Faith In Love (6 page)

Tuesday, February 22

Faith is in bed.  Next to her, her husband is snoring.  Faith gets up.  Goes to the mirror on the dresser.  Opens her nightie. 

"Not bad for my age," Faith thinks.  "He wouldn't know though would he?  Doesn't even look most times.  Just sticks it in.  Doesn't need to look, I suppose.  Knows where everything is by now."

Closes her nightie.  Climbs back into bed, not as warm as before.  "Thought that Valentine Day stuff might have changed things.  The lingerie I bought was just the kind of tarty outfit women wear in his videos.  I thought it would make more of an impression than it did.  To begin with, I certainly got his full attention.  Didn't last, though.  Back to his old tricks right away.  The direct route is the shortest, so I suppose I can't blame him for taking it, but
every
time? 

Women together ...  what would that be like ...  couldn't be any worse than him can it?  Haven't "got anything" though...  as they say ...  bread and bread ...  Still, in those films of his they seem to enjoy themselves.  Then the man comes in.  What if he didn't, though?  What would happen then?

Don't look like real women, those girls in the films.  All tarted up in suspender belts and long bleached hair and shiny, slippery looking bodies.  All that bleach!  They'd be bald before they were forty.  They'd have to wear wigs!"  She suppressed a smile.  She couldn't imagine forty-year-old women in one of those films.  The men would find them ugly, like they found their own wives ugly, though they wouldn't admit to it. 

She knew it wasn't Spring yet.  The crocuses out the back were only just starting to show bits of green, but it was on its way!  The days were getting longer, the sun seemed to shine more readily at the dust on the shelves.

She'd have to have a spring-clean; soon she would. 

Wednesday, February 23

On her way home from work, Faith slips into the corner shop.  She is not sure where to find what she wants, or even what exactly it is. 

She lowered her gaze from the top shelf, only to meet the enquiring eyes of the newsagent. 

"Twenty Silk Cut please," she said. 

"Twenty, love?"  The young Indian handed her the pack.  She noticed his royal-blue sweater had a hole in the sleeve.  "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

"Very nice," she said, buttoning her coat.

She hadn't smoked in five years, she hoped she wasn't going to start now.  She put the unopened pack in a bin when she got round the corner.  She hoped the young man in the shop didn't see, he would think her mad.  He would probably be right too.  

Where on earth was she going to find the kind of magazine that would tell her where women go when they want to find other women?  At least she'd had sense enough not to ask him, although clearly his curiosity had been aroused by this respectable-looking middle-aged woman, seemingly hypnotised by the kind of magazines that such women usually manage not to notice. 

"Maybe I can find out from the library!"

Thursday, February 24

Never knew there was such a paper as this.  Such explicit pictures of men, too.  Funny how little impression they make, considering I'm married to one.  (Maybe that's why, though!)

Oh, right here we are, in the back, lists of contacts, organisations, Lonely Hearts.  How do people ever get the nerve to reply to those?  I'm sure I couldn't do it.  You'd have to be ever so trusting.

Got it!  "Greater London Switchboard, advice and all enquiries for Lesbians and Gay Men." Sounds perfect!  I'll call them up immediately before I get too scared.  Aren't libraries wonderful?  They've got a pay phone too.  And it works! 

"Hallo?"

"Switchboard.  Can I help you?" The man sounded young, friendly and brisk all at the same time.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit nervous."

"That's all right.  Take your time."

"I'm not sure what to say.  It's very simple really, or I thought it was.  But now I come to do it.  You picked up the phone really fast."

"Sorry.  Would you prefer to speak to a woman?"

"Oh, no, really.  It's quite all right.  I didn't mean that.  I don't mind a man at all."

"How can I help you then?  Information?  Advice?  Or d'you just want to talk?"

"Information!  That's it exactly!  It really isn't difficult after all.  I only want to know where women go, Lesbians, I mean, in my area.  There, you see, I've said it.  I feel much better now."

"There you are, then!  Better out than in, as they say!"  The young man sounded every bit as pleased as she was.  "Let me see now, where abouts are you?" 

"I'm in a library." 

"No, I mean, which area do you live in?"

"Of course, sorry.  I live in North London –"

"West or East?"

"Not West – North East, I suppose, Hornsey!"

"Oh, Hornsey – is that near Tottenham?  There's a good pub up there, bit rough though, not quite what you want –"

"I want to find the nearest lesbian pub or dance or whatever to where I live, to go to at the weekend, as soon as possible."

"This Saturday soon enough?"

"Yes!  Is there something?"

"I'm skimming through my list while we're talking.  You have to do ten things at once here."

"Is it voluntary?"

"Certainly is, couple hours a month, that's all. 
You
could do it!  They're always looking for women!"

"Maybe.  Not yet – I'm looking for women myself at the moment!  What have you found for me?"

"Ooh, you're keen!  Here we are – Saturday night, eight till late – sound all right?  It's a disco with deejays.  Called Scene 'n' Heard, spelt S, C, E, N, E –"

"Seen and heard?"

"Yes.  With a 'c', like in a play.  Don't know why, but there you are.  Not that it matters really."

"How much is it?"

"Three pounds before eleven, it says, though it doesn't say what it is after that.  Should do really.  Sorry about that.  I'd go before eleven if I were you, check it out!  You never know what they'll rush you after that.  If you're on a tight budget anyway.  And who isn't these days?"

"I won't go much later than eight I think.  I don't suppose I'll stay long either."

"Right you are.  Well, it's in Hope Street, N1.  That's Islington.  Near enough?"

"I can get a bus there and back.  I expect it's in the A to Z."

"Shall I look it up for you?  There's one here."

"Don't worry, I can do that when I get home.  Would you run through it all again for me please?"

"Got a pen?"

"No.  I'll remember.  Scene 'n' Heard, with a 'c' –" 

"Number twelve, Hope Street, Islington N1.  Opens at eight, closes late.  Three quid before eleven.  I think it's down some steps, in a basement.  If it's where I think it is, then it's a Gay club in the week, and Saturday is Dyke Night!"

"Every Saturday?"

"Yep!  So far, it is.  Hasn't been open that long, not Dyke Night anyway.  It's been a gay place though, for yonks!"

"There'll be a lot of women there?"

"You can bet on it!"

"Well, thanks.  I might go
this
Saturday."

"It's been a pleasure chatting to you.  Have fun!  Call us again any time."

"Thanks.  I will.  Goodbye."

Friday, February 25

Faith is in the bedroom she shares with Don.  Don has just left for his fortnightly trip up North.  She is rummaging in a chest of drawers.  Don't suppose he knows I know about these, his blue films, his sexy girls.  Thinks I don't know. 

Where did he think I got the idea for the red satin tart's outfit though?  Probably assumed it just bubbled up out of the churning depths of my primeval female passion.  I can imagine him assuming that kind of thing. 

Silly place to keep them, his secret vids, in his bottom drawer under his socks.  If he displayed them on a shelf in the front room they'd be only slightly more accessible to me.  Who does he think sorts the washing round here for the launderette and who does he think does the putting away of clean socks in clean sock drawers?  Probably thinks I can't work the video anyway. 

What do we have today?  Here we are, Lust of the Lezzie Lovers and oh, another one, Sappho's Saucy Sisters.  All he seems to like, lesbo-porn and those horror-flick things, blood going everywhere.  Oh yes, there's one of those too, Blood of ...  Ugh, disgusting.  I couldn't even sit through one of those anymore.  I used to, when I was a girl.  I don't know what's changed, me or the films.  I think I just got more sensitive as I got older.  Don can't have, though maybe he just didn't get older.  You'd think he was still sixteen from these titles.  Maybe they never grow up – adolescent boys forever, which might be nice for them, if not so nice for the women who have to live with them. 

I don't suppose real dykes are like this.  (Funny word, that, but if it's what they want to call themselves, then let them, I say.)  Good Heavens, what a contortionist!  There's no way I could do that, even if I wanted to.  How can she breathe?  I hope they're well paid for this.  Ooh, no, not again surely!  I'd have thought once was enough for that kind of thing.  Now it's her turn, fair enough!

Oh no, hubbie's home already.  Doesn't time fly when you're having fun!  Now he'll want to get involved and they'll have to pretend to be pleased.  They should get him to take up a hobby like Don has.  Get him out of the house on a regular basis, otherwise they'll always be having these interruptions. 

Oh well, here we go, back to the old heave-ho.

I think I'll make some tea while this bit's on.  Nothing there I haven't seen before. 

= CHAPTER 4 =

Saturday, February 26.  AM
.  

Oh, my hair feels lovely off my face!  I feel more free, more like me, somehow, which is strange because I've had it long since I was a kid. 

That Greek girl didn't want to cut it so short, said her husband loves long hair.  I'm sure he does, but I don't really care about that, do I?

I think in the end she remembered it's my hair not hers, and the customer is always right, because she took the trouble to borrow some clippers from the barber's next door (I think they're family) and did a good job shearing off my curls.  She seemed quite proud of herself, and so she should have been, rising to the challenge like a true professional, which of course she is.  She even managed to persuade herself she quite liked the finished result, which for her was probably the hardest part of all. 

Right, now let's see what another sort of woman thinks of me.  Perhaps they will be more accepting, maybe even enthusiastic.  I hope so.

I'll worry about Don's reaction when I see him and not before.  That won't be until tomorrow night of course.  He went off last night on his fortnightly jaunt (yet again).  Well, this time, just for once, I'm off on a jaunt as well.  The kind of jaunt my husband would not, in a million years, imagine me going on; the kind of jaunt I wouldn't have imagined going on either a few weeks ago.  The kind of jaunt I'll be very unlikely to tell him about when he does condescend to come home. 

I'll leave the house at seven or just after.  That should give me loads of time to get there.  I probably ought to eat before I go, but I don't think I can, I'm far too nervous.  We'll see, maybe later. 

~ ~ ~

Number twelve.  Oh how scary.  Haven't felt like this in years.  Butterflies.  Don't be silly now – a grown woman.  Oh, what will they think of me?  Will I fit in?  Can hardly fit in these jeans, never mind anything else.  Not really size twelve anymore.  Still, if I hold my tummy in ...  Too scared to eat before I left.  Probably just as well ...  bursting out as it is.  Still I've got quite a nice bum and the rest of me's not bad.  "Everything in the right place" as Don would say, "Something to get hold of." Not too much I hope.  Still women aren't like blokes are they?  They'd be more understanding.  Not worrying too much about physical shapes and sizes... 

Do I have to knock on this door?  Give a password?  If I do, I don't know it.  Oh, it's alright.  It's open already.  Just needed a push.  It wasn't in the basement after all.  Hope it's the right place!  Get done for breaking and entering otherwise.  Be in the papers: would-be dyke, old enough to know better, invades family home, just in time for Birds Of A Feather! 

"Oh, sorry!  I didn't see you.  Nearly fell on you it's so dark in here!  Are you selling tickets?  Oh yes, I see you are.  How much is it then?"

"Three pounds.  Or two, if you're UB40..."

"No, not quite ...  Three it is then.  What time's it on till?"

"Three."

"Three again.  It's all threes isn't it?  Where do I go?  It's not on the third floor is it?"

"Up the stairs.  Just there!"

"Oh yes, thanks."

What a large woman and what a small table!  (Heavens, it is dark in here!) She looked a bit grim.  It must be very boring just sitting there.  I'm sure I wouldn't like it.  It's still early though.  What must she be like by the end of the evening?  Like a bear with a sore head.  Perhaps it's shifts.  Should be, otherwise it doesn't seem fair.  Oh, what a lot of stairs!  I'm exhausted already.  Better be careful when I leave, might fall from top to bottom.  Could do if I got drunk.  Wonder if anyone has?  Perhaps she'd catch me.  Don't think so somehow.  Doesn't look the type.