Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 858 by Angharad

I was in my bed at last. It was nearly midnight. Simon was still zonked on the sofa with a blanket over him, the guests had all left having as they said a good time. The dishes were all clean–courtesy of an overworked dishwasher, but tomorrow I’d have to start tidying up the rooms again–the downside of entertaining.

Theresa had forgiven me for not displaying my talents in healing–I’m not sure I actually possess any–it’s possibly just psychosomatic and suggestibility on the part of my patients. However, she said she felt much stronger for just being near me. That is frightening–sounds like something from the New Testament–I am definitely no Messiah. Messy–maybe at times, but, Messiah–no!

I settled down to look at the book that fell out of from under Trish’s mattress when I tucked her in. It was an exercise type book with hard covers.

I looked inside feeling rather awkward once I saw in her hand:

tricia watts,
her dairy,
keep out.
no peping.

Much of it was the usual stuff, the day she started school and what she thought of it–she actually enjoyed it.

started scool tody i like coming to scool as a girl much mor than i wood as a boy the other girls are kwit nice and I made frends with a girl called Livvie she came here to nursry and noes evrywun the teechers are nice and i speshal like the head mistres sister maria.

In another entry, they seemed to get longer as her writing skills improved, although some of her grammar and spelling leave room for improvement–then she is only five.

my sister mima mummy calls her meems, had been norty all day, steelin my toys and hiding them i told her i don’t like her enymor.

A bit later on, after that domestic incident, she wrote:

livvie has come to live with us her mummy and daddy are dead my mummy says she can be my sister like meems is i think thats a good idea, so does mima i wish my first mummy was dead to then mummy cathy could adopt me id be a orfan thade have to let her adopt me cos id need a mummy i hop mummy cathy can adopt me.

I had some tears blurring my vision as I read on:

my birthday was nice i had lots of prezents. wot i want mostest is for mummy to adopt me proper i don’t never want to leeve her

I began to wish I hadn’t opened up this Pandora’s Box, and the more I read–it was compulsive–the worse it got.

it wood be nice if mummy can adopt orl us girls we orl need a mummy proper we orl luv mummy and daddy so much and grampa tom anty steler is orlrite two and her babey

There was comment on her relationship with the moo cows, I mean Browne-Cowards.

Petoona cowerd is a pig she doesn’t like me an i don’t like her shes a cow a silee moo mummy calls them the brown cows she tells lise about me ses i see a docker cos im mad i hate her

It went on in this vein for several pages, her spelling was creative, to say the least although I suppose I was understanding what she was writing, so in that regard it was mission accomplished.

I recalled a journal I’d kept as a girl–yeah, as a girl. I made my already feminine handwriting even more flowery, quite deliberately, and wrote about my dreams of being allowed to be myself one day. I used to pour out my heart into those pages–I suppose I was about twelve at the time. My mother found it along with one or two of my treasures–one of her old bras, which was far too big for me; and old pair of her knickers, and tights and a pair I’d bought myself–they were yellow nylon cut in a French knicker design–so she knew they weren’t her old ones. I also had a dress I’d found in a rubbish bag somewhere, which astonishingly fitted me, more or less.

My father gave me a hiding and I was made to put each item into the incinerator we had in the garden. Maybe my evil thoughts helped to cause his stroke, I certainly wished him plenty of horrible things. I actually told him, “I hope you die,” so he beat me some more until I apologised. I’d called myself Charlotte in those days, it was the feminine form of my then name. I’m glad I changed it to Catherine or I’d still be called Charley, albeit spelt slightly differently.

The most recent items in Trish’s diary were:

Chrismas is coming i wunder wot ill have mima is haveing a new bike witch shell like wants to ride mine but so do i iwunder wot livvie and me will get mummy is a good prezent byre.
the two boys from my old home are not as bad as i thort theyd be danny got hit in the eye by a stone an i hop hes gonna be orlrite i kwite like him and hop mummy can adopt him an billy two thay use to beet me up wen i wos Patrick i noed i wos a girl thay use to laff at me an hit me i dident like them but now i do id like a big bruther like danny i do hop mummy wil let them stay thay ar mush niser nowan don’t wanna beet me up i like them so do livvie an mima
havein a big bruther wood be a niset prezent for chrismas

I’m beginning to wonder what we pay for at that school–how come she can read beyond her age yet can’t spell when she writes? As for the content–oh dear–it plucks at my heart. Why did I have to find this book?

I keep my resolve firm, I have a life which I make decisions about, I don’t let a five year old tell me what to do–unless he’s called Simon and happens to be my husband–and then I ignore him. Seriously, this has got me very worried and feeling very guilty.

The boys have been good, I wonder how long that would last. Danny may not mock Trish now, but who’s to say Billy won’t, and would Danny then renege and go back to his old habits?

I wonder if Trish will ever discover punctuation and capital letters? I slipped out of bed and pushed the book back under her mattress, she stirred slightly and I kissed her and told her to sleep. She very sleepily muttered, “Mummy,” and sighed, a tear actually dropped on her pillow before I could stop it. I was sniffing heavily by the time I got back to my room.

I felt like Hamlet and his famous soliloquy To be or not to be, in my case it was about fostering extra children. Why does life always pose such awkward questions?

My gut feeling was to say no when Nora comes back for them. I would discuss it with Simon and Tom. I think I know where Stella stands, but it’s alright for her, it’s me who has to look after them. I suppose I can cope for another week or so, especially as Trish seems more happy with them–I just don’t know what to do.

I mean, that prophecy nonsense–a funny dream and they suggest it’s like something out of a Greek tragedy. Mind you Hamlet saw ghosts too, then he topped himself–I hope I don’t get like that, but I can see how attractive it might be for some people.

...to sleep, to dream no more... powerful stuff, I wonder how Dr Who will get on playing him–according to the critics, David Tenant did really well, maybe I’ll have a look later, except it’s three hours long and I can’t see me getting that long to myself, unless I record it. Now’s there’s a thought. I wonder if I can work the new machine?