Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 951 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I awoke on the morning of Good Friday. What a strange name for the day upon which they executed a god/king–I mean, it’s not as if it was some pagan they were talking about–unless you examine the rituals: it’s all very pagan. Still back in the first century Current Era, Jesus wasn’t a god, just the founder of a new sect.

Anyway enough of history and distortion, back to the future–hey, that’d be a good name for a film. I smirked at my own silliness. Simon would be home later–oh poo, I forgot to tell him about Maureen’s visit–oops.

I couldn’t sleep any longer and it was daylight, so I got up. The aliens were still in the land of nod–with or without Enoch. I went down and made myself some breakfast. Actually it was tea I made, then some toast–I couldn’t fancy much else–too uptight.

I sat and drank my tea wondering if I’d made a mistake–had my almost compulsion to do good works, got me into trouble? Had I done it once too often? I was roasting a chicken and using a recipe Delia Smith had shown us on the telly, with grapes as part of the stuffing, with shallots and tarragon. I had a bottle of Riesling, which the sauce required, so it looked interesting.

Julie came down and sat beside me. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” she linked her arm through mine and leant against me.

“Why, what have you done?”

“For copping out with your latest project.”

“It’s not a project, it’s a person–Maureen.” Mind you, I’d never think of that name in the same light again.

“Yeah, whatever–anyway, I still can’t face it, her, whatever.”

“That’s up to you–it’s not compulsory. Tell me, why are you frightened of her?”

“Who said I was frightened?”

“Aren’t you?”

She leant her head against my shoulder, and began to sob. “Yes I am frightened, frightened that people will see her and me together and think we’re the same.”

“Essentially, you are–so am I.”

“No you’re not, Mummy, you’re a woman now–you’ve got paper to say you’re female–and you’re married. You’re not the same.”

“Given that we’re all individuals and have individual differences, I’m still the same as her, just surgically transformed into something more acceptable to most people and to me.”

“No, Mummy–you never were a boy–you’re far too pretty to have ever been one.”

“I was as far as the rest of the world was concerned–well mostly, some of my peers found it fun to humiliate and torment me, but my parents were convinced they had a son.”

“So–they were wrong–look I know about these things.” She sounded deadly serious until the edges of her mouth went up and she began to snigger. “I don’t know anything, do I?”

“You must be the only teenager who doesn’t.”

“Oh–well, I’m as unique as you then?”

“Yep, you’re unique–just like everyone else.”

“Hey, that’s clever.”

“It was, but I didn’t think of it, I saw it on something years ago.”

“Pity–it’s really good.”

“Enough of that, what are you going to do about lunch?”

“I dunno–can I have Shelley an’ Tracie around again sometime?”

“Of course you can, if they don’t think I’m too posh. Now, what about lunch?”

“Can’t you just leave some in the kitchen and I’ll take it up to my room?”

“I’m not sure I’m very happy about you eating in your bedroom.”

“All teenagers do it–you know we find half eaten meals and dead cats under the bed on the annual bedroom clean.”

“I knew there was a good reason why you’re not eating it upstairs. You’ll have to eat it in the kitchen or wait until she goes.”

“Aww, Mummy, that’s like so unfair. I mean, I like, live here––”

“I know that, but I make the rules.”

She put her arms on the table and put her head down on them. “That is like so unfair.”

“Yep–I do it deliberately, just to make you angry and frustrated.”

“Some days I think you do.”

“Have some breakfast. Have you taken your pill?”

“My girly pill? Yeah.”

“Well I suspect it’s better absorbed with food. So have some cereal.”

Tom came into the kitchen, so the conversation changed somewhat.

“Whit time’s yon guest arrivin’ fa’ lunch?”

“About twelve–thought we’d eat, half twelve, oneish–is that okay?”

“Aye fine b’me. Whit wis Stella sayin’ aboot her bein’ like a wrestler in drag?”

I’ll shoot that woman one day–“Maureen, is transitioning, she’s not very feminine looking–but I’m hoping we can help her with that.”

“Whit’s this aboot ye afferin’ her a job?”

“She’s unemployed, so I thought we could get some of the outbuildings renovated, painted and so on.”

“Whit fa’ is Leon paid?”

“Maureen used to be a welder, so she has some skills in engineering–so I suspect she knows one end of a paintbrush from the other unlike Leon–who I thought you’d like to have do more gardening for you, Daddy.”

“Aye aw’richt–mind ye, I’ll pay Leon.”

I shrugged–“If that’s what you’re happiest with, that’s fine with me.”

“Och–if yon welder’s mendin’ ma gates an’ oothooses, I’ll pay her tae.”

“How about we go halves?” I knew any sort of refusal would be met with intransigence, so I offered a compromise.

“Aye, aw’richt, but mind we doo.”

I was about to think it was a good idea as the girls’ school fees would be due after Easter, but Henry paid most of that–sweetie that he is. He loves the kids and they love him, because he spoils them rotten.

I was just thinking about this when the phone rang. Julie jumped up and answered it. “Mummy, it’s for you-hoo,” she almost sang at me.

“Who is it?”

“Grampa Henry.”

“Oh, okay.” I took the handset, “Hello, Henry–you won’t believe this but I was just thinking about you.”

“With you, Cathy dearest, I’d believe absolutely anything–obviously your thoughts forced me to pick up the phone and call you.”

“But of course, Henry–you are completely in my power.”

“Oh, yes please,” he said back.

“You silly old goat.”

“Hey, less of the old.”

“Anyway, I’m sure this is more than just a simple social call?”

“Yes and no, Monica and I will be down at the hotel for the Easter weekend–I canna go skiin’ wi’ ma baddy legs, sae there’s nae point in gang a’ the way tae Scotland, the noo, is there?”

“When you put it like that, Henry, I don’t suppose there is.”

“So, what time dearest daughter-in-law would you like to come over with your massive brood?”

“Oh–um–I have someone coming to lunch.”

“Whit’re ye cookin’ hen?”

“Actually yes, roast.”

“What?”

“I doing a hen–well, chicken, with grape and tarragon stuffing.”

“Oh that sounds nice–got enough for two more?”

“Yes, on the understanding that you appreciate I’ve invited someone who is transitioning.”

“Transitioning? What does that mean?”

“They’re changing sex, but in the very early stages–so they still look very male.”

“No problem–are the kids alright with that?”

“Julie isn’t–but I’m hoping she might come round–it’s up to her.”

“Why are they coming to dinner, I thought you’d finished with all that except with your kids?”

“I met her at the doctor's and she’s out of work, so I’m offering her a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, she’s a trained welder, so I thought I’d get some jobs done outside to the outbuildings and garages.”

“Hmm–okay, what time’s lunch?”

“Twelve to half past?”

“Fine–I’ll bring some wine–whad’ya fancy?”

“Some Chablis would be nice, father-in-law dearest.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but it shall be so.”

The rest of the morning was a blur, and after dealing with what seemed like a hundred children, I showered and changed and began sorting the lunch. I made the stuffing and then sorted the veg. New potatoes, baby carrots, and petite pois. The peas were frozen, but the rest was fresh.

At eleven I popped it in a hot oven as per Delia’s recipe and waited for either it to be cooked or my visitor to arrive. I admit my tummy was churning a bit. It was raining, so the girls were all upstairs and the boys were in the lounge playing cards or something–I hoped they weren’t making too much of a mess.

Trish had helped me lay the table and Tom had sacrificed a few daffs and crocuses for my table display. I waited on either the cooker or the doorbell to ring–and waited.