(aka Bike) Part 1020 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad
All Rights Reserved. |
For some reason, Simon sent me a text about an hour after he ran off from the house:
’Soz Babes, Sdnly remembrd mtg @ hq. B bak 2moro. S xxx’
By this time my initial anger had subsided a little and I was now only homicidally cross. Nobody would tell me what had happened to my tablecloth, the kids, except Julie were unaware that the tablecloth was any different to my one. At a glance, apart from the pattern it looked similar and I learned a long time ago that people see what they expect to see, until shown otherwise–so if it’s in a skirt, it’s a woman–unless she acts strangely, which is what gives away many cross dressers.
I searched high and low for the remains of the tablecloth, but it was nowhere to be found. I even turned it into a game and told the children there was a chocolate bar for the one who found it. None of them did. The pig of a husband of mine must have taken it with him–why?
Anyway back to my being deceived–once I discovered the change, it was really obvious, the fake being only half as heavy as my Gran’s original, apart from the much prettier pattern which fitted in with my rose display.
I saw the children to bed and read to them, then on coming back down, decided to deal with Julie. The phone rang, I answered focusing more on grilling Julie than whoever was calling.
“Hello?” I almost snapped down the phone.
“Hello, daughter in law.”
“Henry, what d’you want?”
“Gee thanks, Cathy, you really know how to cut to the chase.”
“Sorry, I was planning on becoming a widow within a day or so.”
“What’s he done this time?”
“Ruined my grandmother’s tablecloth.”
“Good lord, is she still alive?”
“No, but it’s one of the few reminders I have of her.”
“I see, make him buy you another.”
“It’s irreplaceable, Henry, that’s the point.”
“Oops, of course it is–sorry; I tend not to be very nostalgic.”
“You’re not?”
“No–give me modern stuff any day.”
“So, why don’t you get rid of that pile of stone you have mouldering in Scotland and build a bungalow?”
“It isn’t that simple, it’s a listed building registered with Historic Scotland, along with the suits of armour and the rest of the junk–but apart from that, my kids would kill me if I even thought about it.”
“You might only have one of them to worry about tomorrow, which should make it easier.”
“Such a simplistic approach to life, Cathy–sometimes I envy it.”
“So, to what do I owe this call? You’re not planning on petitioning for clemency on behalf of your errant elder offspring, are you?”
“Good lord, no; let him face what’s coming to him–I trust your judgement implicitly.
Henry frequently took my breath away with his nonchalance. “After all, I still have one child left.”
“I don’t know how far she’s implicated in this treason.”
“I see; I think you’d have to decide if it’s worth twenty years inside for it.”
“Good point, couldn’t I claim provocation?”
“I don’t think marrying into a family of interbred loonies would give you sufficient grounds, you’d still go down for quite a hefty spell.”
“Damn, I can’t spell hefty, besides I have to do the girl’s speechday.”
“Presenting the prizes?” he asked.
“Yes, I think they want a little talk first.”
“Well you’ll wow them so much, they’ll book you for the next fifty years.”
“I think my girls will have finished there before then.”
“Plus you wait until I tell Stanebury School that their new lady of the manor presented prizes at a school–you’ll be so popular, especially being a television personality as well.”
“Henry, you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
“I’ll see. Of course if you run a way with me after you’ve murdered my son, I’d overlook it for a year or two.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Henry, but wouldn’t you be worried I’d murder you as well?”
“Don’t be silly, Monica’s been trying to do it for years–I’m unkillable.”
“Not quite,” I reminded him.
“That was beginner’s luck for you, girl. Anyway, to the point, lovely though it is beating about the bush with you, where is my idiot son?”
“How do I know? He left here two hours ago.”
“Well he was due at a meeting here half an hour ago.”
“Oh no, you don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?”
“Why would that prevent you terminating him personally?”
“Yes–um oh, Henry, now I’m worried to death–what if he’s been caught by those nasty people again?”
“What traffic cops?”
“No, our Siberian friends.”
“He doesn’t know any bears does he?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Had I better call his mobile?” I felt really worried now.
“That was switched off a few minutes ago–hence this call.”
“Oh Henry, now I’m really worried.”
“Hold on,” I heard him cover the phone and mumbled voices sounded in the distance. “He’s just arrived, do you want to speak to him?”
“No–I’ll kill him–just wait till he gets home, worrying me like that.”
“Oh by the by, have you found a new car yet?”
“No, I’ve been using Tom’s Mondeo.”
“We have a spare Audi TT two plus two, if you’d like it?”
“Would I be able to get the girls to school in it?”
“I should think so, I’ll get it sent down for you to see and try. If you don’t like it, don’t worry we’ll find something else for you.”
“You’re so kind, Henry–how about if you kill him and we’ll run away together, plus six kids, of course.”
“I have to go, Cathy, your big galoot of a husband has just come in and we can start our meeting. Bye.”
I put down the phone and sighed with huge relief, Simon was safe. I did wonder at one time if his PTSD had recurred–he hasn’t made an appointment for that, and unless he became worse I can’t really do it for him. Oh well, let’s go and torment Julie.
The phone rang before I could step away from it. I snatched it up, “If that’s you, Simon, I’m still going to kill you, so don’t go begging me not to,” I joked down the phone.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lady Catherine, but I’m not Simon,” said a male voice. I blushed and felt extremely stupid.
“Who’s that?” I gasped.
“It’s Sam Rose–I hope you were only joking about the maritalicide.”
“The what? Killing my marriage?”
“Your husband to be precise, though I’m not sure the term actually exists in a Latin form, but maritus and marital relate to husbands if my schoolboy Latin serves to remind me–however it was a long time ago.”
“What the Latin or the schoolboy?”
“Both,” he said with a sigh and I laughed. “That sounds better,” he remarked and I blushed.
“Whatever it is, Sam, the answer is no.”
“I haven’t asked the question yet.”
“It’s still no.”
“Oh, Cathy dearest, do listen before dismissing me out of hand.”
“I can’t do anything for your patients, Sam, the last effort nearly killed me too.”
“Yes, I realise that, which was why I was going to ask you what you were doing on Saturday evening?”
“Saturday, why?”
“Well, I’d like to take you out for dinner to say thank you for what you did for me, the other night.”
“I don’t know, Sam, Simon might not like it.”
“My intentions are entirely honourable, I promise–beautiful though you are.”
“I don’t know, Sam–when do I need to give you an answer?”
“Speak with Simon first, but there is a slight complication.”
“I knew it, you have another sick child.”
“I have a ward full of sick children–but that’s not it–I need you to dress formally, if you would.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to a concert afterwards.”
“In long dresses?” I gasped.
“I think I’ll stick to a dinner suit, if you don’t mind.”
“But what sort of concert?”
“Mozart, I hope you like his music?”
“Wow, I haven’t been to a concert of classical music since I was a kid.”
“You are obviously long overdue–the clarinet concerto is amongst the works on offer.”
“I just love that piece, Sam.”
“I thought you might.”