The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1538 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

For the next couple of days Julie and I made our nightly trips to Southampton and healed on Jenny, who was improving each time. Finally she recovered consciousness completely and although I thought she was able, she declined to talk to me.

The following day, I sent in Julie to do the healing while I stayed in the car and sent her energy and love. She returned an hour or so later. “I got her to talk.” Julie looked pleased with herself.

“Oh, what did she say?”

“She can’t remember very much at all–well not about the bridge and stuff. She, like, remembers being with us and helping with the children, which she says she loved.”

“What about the bloke who persuaded her to go off with him?”

“His name was Benedict Pope.”

“That’s got to be a made up name,” I suggested seeing it as a reversal of the funny little man in the white dress who lives in the big house in Rome. Julie looked at me totally confused by my statement.

“How d’you know it’s made up?”

“I don’t actually know it’s made up but when the current incumbent in the Vatican is Pope Benedict, it seems highly likely.”

“I’d never have thought of that, and I’m sure Jenny didn’t.”

“You don’t do the Guardian crossword.”

“Huh, intellectual snob,” she said pretending to insult me.

“Yep, that’s me–so what else did she say?”

“Not much, she’d like to come back but feels you wouldn’t let her.”

“Did she give reasons?”

“She stole from you and left you in the lurch. She thinks you’d see her as unreliable.”

“I see, anything else?”

“Her legs don’t work–she’d probably be in a wheelchair.”

“That’s alright, she could sleep in the garage.”

“You what? She cannot sleep in the garage–you can’t do that to her...” Julie eventually noticed my silly expression. “I hate you, Mummy, you’re far too clever for me.”

“What d’you think–about her coming home?”

“In a wheelchair?”

“If she can’t walk, she’d have to use one.”

“Could she?”

“We’ll have to talk to the others, but I don’t have a problem with that, we’d have to make a bedroom downstairs, but it’s not impossible, just fiddly and we’d have to talk Tom round.”

“He was very upset when he heard of her accident.”

“He loves us all, Julie, even when we do stupid things–if he didn’t, he’d have chucked me out long since.”

“He loves you most of all, he sees you a his daughter–he couldn’t love you much more if you were.”

“Yes, okay, what else did Jenny say?”

“She felt embarrassed when you were there.”

“Why d’you think I stayed here this time?”

“If you know all this why do I have to bother telling you?”

“Because I like to confirm what I know. How about we have a drink on the way home?”

“Hey, that’s a good idea.”

We stopped at a pub on the edge of Southampton and had to deal with one or two men trying to chat us up.

“Why don’t I just say we’re lesbians?”

“Because, Julie, that will just make them want to try harder.”

“Why doesn’t it make them just go away?”

“It’s dropping a gauntlet to them, a challenge to their egos and also their testosterone. Imagine the kudos they’d give themselves, just screwed a lesbian, now she knows what it’s for and she loved it.”

“That is like, so gross.”

“Quite, but that’s how some men think–not all, Simon, thankfully is different–at least I hope he is. Others just find the whole concept of women being oblivious to their charms inconceivable. They also probably have fantasies of being in bed with two lesbians.”

“They’d kill him.”

“You and I know that, but well...”

“’Ello, darlin’, can I get yer a drink, an’ yer friend?” The voice belonged to a mid thirties man who thought the height of sophistication was a Ben Sherman shirt and jeans.

“No thanks, we’re just leaving.”

“Go on, stop for one more–go on,” he winked at me.

I looked around the pub, we weren’t far from the door to the car park. “Okay, I’ll have a vin rouge and she’ll have a Bacardi breezer.”

“As good as got,” he went up to the bar and we slipped out the door and into the car. I did tell him we were leaving. Maybe he’ll listen next time.

“Phew, that was close–I’d never have thought of doing that, Mummy.”

“Neither would I if we’d been any closer to the bar, or there’d been two of them.”

“It was you he was after, he kept looking you over.”

“I saw him doing the same to you, darling, and as you’re younger and more nubile than an old crone like me, I suspect you were the ultimate target.”

“Ewwwch, that’s like, horrible. He was about as attractive as a camel with whooping cough.”

I tried to visualise a poor dromedary with pertussis–it defeated me, instead I switched on the CD player and let the Mozart Requiem consume our thoughts for the next half an hour by which time we were pretty well home.

Julie went quiet and when the Lacrimosa began she was sniffing. I leant across and squeezed her hand, she squeezed mine back and I saw the tears run down her face. She smiled weakly at me and then looked ahead through the windscreen. She hadn’t really grieved, and now Jenny was looking as if she’d survive, she could concentrate on letting go her pent up feelings for Billie. I stopped a little way from the house and hugged her. She let rip for maybe fifteen minutes–really bawling and screaming–then she slumped in her seat, exhausted.

“How did you know?” she asked quietly.

“Intuition?”

“You’re getting too good at this, you’re like my real mum–able to read me like a book.”

“In which case, why didn’t she look a couple of pages ahead and realise what you needed to do to be happy?”

“Because she was more interested in her happiness, I guess.”

“How d’you know I’m not?”

“Intuition,” she said, beginning to giggle. Giggling is infectious, so we were both giggled out when we got home. I drank a cuppa and went to bed, much to Simon’s disgust. Julie had gone straight up to hers taking a glass of water with her. She drinks lots of water–it helps her feel less hungry when she’s trying to lose weight. I think she has a fabulous figure as did that creep in the pub last night. She thinks she’s overweight. Does my bum look big in this and all the other clichés.

It seems very few women are satisfied with their bodies, and fashion designers to plastic surgeons trade on that dissatisfaction to great profit. I find it rather sad, we can’t all look like Angelina Jolie or Megan Fox, so why do we bother? It’s bound to end in tears, and shouldn’t we all be looking for the inner beauty we each possess?

I looked at my naked body in the bathroom mirror–there were lots of things I could improve–I needed to lose a few pounds, especially from my waistline and my breasts weren’t quite as perky as they were–breast feeding, I suppose. My face–I won’t go there, it could take hours...

“Cathy, you in the bathroom?”

“Yes, darling, why?”

“I fancy a bit of you know, so bring your beautiful self out of there and be seduced by my romantic patter and masculine charms.”

I looked back at the mirror, “Someone loves me, so why should I care?” I called back through the door, “Be out in a minute. I hope you’re not sitting there in your underpants and socks, you know what a turn off it is.” I heard frantic activity from the other side of the door and sniggered–works every time–oh the power...”