The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1204 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

It was a beautiful ride, and I determined if I was going to keep it, I’d call it ‘Pepper’.

“So whadd’ya think?”

“It’s very nice, but I suspect it should be for what it cost. I’m not sure about Henry’s offer though–it seems too generous.”

“What? Take all you can from the old bugger, it’s not as if he can’t afford it, is it?”

“I have no idea, but I have qualms about taking advantage of anyone.”

“Cathy, you’d make a lousy banker, but a wonderful priest.”

“Eh?” I nearly lost it–the car I mean when he said that. “Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of requirement to believe in ancient sky gods for that job?”

“How would I know–ask wossername.”

“Marguerite by any chance?”

“Dat’s da one,” he said blithely. “Oh there is one other factor which I’m not sure I should relate to you because it would mean you’d find in its favour and I wouldn’t want to unduly influence your judgement now, would I?”

“Simon, if I wasn’t driving this in ice and snow, I’d possibly be thumping you–now stop messing about and tell me what this factor is.”

“If you’re threatening me with physical violets, I’m too frightened to tell you.”

“I’m not a botanist, Si, I’m a zoologist so more likely to threaten to put a ferret down your trousers than hit you with a handful of violets, even if they were dog-violets.”

“Do they have cat ones, too?” he smirked.

“If they do, I’ll be sure to plant some on your grave–now tell me.”

“I thought I was going to be cremated?”

“No, an unmarked grave in the woods, they’ll never find the body.”

“You’d have to wait seven years before you could trade in my insurances or claim the estate.”

“That’s okay, I’m a relatively young woman–time is on my side.”

“I don’t think I will tell you now.”

“How about I say, I’m nearly happy with it and it would just need one more little thing to make it certain?”

“Certain of what?”

“That it has dormouse appeal.”

“How could that happen, they wouldn’t be able to reach the pedals and the steering wheel at the same time?”

“Are all bankers as literal as you?”

“No, not all are as well read as me.”

“I said literal not literate.”

“There’s a difference?”

“For you, obviously not.”

He sat and sniggered. I seethed, what was he holding back from me? The pig. If it was a bicycle I’d already know all there was to know about it, cars are my Achilles’ heel. Here I am racking my brains about cars and I’m no further forward with an answer. I wouldn’t be racking them about bikes–racking–bikes–will it take a bike rack? I wonder.

“Si, will this take my bike rack?”

“If you fold it up, you should be able to get it in the boot, why?”

I groaned, “Very bloody funny, you know perfectly well my meaning–now tell me or face a long walk home in the snow.”

“When you ask me so sweetly, the answer is yes and I’m sure you read my mind–you witch.”

“Yes, it didn’t take very long and the plot is only half formed.”

“Plot?”

“In reading your mind.”

He paused for a moment, then seemed to get the point of my retort. “Oh very good, yes, with a wit like yours you could go far.”

“Jamaica?” I fed him the line.

“No she went of her own accord. Oh the old ones are the best ones,” he smiled and slapped me on the leg. “Are you going to tell me if you like it or not?”

“I’m going to call it, Pepper.”

“Isn’t that a bit predictable?”

“Like me?”

He nearly choked. “There are many words which could be used to describe you, Cathy, predictable is not one which immediately comes to mind.”

“Is it not?”

“I just said it wasn’t.”

“I was just checking.”

“Why?”

“I could suggest that banker, him talk with forked tongue.”

“Cathy, I suspect that anyone with a forked tongue would have great difficulty talking.”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“A metaphor?”

“Yes, you know, an aphorism either reflecting the snake in the grass type or the difficulty people have with snakes.”

“Are we talking plains Indians here?”

“Possibly kimo sabe.”

“I surrender, I have no idea what we’re talking about.”

“Drowned in your own tepee?” I sniggered as I said this.

“And you had the nerve to tell me off the other day because I told you the bacon slicer one.”

“You implied I had a fat arse.”

“You do, but I still love you. However, you implied that I was a liar because I work in a bank.”

“Who me? Would I do a thing like that?” I said as innocently as I could whilst negotiating a round-about.

“If we go up here there’s a nice pub, we could have a coffee,” Simon pointed up a side road from the main drag.

“Will we be able to get out again if we stop up here?”

“Course–this thing’d go up Everest.”

“I think Henry might object to the fuel cost for that.”

“True, turn in here.”

I did and reversed up towards the entrance to the lounge bar. The doorway had been excavated from the cold white stuff, and it looked open for business, though I doubted they’d have too much today.

“Wait there, I’ll help you down,” he said and jumped out of the door followed by a thump and a yell. I snorted, he’d obviously slipped on the snow and fallen. He yelled again and there was something in his tone which suggested things were amiss. I got out carefully compared to Sir Walter Raleigh, who was lying on his back with his leg at an awkward angle. “I think I’ve broken it.”

“Okay,” I pulled off my jacket and draped it round him, “I’ll go and get some help.”

“Can’t you just blue light me?”

“No, I need to get you back into the car so I can get you to hospital.”

“Oh–hurry up, it’s beginning to hurt like mad.”

“I’m going as quick as I can.” I ran to the pub and explained to the landlord what had happened. He was a retired army medic and after donning a coat came out to look at Simon.

“Oh dear,” he said and went back into the pub.

“Where’s he gone?” asked Simon.

“To get his gun?” I shrugged feeling the cold breeze blowing straight through my sweater.

“I thought he said he was a medic not a vet?”

“Yeah, an army one–they have guns don’t they?”

“In combat, we’re not at war here as far as I know.”

“Oh, I assumed he was going to shoot you because he’s better at treating gunshot wounds than broken legs.”

“You are such a comfort, wife.”

“Any time, husband.”

The landlord returned with some bits of wood and a bandage and between us we splinted Simon’s leg to immobilise it. Then we helped him sit up and finally to stand on his good leg and ease him onto the back seats where he could keep his leg straight. I told him I could manage from there and I drove him gently back to Portsmouth and the QA. The queue was practically out the door.

“Shall I tell them we’re private patients?” asked Simon, I hoped jokingly or he’d likely be lynched.

I’d borrowed a wheelchair and he was sitting in it with his leg resting on a plastic chair. I stood alongside him with my hand on his shoulder. I could feel something happening under my hand and he slumped forward. I shouted for help and a nurse came running out, “You shouted–oh shit.”

She took the chair and without concern for his broken leg she charged through the door into the clinical area I was left standing in the waiting room feeling bereft. It was my birthday and here I was at this bloody hospital once more with one of my family in trouble again. Will it never end?