Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 647 by Angharad

“Where have you been?” Stella asked as I let myself into the house.

“Had a run in with another parent; I need a wee, ’scuse me.” I rushed into the cloakroom and dealt with my plumbing needs. I emerged a few minutes later. “What time have we got to be at the register office?”

“Midday, the woman said.”

It was ten thirty. “Stella we have loads of time, even if we allow an hour to get there, we have half an hour to sort ourselves out.”

“I just panic that I won’t be ready in time, you’re much more experienced with kids than I am.”

“Yeah, all of about three weeks, and mine are potty trained.”

She disappeared into the lounge and picked up Puddin’, who was wearing a lovely frilly dress in a pale green colour. “Did she choose that herself or did you pick it?”

“I did, Mummy, I choosed it for baby Puddin’.”

“Ah, Portsmouth’s answer to Trinny and Susannah,” I said and Stella smirked.

“Oh bugger, I can’t get this nappy to fix,” Stella said throwing the empty packet on the floor.”

I had a look and peeled off the non-stick paper on the sticky bit and sealed it. She slapped her forehead and I shrugged. It’s so much easier when you’re not the one going bananas.

I checked Mima, she was still pretty clean and tidy, so on with her coat and she was ready to go, then she remembered her dormouse toy. It reminded me that I’d agreed to make one for Puddin’–when, I had time.

Puddin’ was gift wrapped in coats and hats, gloves and a blanket. I knew the wind was a little fresh, but possibly Stella was overdoing the insulation bit–I think the fridge had less than the baby.

She placed the now sleeping infant into her carrycot and that went on the back seat of the car, and Mima was asked not to touch her while she was sleeping. Generally speaking, Mima was quite good with direct instructions, it was Trish who wanted to know why?

We were early at the Register Office, and rather than sit in the car waiting, we went for a short walk. Stella was soon taking her coat off and I urged her to unwrap some of Puddin’s clothing or she’d catch fire.

“I can’t do that, they catch cold so easily, their thermoregulation doesn’t work when they’re very young.”

“I know, Stella, which is why I’m concerned she could get too hot as well as take a chill.”

“Oh shit, I hadn’t thought of that–see, I told you, that you knew more about babies than I did.”

She took off a layer of baby packing. “I’m sure she’ll still be warm enough. C’mon, we have to go,” I urged Stella and Mima through the door and into the offices proper.

“Can you look after the baby and I’ll go and do the paperwork.”

“If you like. C’mon, Meems, we’ll see if we can play chariot racing with Puddin’s buggy.”

“Can I drive, Mummy?”

“Let’s go and find a suitable site for our circus.”

“Don’t you dare hurt my baby, Catherine Watts.”

“Don’t worry, they bounce.” My reply was intended to sound dismissive but she twigged and laughed at me.

“It’ll be on your insurance.”

“Ah, insurance, not my favourite word; okay we’ll go carefully. C’mon, Meems.”

She was out ten or fifteen minutes later with an envelope. She stopped me as I walked past to check on Puddin’. There was a great risk that she was going to crack this baby care business.

“So how’d it go?” I asked.

“Okay, I’ve got a couple of birth certificates here.”

“Can I see?”

“Later, let’s go and get some lunch,” suggested Stella.

We drove off and parked in town, not far from a quite passable restaurant. Of course it was closed, so we walked on to the next. This one was open and I ordered a tuna baguette, while Mima had egg and chips, and Stella, soup and a roll.

“So, let’s see the docs then.”

“What?” asked Stella.

“The documents, what have you called little Petunia, then?”

“It isn’t Petunia, that’s for sure. Only a moron would call their daughter by a name like that.”

“So what did you call the baby, then?”

“Just wait and see.”

“We have waited and seen, now tell us or I’ll set Meems on you. Growl at her Meems.”

She made a snarling noise which sounded entirely too realistic.

“Oh alright, hang on, I left my handbag behind, either in the car or the Register Office.”

“Right let’s go and see.” It was in the car, fully on display, so she was lucky not to have lost it.

“Thank goodness, for that.” She seemed to become less agitated and suggested going back to the pub.

“Let’s go home shall we?” Stella was outvoted, even Puddin’ seemed to want to go home. Half an hour after we got home, it chucked it down and it was still raining after we finished lunch.

“Right, no more messing around. What have you called the baby?”

“Here, see for yourself.” She flipped the envelope towards me.

“Desirée, Catherine?” I gasped after opening it and extracting the paper from inside.

“That’s it,” said Stella, checking on the baby.

“So it’s baby Desi, then?”

“Nah, until she goes to school, I’m going to call her, Puddin’.”

“So should I feel honoured?” I asked.

“Why? I named her after Catherine Cookson, your favourite author.”

“My what?, I picked up a walking stick and chased her squealing round the house. It was a well known fact that I didn’t like Ms Cookson’s writing, which I found puerile, even though many disagreed with me on that.