The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1212 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

(Does this count as two dozen or 101 doz for dodecaphiles?)

The funereal music filled the church, Tom had left explicit instructions about every aspect of his ‘going away’ ceremony, his last act in this life. Simon and I walked with the children behind the coffin. The church was absolutely packed to the maximum, although my bleary tear-filled eyes recognised no one.

The music, Lacrimosa from Mozart’s Requiem, had everyone sniffing as we processed behind the flower laden bier and its precious cargo. We filed into the front pews and stood while the coffin made its journey to rest before the altar.

The priest walked to the choir and turned to face the congregation, “I am the resurrection and the life...” he began and I collapsed Simon easing me on to the pew with Julie’s help.

In the cemetery I dropped the rose and the dirt on the coffin and screamed in anguish–I had lost the kindest, wisest man I had ever known and it ripped me apart. I screamed again and Simon shook me. I was sobbing and shaking.

“Wake up, you silly bitch–wake up, you’re dreaming.” I felt someone shaking me and finally managed to open my eyes. “You’re having a bad dream,” he said calmly.

“But we buried him,” I sobbed.

“Buried who?” he asked.

“Daddy.”

“What, you mean, Tom?”

“Yes,” I sobbed and he hugged me.

“I hope not, he was still alive a couple of hours ago.”

“But he sickened and died.”

“He has a cold, Cathy, that’s all, and I suspect half of that are symptoms which only manifest when he needs a dram of single malt–it always seems to clear them up until the next day.”

“What day is it?” I asked controlling my sobbing to the odd hiccup and sniff.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning of your birthday, surely you hadn’t forgotten, had you?”

“But I’ve had my birthday.”

“Yes, dear, but that was last year–you get one per annum.”

“No, this year, you gave me a Porsche Cayenne.”

“What? Forty K’s worth of motor? I might be reasonably well off, but that’s a bit more in the generosity stakes than I could manage–besides, we’ve just had your little Mercedes repaired.”

“But it was so real–it even got stolen and we got it back despite the police doing a raid on the warehouse in Southampton.”

“Cathy, you dreamt it all–besides, how can I afford to buy you a new car when I have to get one for Julie–remember it’s her birthday next week and she’s seventeen.”

I sat up–“I can’t believe that I just dreamt away a week or more of my life in such a real way–it felt so real, this feels more a dream that it did.”

“I think I’d better make you a cuppa.” It was rare for Simon to offer that especially when it meant missing his beauty sleep.

I followed him down to the kitchen half afraid that if I went back to sleep I’d fall back into that horrid but vivid deam.

I paused as I passed Tom’s room and was reassured by his snoring–it was the first time ever that I’d been pleased to hear it, now it made me feel safer, he was still alive and I was safe. I felt a tear of relief escape my eyes and trickle down my face.

Simon was busy pouring the boiling water on to a teabag in each of the mugs so I sat and waited until he passed the mug of hot brown liquid towards me. He offered me the milk and poured in enough to turn the fluid a creamy brown colour while he put just a drop in his.

“I don’t know how you can drink it that milky,” he gently scolded me.

“It’s how I like it. Remember, I like my tea weak and my men strong.”

“As the actress said to the bishop,” he added to my quip.

“Perhaps.” I sipped the hot beverage and felt it warming me. There had been snow a day or so before and it was still quite chilly. The roads were a nightmare–but hey, this is Southern England, we don’t do snow and we certainly don’t do coping with snow. Trains, planes and automobiles will grind to a standstill and councils will wring their hands and say it caught them by surprise while the government will complain but not fund remedial action. The vicious circle of inactivity or inertia and blame will start anew.

“So, what are we doing for your birthday?” he asked me.

“I don’t know–I suppose it depends on the weather–if it’s bad like this, we won’t be going far, will we?”

“I’ve booked us a table at Southsea.”

“In the Green Room?”

“Yes–it’s as good as anywhere and better than most.”

“Okay, if we can get there.”

“I’m sure Tom would loan us his Freelander.”

“If you’d bought me the Porsche we wouldn’t have to.”

“Cathy, I’m a banker not stupid.”

“How about you buy me the Cayenne and we’ll give my little Merc to Julie?”

“What? I could get a run-about for Julie for a few thousand not forty thousand–for that I could almost get her a small aircraft.”

“You wanted me to have a TT once.”

“I was offered a special deal on that–what’s with the Porsche anyway?”

“Since I drove, Jimmy’s, I just fancy one–that’s all.”

“You’re not pregnant are you?”

“Very funny.”

“Well, I thought it was usually pregnant women who fancy strange things.”

“So, a Porsche Cayenne is strange is it?”

“Only insofar as me actually buying you one is concerned.”

“Oh well, it was the nicer part of the dream.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was.”

We went back to bed. It took me ages to get off to sleep again–I just kept seeing that funeral bier and that packed church and hearing the clergyman begin the service.

This time round I wasn’t woken by children but by a herring gull which was presumably on the roof and squawking his head off. It was ten to seven and I felt like I’d been awake all night.

For a moment I reflected on the dream–the car was nice but it was never worth losing Tom, he was more valuable than any car could ever be. I reached across for Simon and he wasn’t lying beside me–I supposed he’d gone to work. Sometimes I think he’s more married to his work than to me.

The gull went squawking again, Simon called them shite-hawks, and no one seems that fond of them, even I went off them for a number of years when they stole the bag of chips off my lap at Weston Super-Mare. I was about six at the time and my dad smacked me because I was squealing like a girl. From this morning’s recollections, I still do but it’s allowed now.

I needed to get the girls to school, so I dragged myself out of bed and went to wake them–they weren’t in their beds. I felt a sudden panic–what if this was another dream? I pinched myself quite hard–it brought tears to my eyes, but I could still be dreaming.

Running downstairs I only stopped when I got into the kitchen and there they all were eating their breakfasts. “Hello, babes,” said Simon, “Happy Birthday–I thought I’d let you have a lie in.”

“Happy Birthday to you...” chorused the kids and I felt both moved and stupid at the same time.