Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 740 by Angharad

I followed Trish out into the road where Livvie was lying on the ground and crying quite loudly. “Grab the bike,” I told Trish and bent down to pick up the distressed child. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you inside.” I hugged her to me and did a quick assessment as I carried her home. She’d skinned her knee and probably an elbow. The hand which held on to me had some grazed knuckles. Hopefully it was all just superficial damage and would be a bit sore for a day or two. I’ve fallen off bikes myself, most recently with the help of the Subaru, it bloody hurts.

She sobbed until I got her indoors and Stella came to see what the fuss was about. I bathed the wounds with clean, cold water and sprayed some povidone iodine powder on them. It was cold but it doesn’t sting and is a useful topical antiseptic. She dried her eyes, and I checked her out for any deeper damage, she limped about a bit, but that wasn’t due to broken bones and she walked nearly normally when I suggested some ice creams.

“I’ve got all this to come,” sighed Stella.

“Yep,” I smiled back to her, “it’s such good fun.”

“They ought to come with puncture repair kits,” she mused as I cleared up the mess from my first aiding.

“Why, bikes don’t?”

“Nah, I suppose not, even if they did, I wouldn’t be able to fix them.”

“What?”

“I can’t fix a puncture.” She shrugged and drove her hands into her trouser pockets.

“Want me to show you?” I offered.

“Why? I’ve got you and Simon to do it, if ever I ride a bike again.”

“It would be a pity not to ride that bike of yours, it’s very nice.”

“Not really my thing, is it?”

“I don’t know, you seemed to enjoy it when we rode around the Downs.”

“Oh yeah, it was such good fun, you nearly bled to death and Simon was in danger of being prosecuted for trying to make someone swallow his bike.”

“I think he had grounds for feeling a tad upset about things.”

“Cathy, always dependable for the understatement of the century.” She sniggered at me. “Where’s the walking wounded?”

“Watching the telly by the sound of it.” I nodded towards the lounge. “I think I’d rather make programmes than watch them.”

“Watch out Attenborough, Watts is coming.” Stella nearly fell over laughing.

“He was very complimentary about my dormouse effort,” I beamed.

“Well, he’d have to be wouldn’t he, I mean as the elder statesman of natural history broadcasting, it behoves him to say nice things about his competitors.”

“I suppose so, but he was quite specific about enjoying my producing and writing the programme as much as my presentation skills.”

“Yeah, okay, you’ve shown the write up several times.” Stella rolled her eyes, “If she isn’t questioning her femininity, she’s bragging about her presentation skills. There’s no half measures with you is there?”

“Nope, I’m a Sagittarian, what you see is what you get.”

“So why the questioning?”

“About what?”

“Geez, Cathy, I just said it, about your womanliness, what else?”

“Sorry, I don’t follow.” I felt extremely stupid as what she’d said passed me by completely.

“What you see et cetera. If that was the case, why is there any questioning? You are quite pretty with a super body and a pleasant voice. So why the continual self-flagellation?”

“I can still see signs of Charlie.”

“Where? I can’t because he doesn’t exist, he was the product of your father’s imagination, a wrapping with which he managed to imprison Cathy. But you broke free, the wrapping, viz. Charlie, disappeared and you grew from that day onwards. You might not have had a female childhood in the accepted sense, but no one would know it.”

“I do,” I shrugged.

“Cathy, it’s just memories. We can’t change the past just how we react to it. You need to move on, I keep telling you this. Marry my idiot brother, adopt those three cupcakes in there, and live happily ever after supporting good causes and making the odd nature film.”

“What do you mean supporting good causes?”

“Geez, Cathy, I mean throwing the odd garden party or going to the occasional ball, being a patron of ‘Save the dormouse or whatever. You know, the usual stuff. Charities like having someone with a title on their letter heading, alongside a war hero and business mogul. It makes them feel legit and thus able to screw the public more easily. I mean, STD with fluffy bunnies and a pretty patron will be a runaway star.”

“STD? Runaway star? Isn’t that mixing metaphors, somewhat? What has sexually transmitted disease got to do with stars running? Stars shine not run.”

“Social diseases these days, in the same way it’s a GUM clinic not a VD or STD clinic, even though they do the same thing, give it a quick butchers and whack in the penicillin, usually somewhere it hurts a bit and they might be more careful in future. STD in my reference was Save The Dormouse, you dozy cow. I mean, syphilis is hardly fluffy bunnies, is it?”

“No, I suppose that would be myxomatosis,” I mused.

“What would?” Stella gave me a funny look.

“What fluffy bunnies get.”

“I was being facetious, it was a light-hearted reference to one of those bloody furry things you like running around inside your bra.”

“I beg your pardon, the things inside my bra are not furry.” I knew perfectly well what she was on about, I thought I do a quick wind up as she’d just had me. It was payback time.

“Cathy, I can’t believe you are this thick.” She made a gesture of distance between thumb and forefinger of a couple of inches.

“Is that meant to mean cup size?” I continued acting stupid. I cupped my own breasts, “No, they’re definitely bigger than that, see?” I joggled them.

She realised she’d been had and was about to hit me when I was saved by the bell; the telephone bell – well it’s more of a warble really. “Come back and fight you coward,” she called after me as I went out to the hallway.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Babes.”

“Simon?”

“Very funny, who else?”

“I wondered if I’d recognise your voice it’s so long since I heard it.”

“You coulda called me?”

“I didn’t know where you’d be getting your Saville Row sackcloth and ashes.”

“Very funny.”

“So to what do I ascribe this honour?”

“What?”

“This phone call.”

“I’m your fiancé, remember? Partner in crime and so on.”

“I just couldn’t place you, now I’ve got it, the man who ran into my car at the supermarket.”

“Someone hasn’t have they?”

“Have they, what?”

“Run into your car.”

“No, why?”

“Cathy, stop being obtuse, it ain’t funny. You’ve made your point, I’m sorry but I haven’t had a chance to call before.”

“Okay, I’ll stop teasing you and you can tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“I’ve been to Washington.”

“As in USA or Tyne and Wear.”

“As in President Obama.”

“Oh the Irish guy, yeah, so. I don’t suppose you got to meet him, did you?”

“Actually, yes I did.”

“What? You went to the States and met him without me on your arm?”

“Before you pop a blood vessel, Babes, it was a rush trip with some boring old farts from the Treasury.”

“You could have told me.”

“No I couldn’t, it was totally hush-hush.”

“What even from your wife?”

“You’re not my wife yet, are you?”

“No, and I pissed off the priest a bit.”

“What, Margaret?”

“Marguerite not Margaret.”

“I was close, anyway what did you do?”

“I went to talk with her about this healing business.”

“And?”

“She wanted a demonstration.”

“Well she’s a scientist, isn’t she?”

“That wasn’t why she wanted me to do some. Anyway, I told her what I thought of her superstitious ideas.”

“Cathy, can’t you keep quiet for once, you’ll never make a diplomat.”

“She still says she’ll marry us, I think.”

I could visualise him shaking his head as I spoke with him. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Dunno, what would you like to do?”

“Better get you married off to some rich arsehole double quick.”

“Why’s that?”

“I might be meeting the Prez again and he expects me to bring my wife. It’ll be a ball at the White House near Christmas.”

“You are joking,” I screeched down the phone. “I haven’t got anything to wear, his wife is going to make me look like something from Oxfam, she is so elegant.”

“So are you.”

“I am not, Simon, oh my God, what do I do?”

“Cathy, I said, Christmas, we have to get married first. Better speak to your tame friend Magaret.”

“Marguerite,” I screeched down the phone.

“Whatever,” he said, “just do it.”