddenly dispirited. Her mother peers hopefully from me to Miriam as if we are bright young things who must have tales of debutante parties and dancing till dawn to relate. Cannot immediately summon up a single subject that might be interesting. Ask myself what I know about crochet and the answer is nothing . Ask myself if I know anything about related subjects; knitting, dressmaking, tatting. Finally say loudly, ‘Do you remember French knitting?’
    Miriam and her mother look blank.
    ‘You knocked four small nails into the top of a cotton reel, then wound wool round the nails, then over and eventually a long snake of French knitting came out through the cotton reel hole. People made bedside mats. I made a table mat.’
    ‘Did you? Did it take