The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1393 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“Can we stay for the party on Saturday? It is our last performance?”

“We still have the following Saturday to do at Southampton.”

“Yeah, but that’s different, this has been good fun and all the cast are really nice.”

“Can I tell you on Saturday? This is in total confidence, okay?” I asked and Julie nodded, “I’m worried about Stella.”

“She seems alright to me.”

“I’ve known her longer than you have.”

“Well yes, you’re older than I am.”

“Thanks for the character assassination job, remind me to return the compliment.”

Julie smirked back at me and I glowered but needing to keep my eyes on the road as we drove home after another performance meant I couldn’t really look at her other than rapid glances.

“You were quite good again tonight,” she offered perhaps as a peace offering.

“Quite good, darling? It was without doubt the most insightful performance of Lady Macbeth since Judy Dench did it with the RSC.” I repeated the comment of one of the audience who came back stage to talk with us. I wasn’t too happy about it because it meant I had to talk with them rather than push off home as I’d planned.

Gordon had been delighted by the write ups in the local press, they mainly referred to Iain, unsurprisingly, but then he is a classical actor who does stints with the RSC. Other members of the cast were also mentioned. I got one mention as, ‘putting in a workman like performance.’ That was fine, I wasn’t a professional and that I wasn’t singled out for some negative criticism suited me fine.

Then we’d been shown the one from the Guardian, it wasn’t Mr Billington but one of his colleagues. It was generally very positive and then said, ‘That Lady Cathy Cameron, who plays Lady Macbeth, is in fact a Scottish noble woman and Iain McPherson, a fellow Scot and king of the Shakespearean theatre, shows that these two have a natural advantage when it comes to portraying the Scottish throne, albeit in disarray–tartan through and through with their soft highland accents belying the granite hearts beneath. A very creditable performance all round.’

Wow, that was a good on’, no wonder Gordon had been so pleased to show it to us. He was building us up for the solo performance in Southampton, not that it was necessary. To me, it just meant I’d need to do a bottle of milk for Fiona if Stella hadn’t sorted the problem before then.

I wondered if I should have tried asking the light to help sort her problem, but for some reason it didn’t seem to want to know–I hoped that didn’t mean I was going to end up feeding two babies for months to come. No way, I’d phone the doctor tomorrow–I’d end up with boobs down round my knees–like a human dairy cow.

I shuddered at the thought of this and had visions of nipples big enough to connect a hose pipe to. “Are you okay, Mummy?” asked Julie as I parked the car–at least I hadn’t gone past the house this time.

After a cuppa, I fed the two wains and went to bed only to wake with a horrible dream in which I fed countless babies and had to walk round with my boobs in a wheelbarrow; they were so big.

Still shuddering from my dream, I went to the bathroom and pulled up my nightie to check that they weren’t growing any bigger which was when Simon came in. “What’re you doing?” he asked sleepily, his eyes squinting in the light.

“Nothing,” I felt myself turning very red.

“They’re still there, are they?”

“Are what still there?”

“Your boobs–I thought you were counting them?”

“Um–no–I was looking to see if they were red, because the one was itching a bit.”

“Oh, I wondered if they’d grown or shrunk or something.”

I blushed again, fortunately he didn’t pick up on it as his eyes were closed as he peed–no wonder he misses so often. I was about to say something when I thought better of it.

“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” I asked him as he went to go back to bed.

“What for? I’ll have to go again when I get up–I’ll do it then.”

I was speechless, but again said nothing–well you can’t when you’re speechless can you? Perhaps those who say I was never a boy were correct, I always washed my hands, probably because I didn’t like to handle it. I assume when I was about thirteen, I was probably the only one in my class who wasn’t pulling it every night while fantasising about some local totty or some pop queen. I didn’t really get erections, I don’t remember wet dreams or any of the things boys used to talk about–not that they talked much to me in any case–I was the class weirdo–but good to know for English or Biology–last to call when it came to games.

I went back to bed–Simon and his dirty paws were already asleep. I lay there reminiscencing about school, and how I managed to survive it and get good enough grades to go to Sussex.

I must have been stronger than I thought–the class wimp and girlyboy–who not only survived their jibes and occasional physical attacks but grew to become myself despite it. Did it make me stronger? It did later on, when I had grown my hair and they made me play Lady Macbeth. How my life seems to revolve about that play–this has to be the last time. I won’t do it again, no matter who asks me–this is my life and that’s my decision.

I must have gone to sleep because I awoke when the alarm went off and I was dreaming of a boy from school, Graham Dennis, we used to call him, ‘Dennis the menace.’ He was a real menace to me, always calling me names and assaulting me when he felt my very existence provoked him. I refused to cry–no matter how hard he hit me–at least while he was still about. I often ran home crying afterward. I wonder what he’s doing now.

My dream went from my mind as I roused the children, fed them and got them to school. Somehow, Stella had avoided seeing the doctor and muggings was still feeding her baby. I was too busy to chase her up on it–did ask her to do it, but she tends to forget things–possibly a consequence of her illness.

We did attend the party on the Saturday, I had a soft drink and wanted to leave, Julie was promised a lift home by one of the young actors. I warned her not to get involved in anything stupid and she rolled her eyes at me. I came home and went to bed. She rolled in about three o’clock–I was still awake, worrying about her.

The next week seemed to fly by, and suddenly Julie and I were parking the car at the Mayflower theatre in Southampton and heading to the stage door. We did a rehearsal–good job we did–what a difference on a proper stage. But that wasn’t the main surprise for me–the assistant theatre manager was Graham Dennis, who suddenly couldn’t do enough for me and the other women in the cast including Julie.

I was so tempted to set him up–it was him alright, Bristol accent and a scar on his right eyebrow–I was partly responsible for that–he went to head butt me, I ducked and he caught his stupid head on the corner of a wall–I think. All I remember was him running off crying and bleeding. I got into trouble for that because the headmaster believed his story and not mine. How I’d love to get my own back–but I’m a different person now–different enough for him not to recognise me at any rate.