Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 813 by Angharad

The next day, while Simon and his dad were saving the economy, getting the UK out of recession, I was busy playing teacher to younger charges than I usually have. I’d emailed the convent school and Sister Maria had sent me a whole pile of work back. I was busy teaching that to Trish and Livvie, while Mima practiced her reading with her Auntie Stella.

Puddin’ would sit in one of those shaker things, like a reclining chair made of a trampoline–well, I don’t know what you call them–and she’d sit and play with her rattles and mobiles and other toys, sucking on her dummy and making contented noises as she did so.

Mima seemed to be picking up her reading very well–she’d had some instruction from the older girls, who both had reading ages well above their natural ones, possibly Meems would make it a hat-trick. They were all potentially brighter than I was–and I suppose I wasn’t stupid, especially if you compare me to Simon. Ooh what a bitch–you didn’t hear me say any of that.

Tom seemed to spend his whole time rearranging Sir George’s wine-cellar with one of the gardeners helping him. I have no idea what they were doing, but Sir George was very pleased with the outcome so far. They would talk about it each evening over dinner.

We were eating one evening, the girls safely ensconced in their beds, when I decided to dip a toe in to enquire how much longer we would be staying to plague our host’s generosity.

“But, Cathy we love having you and Stella and the children here, the place feels like a home again.”

“Hilary, you are such gracious hosts that asking sounds a trifle ungrateful, but there are things I’d like to do,” I smiled sweetly at her, but it was driving me crazy–I had a home of my own to run plus a life of my own as well. I was just as much a prisoner as some of the people in open prisons, maybe more so, I couldn’t go out at all.

“There are developments under way to resolve the problem with our Russian friends. It shouldn’t take more than a few more days.” Sir George who was our ’interface’ with the security services, had pronounced–the fact that he’d said more or less the same the day before yesterday seemed to go unchallenged, except by me.

“I think I micht jes’ cope wit’ anither day or twa,” said my treacherous professor. He was having great fun playing in the wine cellar and I learned afterwards, computerising the whole thing–well, the list element. Effectively, Tom was cataloguing the booze.

“What sort of developments, Sir George?” I asked and Stella nodded an agreement to my question.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you just yet, things are at quite a delicate stage. However, we are getting there, Cathy, so just hang in there, as our American cousins say.”

“Are they kissin’ cuzzins?” said Stella quietly in a mock southern belle voice, and I choked on my rhubarb roulade. Don’t you feel so stupid when that happens at a dinner table. There I am in a relatively posh frock, coughing like a bad case of swine flu. How embarrassing can you get? I should know better by now, whenever Stella leans forward to me, there’s a funny coming and I’m likely to get a hernia from laughing. She managed to avoid the big one we had, she suddenly developed dengue fever, so she claimed–then the next morning discovered she’d got better thanks to some mysterious healing force. Why do I feel she’s always taking the urine?

I hadn’t used my ‘powers’ for months and was quite happy to keep it that way, however, things conspired against me. The morning after this meal, Sir George had a myocardial infarct–heart attack to you and I.

The paramedics were called and I saw our chances of getting home either postponed or rushed. Neither suited me, because if they rushed things, how would I know my kids would be safe? And if they postponed it how long would things take if someone else had to take over Sir George’s role?

We waited while the medics did their bit, the doctor and the two paramedics and their bags of tricks, which seemed to be whisked upstairs by the green clad emergency duo.

Hilary, who, I suspect had been kicked out of the room came down to apologise for not being much of a hostess–that’s the British upper classes, polite and courteous at all times. Years of public school training makes them so–so what went wrong with Simon and Stella?

I poured Hilary a cup of coffee and Stella encouraged her to sit at the table with us. Tom had disappeared down the hole into the wine store and Simon was busy on a computer link to his office.

“How’s Sir George?” we both asked.

“The doctor doesn’t think it looks too good.” From the look on her face she wanted to burst into tears but was too controlled to do so. “It’s sort of in the lap of the gods.”

“Couldn’t you use some of your magic powers, Cathy?” asked Stella dropping the question on me out of the blue.

“Um–I haven’t done any of that for ages,” I spluttered and blushed.

“What magic powers?” Hilary asked, grateful for a slight distraction from her worry.

“Cathy, did some healing on a whole pile of people a few months back–several of them were beyond the skill of the doctors–and I should know, I’m a trained nurse specialist,” Stella announced, dropping me deeper in the mire.

“I don’t know, Stella, it’s a bit sort of random.”

“No it isn’t, you only have to touch them and they seem to improve. They do, Hilary, I’ve seen it happen.”

“When did you see it happen?” I snapped at her.

“When you did it to me, you’d forgotten that, hadn’t you. I also saw you bring Tom back from the abyss, so there.” If she’d stuck her tongue out at me, we could have started pulling each other’s hair and stamping feet–but she didn’t, instead she dropped me in it, ever deeper.

“Is this true, Catherine?” Now it felt like I was being carpeted by a headmistress, perhaps for fighting or wearing my skirt too short–you know the reasons, the crimes they prosecute in girl’s schools.

“Um–“I blushed,--“I might have helped one or two; but it was ages ago.”

“A few months,” corrected Stella, who continued her torment, “she produces this blue light from somewhere and it goes colder around her. It’s amazing to watch.”

“Blue light? Is this a Christian thing? The local church does healing, should I contact them?”

“You won’t need to, they’re like battery powered compared to Cathy, who plugs into the mains.” I glowered at Stella, no pressure?

“And you’re a trained nurse?” Hilary asked Stella.

“Yes, although I stopped practising a few months ago, when Cathy saved my life.”

“You stopped because Cathy saved your life?” asked Hilary and I cringed.

“I’d best go and see what the girls are doing,” I said slipping away from the table.

“I’d prefer it if you stayed, Catherine.” Hilary went into headmistress mode again.

“You’ve nothing to lose, have you?” said Stella upping the ante.

“I suppose not,” agreed Hilary. Unfortunately, I wasn’t necessarily in agreement with them. George might not either, he was the one with the most to lose. Just then a staff member called to say the doctor was leaving.

Hilary went to see him and left Stella and I to have our playground discussion in relative privacy. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?” I snapped at her.

“Oh for God’s sake, Cathy, you know you can do this, so what’s the problem?”

“He could die, that’s the problem–in fact he probably will.”

“Only if you let him?”

“That’s unfair, Stella.”

“So why are you humming and hah-ing about it?”

“I’m not, I just don’t know if I can actually do it anymore–is that good enough?”

“If you can remember how to ride a bloody bike, you can remember how to save his life.”

Hilary came back into us, “The doctor says he’s got a matter of hours, that’s all.”

“Can’t they whip him into hospital–Oxford can’t be that far away?” I suggested in trying to distract them from my meagre abilities.

“He won’t make the journey–he’s going to die, my love is going to die.” Hilary broke down and we both went to comfort her, Stella giving me a very old fashioned look as we did. I felt absolutely awful.