Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 882 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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I was waiting with Tom for what seemed like ages. Gareth’s Landcruiser turned into the drive and pulled up as close to the house as he could, Tom and I got into the car. I felt stupid, wrapped up in a coat with a hat and scarf pulled over my face; sun glasses completing the disguise. Mask might be a better descriptor; it was to hide my face from the waiting gang of paparazzi at the entrance to the drive.

I had spoken briefly to Gareth and he understood with minimum data–I liked him more than ever, apart from being drop-dead gorgeous, he had a brain. He also accepted what I told him without any questions, as if he already knew it or trusted me implicitly, or even thought it was irrelevant–maybe that was it, irrelevant, in which case he wasn’t such an atypical man.

The clowns with cameras flashed and attempted to delay our exit from the drive, one nearly got himself run over and another laughed saying, “Don’t worry she’ll fix you.”

I think there was more chance of finding oranges hanging off apple trees in the garden.

Once on the main road, I felt I could relax a little although Gareth suggested there could be a car following us. Because of the weather, I opted to wear the grey boots with the suit and blouse, though walking through the snow and ice to the car posed a small challenge and I was glad of Tom’s arm to steady my balance and reassure myself he was there for me.

“So why are all these imbeciles freezing their backsides off?” asked Gareth.

“I told you, they think I’m some sort of super healer.”

“Why would they think that?”

“I was at the hospital the same time as whoever this mysterious individual is.”

“Oh, you’re the one I saw on the website–now it makes sense.”

“What does?” Now it was I who was confused.

“Well it had two photos, one of the dormouse down your dress and the other of you in a Wonder Woman outfit–it was obviously photo-shopped because Wonder Woman was a bit more endowed in the breast department.”

“Linda Carter, I expect,” I replied, “Oh how I wanted to be her years ago.”

“I think you’re actually prettier,” said Gareth.

“Aye, sae dae I,” agreed Tom nodding to emphasise the point.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but she was a very beautiful woman in those days, I was still a sort of boy.”

“I don’t believe you, Cathy,” challenged Gareth, “no one as beautiful as you, was ever a boy.”

“Aye, Simon, says thae same.”

“Anyway what was the point of the two photos of from this to this?”

“Oh that’s my fault, the idiot guy from the Echo suggested I was Superman and I don’t think he meant in a Shavian sense. I don’t know if it was a slip of the tongue or what, but that’s what he said, so I corrected him by saying I was Wonder Woman. It was meant as a joke–they took it to mean I was admitting to being the healing person.”

“Which you are, aren’t you?”

“I’m what?” I blushed, was I going to lie to him as well? “What makes you think that?”

“I had a hernia from trying to pull a tree root out of my garden back last summer. I shook hands with you and it tweaked like hell. By the time I left your house, it had healed itself.”

“How does that prove anything?” I was still blushing.

“Scientifically, it doesn’t, unless I could repeat the experiment with the same result. I couldn’t, because the hernia is gone. However, yesterday, I managed to cut myself while doing my impression of Jamie Oliver chopping veg, I chopped my left index finger and thumb instead.”

“Were you doing a finger salad?” I asked with feigned innocence.

“Oh, very good–but–um no, I wasn’t. However, the cuts have healed miraculously–see?” he waved his hand in the air.

“So perhaps it’s Tom who healed you?” I tried to throw in a rather weak red herring.

“No, Tom and I have met before and spent some time together the day I came to meet you. I still had the hernia then.”

I sighed loudly and pouted. Why doesn’t anyone believe me when I lie?

“Look, Cathy, I’m not going to tell anyone, I feel we have enough problems keeping the Pirates of Penzance off our treasure–but thanks, I feel great without that annoyance in my pants.”

“That’s how I felt prior to surgery,” I said off-handedly.

“You what?” he gasped and Tom was chortling.

“Oh nothing,” I blushed again–me and my big mouth.

I took off the sun glasses, it wasn’t really sunny but it at least made it feel like daylight. I noticed Gareth looking at me in the rear view mirror, I pretended not to notice, at the same time I undid the overcoat I was wearing–it was getting quite warm in the car–or I was having a hot flush, perhaps both.

“When did you have the surgery?” he asked.

“A year or so ago, why?”

“I just wondered–I honestly cannot imagine how anyone could possibly want to have that done. Eeewww,” he said pulling a face.

“Think of it as having a noxious growth removed.”

“But it isn’t is it? It’s a functioning piece of kit.”

“I prefer the modified version, an innie instead of an outie.”

“I’m sure you do, but sooner you than me. Couldn’t you have used your miraculous healing powers to spontaneously change your outie into an innie?”

“No, to start with I wasn’t aware of having any such skills. Secondly, it only heals what’s damaged.”

“I’ve just had a silly thought, like you go and have surgery and when the surgeon comes around to check, it’s all grown back again–a sort of groundhog day scenario.”

I shivered, “Perhaps that’s why this thing didn’t happen to me until I was beyond that stage?”

“Whit aboot Trish, she’s got some skills in healing tae.”

“Oh don’t go there, Daddy, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Poor Trish, she’d be beside herself and so would I, for her.”

“So Trish has inherited your powers? That’s interesting, given she’s your foster daughter.”

“I know, but the energy finds what it needs–from patients to healers. It chooses you, not the other way round.”

“So, is this spiritual healing?”

“As an agnostic–I have a problem with that particular term.”

“That’s what I thought. Is this God’s revenge?”

“Don’t even go there,” I cautioned.

“Okay, okay. We’re here folks, do you want me to drop you off and then go and park?”

“No the fresh air will do us good,” I said on both Tom and my own behalf.

We walked to the university building, not on the main campus, but in the biological sciences building, which was part of a smaller campus near the harbour. We all walked together, me carrying my laptop, the case of which was stuffed with files, and my handbag. Tom was laden with a large briefcase bulging at the seams and Gareth had a box file under his arm.

“You look every bit the celebrity,” Gareth said to me.

I laughed, “Don’t be daft, I’m a poor working girl.”

“Whose husband happens to be a duke and own a bank–yeah, poor working girl.”

“Simon isn’t a duke, his dad is only a viscount.”

“Sorry, milady,” he began walking backwards and bowing. Tom was roaring with laughter.

“But look at you, fur trimmed coat and hat.”

“It’s fake fur,” I countered.

“So, it still makes you look a million dollars.”

“No, it keeps me warm.”

“It shows off your figure.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“And that suit–that is absolutely beautiful–like its wearer.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Gareth Sage, no matter how many doctorates you have.”

“I know, and I’m glad to hear it.”

Just to confuse him I put my arm in his.

“However, I might still be open to offers,” he said winking at me. Tom looked scornfully at me until I poked my tongue out at him and he knew I was fooling.

We ascended in the lift and a few yards down from there, was a group of people standing around, it looked like someone was lying on the ground.

“What’s happened,” I asked.

“Some fool of a student ran into him pushing a trolley thing.” I worked my way to the front of the group and to my horror saw Perryman, lying groaning on the floor.

“Where does it hurt?” someone was asking.

“My legs, I can’t feel my legs,” he was sobbing.

I shivered–could I help him? Did I want to? Would they let me?