Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 841 by Angharad

The lunch went reasonably well, with everyone bar me enjoying the curry–sorry, I just don’t like it–however, the girls did, so that was all that mattered. Simon and Leon fitted a makeshift roof over the old well cover, Tom having shown them where he had some spare wood and fortunately, some spare felt.

I went off with the girls to get Leon some new jeans–I got the measurements from his old ones, we also thought we’d get him some new undies and a tee shirt. That took us a couple of hours, so by the time we got back it was nearly dark.

I presented Leon with his new jeans and the girls gave him a little prezzie each, Meems gave him some socks, Livvie some boxer-shorts and Trish, a new tee shirt–one which didn’t have puppies or kittens on, but some sort of motorbike doing wheelies. I didn’t like it, but the girls thought he might, and they were right. He grabbed the stuff and ran up to the bathroom to change–emerging ten minutes later full of himself. The girls all high-fived him–that was funny watching Meems do it, and he thanked them for their gifts.

I asked him how he was going to get home in the dark and he shrugged about riding with no lights. I brought out a cheap set I’d got in one of the shops, but at least he’d be legal riding home. I asked him if he knew how to fit them, “Course I do, it comes natural to men, doan it?”

I gave them to him and left him to it, while I put the rest of the shopping away. I checked half an hour later and he still hadn’t done it. Simon peered over my shoulder, “Let the wife do it for you, she’s a whizz with bikes.”

I savoured the phrase, Let the wife which was something which would have been beyond my wildest dreams only two or three years ago, and here I was married to an aristocrat–who’dathoughtit possible–I can see the tabloid headlines in the Bristol Evening Post--Local Boy Makes Good, I was still sniggering to myself when I went out to the bike and our helpless handyman.

“You in’t laughin’ at me?” he said almost aggressively.

“No, I had a funny thought about something I was thinking of earlier, if that makes sense.”

“No it don’t.”

“Let’s have a look,” I said taking the bike into the garage and switching on the lights, “it helps if you can see what you’re doing.”

“Hey, dis is magic innit?” said Leon admiring my workshop equipment.

“Hmm,” I replied not really listening. I grabbed a screwdriver and pair of pliers and began mounting the rear light to his bike.

“Dis a funny knife,” said Leon.

“That’s a bike multi-tool it isn’t a knife.”

“I know,” he said putting it down carelessly.

“Leon, please respect my tools, some are quite old and some are quite valuable.”

“Okay, okay,” he snapped.

“If you actually showed some attention here, you might learn how do to it next time.”

“Next time?” he asked in a surprised tone.

“Yes, the next time you need something doing on a bike.”

“Yeah, but I’s got you to sort it now, inni?”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t.”

“What is you accusin’ me of?”

“Ingratitude amongst other things.”

“What udder tings?”

“There,” I switched on the bike lights. I passed the bike to him. “I expect you next week, take care riding home, and give my regards to your mother.”

“Yeah, tanks for doin’ da bike.”

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” I asked him.

“No, I doan tink so.”

“So I can keep this, can I?” I held up some money.

“I tought you was keepin’ it to pay for da jeans.”

“No, those were a gift.”

His face lit up and he smiled, “Tank you.” He snatched the money, wheeled his bike out of the garage and set off for home.

I shivered going back into the house, having locked up the garage. “He’s going to be frozen before he gets home,” I said to Simon when he asked if our guest had gone.

“So, it’ll do him good.”

“How can freezing yourself be good?”

“Give him some moral fibre, if he’d had any in the first place he wouldn’t have been here at all. I’ll bet you paid for his jeans and things?”

“No, I used your store card,” I said as casually as I could.

He nodded, then a moment later said, “You did what?”

“I bought them.” The look of relief on his face seemed excessive for the amount it would have been. “Simon, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, why?”

“You looked concerned when you thought I’d spent your money.”

“Nah, just getting used to having two drains on my pocket.”

“Two?”

“Yeah, you and Stella.”

“Well don’t worry, as long as I have some of my own, I won’t bother you.” I turned on my heel and stormed into the kitchen to get supper started.

“Hey, Babes, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?” I asked indignantly. I felt like saying, if you can’t afford a wife, why did we get married? However, I resisted the temptation.

“Well you know with Stella?”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, I mean she’s taken you on enough shopping expeditions.”

“Yes I know and you usually end up paying.”

“Well then, I suppose I should be used to it by now, but times are a bit harder at the moment.”

“So, keep a hold of your cards and no one can spend them without your say so.”

“I can’t, Stella’s been using it for seven or eight years.”

“Well don’t complain to me, then. I won’t be using it.” I turned to face the fridge and started getting food out of it.

“Look, Babes, you’re my wife.”

“Yes, I’ve got a piece of paper and a ring to prove it.”

“C’mon, Babes, let’s not fall out over this, of course you can use my cards–all my worldly goods I thee endow–remember?”

“I remember, I was there.”

“So there, matter resolved.” He patted my bottom and walked out of the kitchen. He was very close to having a bowl of cold lentil soup tipped over his head–patronising twit. I’m his wife, his sister is a millionairess in her own right, and he queries my access to his cards? He can stuff them as far up his wallet as he can reach, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll spend my own money and he can go and whistle–bloody tightwad.