The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1091 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

There were no bad dreams that night, unless you count mine and I’ll save those for my therapist, who apparently could see me on Monday, such is Stephanie’s power of persuasion. Talking of the good doctor, she duly appeared on Sunday afternoon and after eating her share of a leg of lamb, took Trish with her into the study and spent an hour with her.

I didn’t see her go, I was doing my bit with our new arrival, feeding and cleaning up the mess afterwards. I redid her nappy and sang her to sleep, rocking her gently in my arms–finally laying her in her cot when she’d gone off. I turned round and nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Simon–how long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” he said, “to wish you were my mummy.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I saw the bond that seemed to be forming between you two already–you’re not going to give her up, are you?”

I motioned him to come from our bedroom, which looked almost like a cross between a nursery and a Mothercare store room. “Look, when that child is old enough to ask questions about her real mother, I’d like to be able to say that I knew her and what a wonderful woman she was, who simply died from a broken heart.”

“She’s young enough not to have anything said to her, she’ll take you as her mother anyway; so why bother with complications?”

“Si, I’m not her mother, I’m her foster mother and at most could only be her adopted mother.”

“But she doesn’t know that, does she?”

“But she will one day and then she’ll know we deceived her.”

“How will she find out?”

“Because the paperwork will say so–and I’ll tell her.”

“Isn’t it just an unnecessary complication? What good will knowing do her?”

“The relationship between parent and child is sacred, building it on lies is unforgiveable. I want her to know who her mother was, like I do all the children here. If they choose to call me mummy after that, that’s their decision.”

“I still think it’s over-complicating things, somewhat.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, dear husband, but I’m the one who’ll be stuck with dealing with it and that’s how I’ve decided to do so.”

“Very good, milady, I’ll inform the other staff,” he said bowing to me. I slapped him on the arm as he left.

On Monday, I took the baby with me as I went for therapy. I knew it wouldn’t be appreciated by Jane Stanley, the psychotherapist, but I decided the baby would stay with me even though Stella told me she’d cope for an hour.

“Cathy?” asked the tall woman, who was wearing a pair of designer jeans and Ralph Lauren top. She had short grey hair, wore tiny diamond ear studs and a gold bangle on her right wrist. “I’m Jane Stanley, come on in.”

I picked up the carrycot and she visibly winced. Tough, I thought.

I set the carrycot down by the side of an easy chair and made myself comfortable. Jane came in and sat opposite me picking up a file.

She told me about herself, at least her professional self, and explained her boundaries. She then asked me to tell her a bit about myself and what I felt wanted out of seeing her.

I wasn’t sure I liked her and felt defensive. “I’m Cathy Cameron, married to Simon we’ve been married about six months.”

“Is this your first baby?” she nodded at Catherine.

“She’s not mine, well she is for the moment, her mother died on Saturday and asked me to take care of her. So I’m fostering her and will look to make the arrangement more permanent as soon as I can get my solicitor on it.”

“Was this a close friend, the baby’s mother?”

“Not especially, we hadn’t know each other that long, but she’d started her labour in my cloakroom and then her husband and daughter were killed in a car accident a day or so later after leaving my house.”

“So there are issues of guilt?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do as an occupation?”

“I’m an ecologist and teach at the university, help to supervise the British Mammal Survey and make documentary films.”

“You lead a busy life then–and of course, your new addition will complicate things a bit more?”

“Yes but the other kids will help.”

“You have other children?”

“Yes, six.”

“Six?” her jaw dropped a little and I hope she didn’t see me snigger.

“Yes, until now, Mima was the youngest at five, then Livvie, Trish, Billie, Danny and Julie who’s sixteen.”

“How can you have a child of sixteen–you’re what–twenty five or six?”

“Twenty six.”

“Don’t tell me you conceived at age ten because I don’t think I’d believe you.”

“Me? No, none of them are mine, I’ve either fostered or adopted them.”

“Why six–it’s quite a large number by modern standards?”

I nodded at the carrycot, “Seven,” I corrected her.

“Quite–why?”

“Because they needed me.”

“So it was their need, not yours?”

“I accept I have needs too, but one or two would have met those.”

“So why the football team?”

“Circumstances arose where they stayed with me and didn’t want to leave.”

“Or you didn’t want them to leave?”

“Some of it, but I guess they enjoyed being a part of a family rather than living in a home or a dysfunctional family.”

“So you take on other people’s problems?”

“I try to help.”

“And who helps you?”

“My husband when he’s there, my adopted father, my sister in law and my kids.”

“Friends not help too much, then?”

“Most of them live away from here, so they can’t.”

“Your adopted father–are you adopted?”

“Not really–my dad died after a stroke, which happened after my mother died suddenly. He died about a year or so ago and my professor, sort of became my father figure. He asked me to move in with him as he had a large house and he sort of became my adopted father. It’s not a legal thing, but he sees me as his daughter and I call him, Daddy. The kids all call him, Gramps, and he feels part of the family.”

“He has no family of his own?”

“No his wife died and his daughter was killed in a car smash.”

“Repeating themes,” she said to herself, “So you sort of adopted each other and fulfil a need in each other’s lives?”

“The house is full of people who help each other along. The children all decided they would be siblings even though they’re all from different families, they decided they’d call me Mummy and Simon, Daddy, Stella, Auntie Stella, and Tom, Gramps. It was their decision which we all accepted after discussing it with them.”

“So you didn’t ask them to call you, Mummy?”

“No, I thought Auntie Cathy was sufficient, they decided it wasn’t. They wanted me as a mother in name as well as role.”

“And you agreed?”

“Eventually: I wasn’t too happy to begin and tried correcting them explaining that they had mothers and I didn’t want them to lose sight of that. One had been abused by the birth mother and said she didn’t want to remember, she wanted me to be her new mummy.”

“And you agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Are you always so amenable to suggestion?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Say, I wanted to call you Mummy, too–how would you feel about that?”

“Embarrassed,” I felt myself blushing.

“But you let other people call you it, why not me?”

“You’re older than I am to start with, they were all children.”

“Including the sixteen year old, to whom you’re more like a big sister in age terms?”

“I’m sorry, but this line of conversation is annoying me, I’m leaving now.”

I stood up and pulled on my light jacket.

“Sit down, Cathy, we haven’t finished.”

“You might not have done, I have. Send me the bill, because I won’t be back.”

“At least tell me why?”

“I came here to deal with my guilt and grief, all you’ve done is to undermine what self esteem I have. Okay, I can’t have kids myself, but I can still be a mother to some who need one–you don’t actually have to have delivered them yourself to bond with them and give them a chance to grow into decent adults.”

“You’re a one woman charity, aren’t you? Out to save the world?”

“No, I can’t save the world against the other six billion morons who are trying to destroy it; or save all the abused or damaged children even in this town–but those who have found their way to me–I’ll do my damnedest to protect and nurture until they can look after themselves.”

“Are you a religious person, Cathy?”

“Religion? Ha bloody ha, yes–I’m a fundamentalist agnostic. I’m a scientist, I believe what I can see with my own eyes and can test or replicate.”

“Is your husband a scientist, too?”

“No? He’s a banker, why?”

“Simon Cameron,” she said quietly to herself, “Not the Simon Cameron?”

“Is there another?” I picked up my handbag.

“So you’re Lady Catherine Cameron, the dormouse lady?”

I blushed, “Yes.”

“Ah, some of it makes sense now.” She had a gleam of triumph in her eyes.

“I’m glad it makes one to you, goodbye.” I picked up my baby in the carrycot and walked towards the door.

“Oh, you’ll be back,” she said to my back.

“Don’t bet on it, missus,” I spat as I left.