The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2944 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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My evening was mostly filled by driving back home. The tediousness of the journey wasn’t helped by the sky darkening, despite it only being about seven o’clock. This was shortly followed by a sense of heaviness in everything, as if the very sky itself were leaning on us. Then a single flash lit up the universe, like a huge flash bulb going off, huge blobs of water started smacking the roof and windows of the car. The rain was torrential and the road soon disappeared to become a shallow river of boiling water.

It reminded me of the beginning of my story, the day that Stella hit me off my bike. Hail stones bounced off the bonnet of my car and I slowed down a little in the far from clear visibility of the road ahead.

My car is new enough to have the daylight lights, LED lights on both back and front, which should be enough for other road users to see me in either direction, except it’s a well know fact that ninety per cent of drivers are poorly sighted and the other ten per cent are registered blind. So I was quite glad that when the sky darkened the car’s head and tail lights came on automatically.

About halfway home, a motorcyclist—you know, the sort, organ donor on wheels—came flashing past me as I was about to overtake a lorry. Despite his lights, the motorbiker’s, I didn’t notice him until he drew level with me because I was trying to see through the wall of spray thrown up by the multiple rear wheels of the truck—one of those pulling a trailer as long as the truck.

I was temporarily startled by the motorbike and took my foot off the accelerator and dropped back a fraction, the truck simultaneously indicating and pulling out into the space I’d have occupying had I not slowed down. I held my breath as the motorbike scarcely made it through the gap. It upset me enough to turn off at the next services area and stop for a drink and a wee. The storm had abated enough for me to trot to the buildings without getting too wet and I had a telescopic umbrella in my bag should I need it for the return journey.

Sitting at a table on my own I consumed my cup of tea—well that’s what the label said—and I cogitated on the rest of my journey. Theoretically, the worst was now behind me but I sent Trish a text to say I’d stopped for a cuppa while the thunderstorm raged. It had finished but they didn’t know that and I asked her to tell her dad. Her response was that it was dry with them and to drive safely as she didn’t look that good in black. Despite her cheek, I got them all some sweeties at a rip off price and strolled back to my car.

I decided I was going to watch Trish playing tomorrow in the hope that she would part fill Danni’s shoes enough to get a win for the school. As I drove I reran my memory of Danni and then the two footballers showing her how to do the bendy kicks that made David Beckham famous. But the skill I suppose wasn’t so much in being able to just bend the kick but being able to deliver it to the exact place you wanted it to go; usually to the feet or head of a team mate. I’d seen Danielle do it but wasn’t sure Trish could do the same and being smaller, over the same sort of distance.

Once again the skies darkened and down came the monsoon and once again every lunatic with a motor vehicle tried to play Russian roulette with the traffic. Why is it that people don’t seem to understand that if the road is temporarily under two or three inches of water, there is a risk of aquaplaning if you apply your brakes suddenly. Even with modern cars and all the safety devices they contain, if the driver is a complete moron, the safety stuff is not terribly helpful. A motorbike once more came flashing past me in the outside lane followed by a large Vauxhall Omega. Both were going too fast for the conditions and as they came past me another large lorry indicated and pulled into the outside lane.

This time I was far enough behind not to feel directly threatened by any of them, however, that changed rather rapidly when the back of the truck clipped the motorbike and flipped it over the crash barrier into the oncoming traffic and the Vauxhall driver who’d been going too fast braked hard and I watched helplessly as his car continued on its way but spinning round as it went before it slammed into the back of the truck which was slowing to a stop after its collision with the motorbike. I had to stop as the accident blocked the whole road and I suspected the same was happening the other side of the carriageway with the hapless motorcyclist.

Remembering my previous experience with motorway accidents. I stopped on the side of the road, hazard lights flashing and grabbing my waterproof jacket, departed the car and stood up the bank. Several other people were dealing with the accident so I stayed out of the way. The traffic was stationary now in both directions and sirens were sounding in the distance. I stood and waited trying to stay calm and dry while the emergency services sorted things out.

Normally, I’d have been rushing about in all the mayhem, helping where I could but today I decided I was best staying put and letting others deal with it. My family wouldn’t be too happy if I got myself run over and thinking about it, I decided I probably wouldn’t be that pleased about it myself either. There were lots of things I wanted to do with my life yet, including watch my daughter play for England and the other win the schools’ cup final tomorrow.

My phone showed that I had a signal and I called home to let them know I was delayed. Simon was delighted to hear that I wasn’t involved in the rescue and that I was staying well away from the carriageway. I told him I’d let him know when we were allowed back to our cars.

Two hours later after watching the fire service cut the roof and side off the Vauxhall I was making my way back to the car when a police officer stopped me and asked if I’d seen anything. I was tempted to say I hadn’t, but I actually had seen it all. I described what had happened, the two incidents both involving the truck and he took my name.

“Cameron, Cathy Cameron.” I showed him my licence.

“Lady Cameron—not the Lady Cameron, the one married to the banker bloke?”

“Yes,” I sighed.

He took my address, though I suspect most of the local plod know it by heart, and told me they’d probably need a statement. Finally he let me go and I arrived home at after eleven. Despite the best efforts of the heater in the car my feet were freezing and Simon sat me down at the kitchen table and made me some tea. The children were all in bed except Julie and Phoebe who’d been talking computer systems with Sammi.

I wished them all a goodnight and with Simon following behind I retired to bed feeling absolutely bushed.