The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1431 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

By the time Simon came home the silliness had finished and the liver and bacon casserole cooking in the Aga was ready, as were the vegetables Stella had helped me prepare.

“Mummy and Auntie Stella were talking like Gramps does,” said a little voice dobbing us in.

“What d’you mean, Trish, talking like Gramps does?”

“You know, using Scottish words.”

“Scottish words?” asked Simon.

“Yes, they were talking like Scottish people do.”

“Well they are both Scottish, so how would you expect them to talk?”

“Silly, Daddy, Mummy’s from Bristol–I’ve been there, it’s in England.”

“Ah, I see where you’re going wrong, young un–your mother may have come here from Bristol, but she wasn’t born there.”

“Mummy, where were you born–it was Bristol, wasn’t it–Daddy’s wrong, isn’t he?”

Simon was smirking like the cat that got the cream plus the rest of the meal.

“I’m afraid he isn’t, darling , I was born in Dumfries.”

“How d’you spell that?” she asked so I spelled it out for her.

“Dum–fries? Sounds like stupid chips.”

“You missed the M out of chips, Trishy,” suggested my husband.

“There is no M in chips, Daddy–I thought you could spell better than that.”

“Well the joke is dead in the water anyway.”

“My Dum–fries joke, Daddy?”

“No, oh never mind–when’s dinner, have I got time to shower and change?”

“If you’re quick. I can give you fifteen minutes maximum.”

“Okay–that’ll do.” He ran off up the stairs.

Trish laid the table as I checked the meal–it was nearly ready. “Hmm, smells good,” said Simon returning and he gave me a little hug and kiss, “So does the food,” he added.

The meals in this house are far from silent, so when everyone goes quiet, I assume the food is either very good or so bad they’re trying to eat it quickly to kill the taste. Of course Danny eats like a wolf on a starvation diet, Billie used to until we severally pointed out to her that girls don’t shovel it down like there’s no tomorrow.

She actually accepted it when she saw how Trish and Livvie ate, and also how Julie did so–although I’d had to educate two of those three about table manners. Anyway, all of our girls now ate a bit more daintily without being affected.

This brought to mind an experience we had in a quite nice coffee shop in Southsea. I was sitting with two of the girls, I think it might have been Trish and Julie when a woman with two or three teenage girls came in and sat opposite. They were all fashionably dressed and one of the girls was extremely pretty causing Julie to sigh that she wished she looked like her.

We sat and drank our teas or coffees, I don’t remember which when the mother arrived back at their table with drinks and cakes and the very pretty girl took a great mouthful of cake and began to eat it with her mouth wide open–it was like looking at a human cement mixer–and made me feel quite queasy.

The girl was easily fourteen or fifteen possibly even a year older, but clearly no one had taught her to close her mouth when she ate–which is something most people learn by about age seven. It was very disillusioning–so I’m a snob, sue me.

There was fresh fruit for afters–and there were no takers for that, mind you the piggy-wiggies round the table had just about licked their plates clean, so I assumed they’d enjoyed it.

I started to get up to make some drinks when Simon stopped me and nodded at Julie who took the hint and made us teas and other drinks. “That was so filling, I feel absolutely stuffed,” Simon declared, undoing his top trouser button.

“Yeah, that was pretty kewl, Mum,” added Danny. He’d managed to force down second helpings like Simon, and I suspect was probably feeling rather full. Between them, they’d eaten half a loaf plus goodness knows how many potatoes, assorted veg plus the liver and bacon. They used the bread to soak up the gravy which was quite thick and rich–as one tends to get with liver dishes.

I drank the tea which Julie had made for me, and she sat alongside me. “Dunno what’s going on this weekend but we saw loads of old biddies today–the blue rinse brigade–surprised not to see you an’ Auntie Stella there.”

“Very funny.”

Julie obviously thought her joke was, because she snorted at it and sounded like a goat with hayfever–which set Trish off–she got the giggles which rapidly transmitted itself to the others. Simon tried to assert himself which just made things worse.

By the time the kids were excused from the table, it had descended into total chaos and I was glad to let them go so we adults could talk amongst ourselves. We none of us knew why Julie’s salon had been so busy with wrinklies, and the best guess was a party of them were staying nearby–they often come to Southsea or Hayling Island just before the season starts or just as it finishes when the prices come down.

“But it’s school holidays,” protested Julie, “the oldies shouldn’t be here now.”

“Why ever not?” I challenged.

“They should be home knitting or stirring their cauldrons.”

“Perhaps they were practicing their broomstick flying skills instead and dropped into your salon.” Stella joined the fray.

“Coulda been,” Julie was forced to concede, “like I said, I was surprised not to see you two with ‘em.”

Simon sniggered and we both glared at him. He went off to see what the youngsters were up to and his trousers nearly fell down–he’d forgotten about doing his trousers back up. So we had the last laugh. Once he’d gone it was girl talk until I suggested we needed to sort out the dishes about half an hour later.

Tom arrived home about five to midnight, he was less than sober but did stop singing the Scottish Soldier when I opened the door for him–he couldn’t find his key–it was in his hand.

“Faither, whit are ye up tae–ye’re more plastered than an interior wall,” I used Scots, as English didn’t seem to compute.

“Och, Catherine, dinna be sae hard on an auld man, it’s a sair fecht.” He staggered past me and up the stairs, whereupon Simon followed him up to make sure he didn’t fall down them. “Och ye’re a guid lad, Simon Cameron,” he kept saying as they disappeared up the stairs. I checked him a short while later, he was fast asleep lying across the bed and snoring like a lawn mower. Simon helped me turn him so he was at least up and down the bed not across it, and we left him lying on his side. He slept in his clothes all night because he was daft enough to appear in them the next morning asking me to phone his office to say he was working from home that day. He took an aspirin or two and went back to bed until mid day.

Sometimes I wondered exactly what my role was in this house–it seemed at times, that mother was the primary one–for three adults, one sub adult and six children, plus sorting out Jenny’s troubles at times. She was nominally renting Maria’s old house–which would be Catherine’s one day–but rarely stayed there, although her fellow did much of the time as it was more relaxed than staying at the naval base. It was making a nice start for Catherine’s savings in the rent she paid, so I supposed I shouldn’t grumble.

The house in Southsea was being rented by a senior manager in the bank and he was paying a good monthly rent–subsidised by the bank–so I set up savings accounts for the other children out of that. Quite when I’d tell them what I’d done for them, I wasn’t sure–possibly when they went to university–if they go of course.