Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 898 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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Life with a teenager was not going to be easy, and with one as volatile as Julie could be, it made things harder. Still we all have our problems, some are long term some are transient and some are passed on by others.

Part of me wanted to tell Julie about myself–part of me wanted to keep it hidden. It was there if she poked about, but if she did, and found out, would she forgive me or would she go off on one again?

I can’t remember what I was like at sixteen–I was sitting on a suitcase which was threatening to explode with the frustrations of my life and it was all I could do to keep it closed. Like Julie, I'd had a few items of female clothing, but once she found them, my mother would go on seek and destroy missions. Much of it was almost unisex–like plain cotton knickers, but she’d find them and replace them with men’s ones when it was time to go back. She only told my father once–and he roughed me up again–after that she worked alone, sabotaging my laundry–which I had to do myself. Her reasoning was that I should be self-sufficient, so she taught me to cook some basic meals, to do repairs on my clothes–patch and darn, redo buttons and so on. This meant that knowing I’d have to repair it, I kept my clothing in good order. I also had to learn how to launder my own clothes–she claimed Dad didn’t know how to open the machine let alone load it or what wash to put it on, and that wasn’t going to happen to me.

Sometimes I think she was training me to be a wife–because she also taught me about cleaning the house, and even things like shopping for food and household items. I accepted that in her mind she was teaching her son–but to me, it went a bit beyond the usual need to know stuff–like making a place look habitable–by this, she meant the odd house plant or a vase of flowers; matching furnishings and not having it too masculine looking–good curtains and soft furnishings, helped soundproof a room or a house, as well as keep it warmer.

I got lumbered every year with helping her change curtains–I didn’t just get the job of standing on the ladder to take them down or put up the new ones, she taught me about getting them to hang correctly, and not to have them clash with the carpet or other furnishings, so I was aware of colours, too.

I was hoping I could pass some of this on to Julie, as well as the other girls, and the boys too, to an extent. It really was a mother-daughter thing, now I think about it but her removing my knickers showed she was ambivalent about it. I also mused on the time she caught me doing the embroidery, and because I cheeked her, she told my dad–yet she was the one who’d taught me to sew in the first place. No wonder the other boys in the class laughed when we had some sewing lessons at school–I knew what to do, and instead of learning to sew on a button, I ended up making a tea cosy.

We pulled up at Des’s house and Julie loved it. I’d arranged with the current tenant that I’d do my annual landlady’s visit that morning, and she was quite happy with it. I’d arranged for the outside to be repainted, of which she’d approved and seemed happy living there. She signed up for another year’s lease, so she was voting with her feet.

I should say Julie had tidied herself up at the motorway services near the old Severn Bridge because we went on to Aust from there and Des’s cottage. Next, we went to my house and she was again impressed.

I had a woman who came in and checked on it regularly and also did any cleaning necessary. Her husband cut the grass and popped in a few bulbs or flowers to make it looked lived in. Part of me wondered if I should sell it, but sometimes I needed a place of refuge to go by myself, or with the girls.

“This is a lovely house,” said Julie after I’d done the grand tour.

“It’s what I still think of as home, in some ways. I use it from time to time, especially if we’re filming up this way. I’ve also done some teaching near here–so it’s been useful and I have a soft spot for it.

“I wish we’d had a house like this,” she said, “instead, I was shoved in a box room, I didn’t even have a wardrobe, just a suitcase to shove my clothes in.”

“C’mon, let’s go and get some lunch,” I said grabbing my mail.

We ate at a pub on the outskirts of Bristol–she’d never been to the city before, so I thought I’d show her around a little–however, after eating she opted for a shopping trip instead–maybe she really is a girl.

At lunch I opened the letters and saw I needed to go back to the house to deal with the issue it raised, I told her this and she was quite happy about it. Then we went shopping and spotted some lovely nightdresses at half price. I bought two for myself, and one each for the girls–Julie got two, as we’re still building up her wardrobe. She also managed to sting me for some boots and new skirt and top–‘for work’–a likely tale. Actually, it was quite fun, buying things for an age group I’d missed out on. I did draw the line at hot-pants, despite her pleadings.

As we were going back to the house, I got some milk and tea bags and some food to knock up a quick evening meal. She’d bought herself Katie Price’s autobiography, so while I dealt with the house business, Julie was occupied.

It took longer than I anticipated and after eating, it was dark, but we were in good spirits and we cleaned up, locked up the house and got in the car–the heavens opened and a real storm started up. I pushed the starter on the car and nothing happened. The lights worked so did the windscreen wipers–this bloody car, obviously had a fault that that moronic garage had failed to find. I called the AA and was told it would take at least three hours to get to us–they’d been inundated, with the sudden downpour.

We went back to the house and I phoned Portsmouth, explaining that we’d had a problem and would be home as soon as possible. Stella told us everything was under control and I spoke to all the children–they were obviously queued up to talk to me–maybe I’m doing things better than I thought. Then they all chatted with Julie, while the rain lashed down against the windows and my immobile car, I stood and watched it from the lounge window and wondered if we were going to be stuck here. It was a fortunate coincidence I’d bought the nighties–I used to leave some clothes up here but hadn’t for ages now.

It was after ten when the AA man arrived and he couldn’t find the fault–we were stuck, I’d turned the heating up in the house and we had tea to drink and some biscuits, so life could have been worse.

“Best call out a specialist mechanic–they need a computer for these things,” said the damp AA man. I resigned myself to a night in my old home–it was no hardship, but it meant Stella would have to get the girls to school tomorrow. When I called her–she sighed, made a big deal out of it and laughed–she said she’d had fun looking after them and it was no problem. The boys virtually looked after themselves and as she called in pizzas for dinner–they were quite happy to be under her care.

We turned on the television and it went off by itself–I played with it but it wasn’t going to work–I wondered what number three would be. It soon came–Julie reckoned she saw a rat or mouse in her room–and as only two rooms were aired, she had to share mine–great–just what I needed. Technically she was still a boy down below and I doubted the hormones would have disabled her libido yet–at the same time I hoped she would respect me as her foster mother. I told myself that I shouldn’t worry, I was in control–except for things mechanical and I was quite safe. In fact, part of me wanted to laugh at my fears, because they were so silly–but then she was a randy little sod, and would be sleeping next to me.

We retired to bed and the rain hammering on the roof meant sleep was going to be a problem.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, sweetie-pie,” I said to the body lying next to me.

“Who is Charlie?”

“Who?” I bluffed hoping I wasn’t blushing too much.

“I found a photo on the floor when I was looking for the mouse or rat–it was under the bed. It said Mum, Dad and Charlie at Weston on the back, ‘cos you didn’t have a brother did you?”

“Um–no.” I could have lied–said he’d died or something, but I didn’t. I told the truth. “That was me.”

“What?” she sat up in bed. “You mean you were a boy?”

“Is that what the photo showed?”

“Yeah, you were holding a donkey.”

“I refused to get on the bloody thing–I was terrified, and my father made me sit on its back and run up and down. I cried the whole time–I hated it. I didn’t know that photo was still in existence.” I relived the humiliation and fear I’d felt and tears plopped from my face on to the bed linen.

“Don’t cry, Mummy–I won’t tell anyone that you were scared.” She hugged me and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Are you disappointed in me–now you know my murky past?” I was still weeping.

“No–I knew anyway–well sort of–I remember the fuss when you did the thing on telly, and I wished I were you–you looked so beautiful.”

“And all this time you’ve said nothing?”

“No, why should I?” She hugged me again, “You’re like, far too beautiful to have been a boy, and you’re my foster mum, like, that’s why.”