Short stories detailing the fictional lives of lesbians between 1952 and 2002.
Based on research of the social and political backgrounds of the day, a diverse array of lesbian lives are shared.
From the 1952 'Female husband', and lesbians colluding with a Gay Policeman in 1962.
Covering early days of Gay Pride, Lesbian Strength marches and Stop clause 28.
Entrenched in the norms of the day, we share the 'coming out' of young women.
Nurses working with survivors of the 1974 Birmingham bombings.
And finally, finding love in an old people's home in 2003.
Short stories detailing the fictional lives of lesbians between 1952 and 2002.
Based on research of the social and political backgrounds of the day, a diverse array of lesbian lives are shared.
From the 1952 'Female husband', and lesbians colluding with a Gay Policeman in 1962.
Covering early days of Gay Pride, Lesbian Strength marches and Stop clause 28.
Entrenched in the norms of the day, we share the 'coming out' of young women.
Nurses working with survivors of the 1974 Birmingham bombings.
And finally, finding love in an old people's home in 2003.
Les and Edith 1952
The three of them were sitting in the Old Moseley Arms. They had in their right hands a pint of stout with a good head on it. In their left hands, they held a half-smoked Woodbine. They wore similar brown flat caps with fading checked patterns. And matching hob-nailed boots. Each wore a warm jacket which had been patched at the elbows.
A flickering small fire in the grate produced pungent smoke, and cast flashes of light across the room. The mantlepiece above held a framed photo of the recently -crowned queen. There were several stubs of used candles, congealing over their ceramic holders, a pile of spent matches, and someone’s ration book. Upon the wall ticked a large oak clock, whose hourly chimes could be heard about the voices of the drinkers.
Eric, Phil and Les had started this tradition soon after the end of the war, to celebrate Hitler’s death. Seven years later, the Friday night ritual continued. After work, they each walked to their own houses, and ate the meal their wives had prepared. They handed over their unopened wage packets.After stuffing their half- a - crown beer money into their trouser pockets, they strolled to the nearby pub.
Les was unusually quiet that night. Stroking his chin, shifting his position in the chair, and repeatedly looking out into the dark night. Heavy rain beat against the window, and he watched as it streamed down the glass. The wind was howling, and blowing the trees about, across the road. Some of the boughs looked as if they would snap in the storm. With his boot, he kicked the grit and crisp packets, which were spread across the chequered floor. Then he waved away the seafood man, saying that he couldn’t face his usual Friday night pack of cockles.
Emptying his glass, he banged it onto the table like an auctioneer’s gavel.
‘Women!’ he said. ‘They drive you up the sodding wall.’
‘Never a truer word spoke,’ replied Phil, ‘Damned if I can fathom ‘em.’
Eric shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘What some of them need is a bloody good hiding.’
‘Violet’s always going on about how hard it is, doing the washing in the dolly tub,’ said Phil. ‘I’ll be damned if she knows what hard work is.’
‘Aye,’ said Eric. ‘I can’t imagine your Vi wheeling barrows of cement across the ruddy building site all day. They’ve no idea.’
And the three of them stared into the fire again, pondering on this. The coals smouldered, and grey smoke infiltrated the room.
‘My round, I think,’ said Les, carrying the empty glasses to the bar to be re-filled. He tossed his empty fag packet into the fire and a flame shot up.
Ivy had worked there as a bar maid for a few years. Since her Ken had been shot down in the war, she longed for company. And she needed the cash. She had worked in the ammunitions factory during the war, but now those men who had made it home, needed their jobs back. And she was happy enough at the pub. Only ten minutes’ walk from her house, and she enjoyed the company of men.
‘What can I get you darling?’ she asked Les. Her wide smile exposing red lipstick on her teeth.
Les leaned forward and peered down her cleavage and chuckled.
‘I’ll make do with a Guinness for now,’ he winked, and leaned his elbow on the bar.
‘Cheeky boy,’ whispered Ivy, with a grin.
Les carried the three pints across to his mates, smiling as he imagined having a quickie with Ivy. She wouldn’t forget a night with him in a hurry!
Phil got out the dominoes, as he always did with the second pint. But Les’s mind was elsewhere. After work that day, when he’d mopped up the last of the gravy from his whale meat stew, he was shocked to see Edith put a brand-new teapot on the table. Brand spanking new. Edith had bought their usual one only ten years earlier, when they had moved to Birmingham to live together. A brand-new start.
‘What the bloody hell is this?’ he asked.
Edith’s mouth twitched. She had got it as a bargain on the market that afternoon. A terracotta pot, much cheaper than the metal ones. The spout on the old one had broken. Chipped on the tap when she was emptying the tea leaves down the sink. Had cashed in the co-op divi. And she needed a decent pot for when the neighbours popped in for a cuppa. She gently placed the old knitted tea cosy on top of the new teapot, and smoothed it down.
‘Why didn’t you just get a rubber spout to stick on the old one?’ he shouted. ‘You were supposed to be saving the divi for Christmas. What we going to buy the chicken with now?’. Pulling on his jacket, he rushed down the hall, and slammed the door behind him.
Edith sat in front of the dying fire for a while. She looked around the room at all the things Les had done for them. Hanging the mirror above the fire. Filling the coal scuttle every night. Always bought a bunch of daffies on her birthday. And he’d never raised his hand to her. But still, he had no right to yell at her like that.
And now Les sat in his familiar watering hole, and mulled it over. Edith didn’t often splash out like that and she knew they needed to watch the pennies. Even though they had no kids, things hadn’t been easy for them. Moving towns in the middle of the war, to live where no-one knew them. Eking out the rations. They had rented a little terraced house in Moseley, which was handy for work at the foundry, and within walking distance of the pub. After all these years, Les still loved going home, to his little bit of privacy. And to his woman, Edith.
Edith had suggested she should go out to work again, after the war. Perhaps just a few hours at the corner shop, but Les wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t let anyone say that he couldn’t support his own wife. She’d stopped work as soon as the Jerries surrendered. More than enough on her plate with looking after him and the house.
Eric ordered their third and last pint of the evening, disappointed that he didn’t get the same jaunty smile from Ivy that she had lavished on Les. As always, they finished the night with a game of darts. Phil had the advantage, with being tallest, so his arms could reach the board more easily. Long shanks, they had called him, when he was younger. Easily climbed over the orchard walls to scrump apples. But Les showed the greatest precision, after years working as a welder. Had an eye for detail. And Eric was the most powerful, having built up his muscles as a labourer, on the railways. Les’s darts shot across the room, hitting the bull’s eye. Bullets from a gun.
Ivy moved towards the group, her high heels clicking on the flag - stoned floor. Five, four, three, two, one. Her skirt was tight, and her stocking seams were straight. She leaned over the adjacent table to collect the glasses. There was a waft of her perfume; Youth dew. Les glanced at the smooth, taut bum, and the pert boobs in the uplift bra. And when Ivy looked at him, with her head cocked to one side, he imagined fondling her.
‘Later?’ she whispered to Les.
‘You kidding, Bab? The wife’d kill me,’ he laughed, shaking his head.
So, he downed his drink, and bid the lads a good night. And forgot to wave to Ivy as he left. As he sauntered home. Les wondered what his mates would do if they ever guessed his secret after all these years. Found out that he was, in fact, a woman? Would they still want to spend their Friday nights together? Would dominoes and darts be different if they knew? But they would never know. Why would they? It had gone on so long that he rarely thought about it now. Living as a man, so that he could love his woman.
But as he walked along the unlit side roads, Les couldn’t forget about the bloke in Rotherham, who had been murdered a couple of years ago, simply for walking down the street dressed as a woman. And he looked over his shoulder, cautiously. Was that chap following him? His heart beat quickened, and he felt sweat on his forehead. He stopped and looked in the corner shop window, then bent down as though to tie his shoelace. As the man walked past, calling out a cheery ‘Goodnight, mate,’ Les let out a long sigh.
When he approached his front door, he noticed how carefully the entry step had been scrubbed, and how proudly the brass door knob had been polished. The neat gingham curtains hanging in the front window. He cleaned his shoes on the boot scraper and stepped from the street into the red tiled hall. Les glanced at the framed photo of him and Edith, taken when they moved in there. Two determined faces, smiling at each other. Edith had gone without so much to live with him. And risked so much. Loyal and loving. There were no other photos, of course. No photos of the parents who had disowned them. No photos of children.
Les walked through to the kitchen. Edith was washing the saucepans, and the window was steamed up. Her mouth was pursed, and her flowery pinafore was still tied in place. She kept her back to Les as she cleaned the draining board. Then she wrung out the dish cloth and threw it hard, into the sink.
‘Sorry, lass,’ he grunted into her hair. ‘I shouldn’t have gone on like that.’
And he stroked her shoulder, and kissed the side of her neck, until she finally turned round to him.
‘Come here, you miserable bugger,’ she said, putting her arms around him.
And they stood together, quietly, for a moment. Each pressing their faces into the shoulder of the other. Les tugged her curls, and she stroked his face. They breathed rhythmically, in and out in time with each other.
Then Edith damped down the fire, while Les checked that the back door was locked.
As he walked up the stairs behind her, Les put his hand up Edith’s skirt and undid her suspender. She shrieked and slapped his hand.
They writhed on the bed, and gave each other pleasure. Sweating. Gasping and moaning. The ice on the inside of the bedroom window began to thaw.
‘You’re a cantankerous old sod,’ whispered Edith, ‘But you’re my man.’
‘Well stop chucking my bloody money about then,’ laughed Les.
And he climbed on top of Edith again, and gently parted her legs.
Her and Her, Lesbian Short Stories is a book written by Jane McKears which, as the title suggests, is a collection of short stories of various lesbian couples navigating life throughout the years. This is McKears’ first book, and although the story focuses on several different couples, they are all based in the same area of Birmingham. The cover of the book is full of positive LGBTQ+ imagery, almost like having a pride parade in the hand every time the reader picks up this book. With its soft colours and diverse cast, the cover really draws the reader in. Through each story there is a little line of interconnected-ness which is really interesting, especially when you can see how these characters may have affected the others lives without even knowing, just like in real life.
That being said, the book could benefit from further editing. Each of the stories is written with predominantly short sentences, of which some of them could be combined to give the story more flow. Currently, its borderline bullet point narration makes the story feel more like the author is telling you what happens, rather than the reader experiencing the story with the characters as it develops. Whilst I am aware that it is only a short story, the compact nature of the sentences creates a fast pace which is not really needed for ‘slice of life’-esque stories such as these. Additionally, there are some grammatical errors and the author tends to flip the narration from one character’s perspective to another without any signal to the reader, which creates a little confusion. These things would be picked up and flagged by a professional editing team. Fixing these bits would elevate the book to its full potential, but did not take away the enjoyment for me of reading LGBTQ+ folks just living their lives.