The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2960 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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Somehow we managed to squeeze everyone into the car, with Trish and Mima in the back acting as rear gunners—they’d done something about the battle of Britain in history. I didn’t like to point out that rear gunners lasted about three trips and fighter pilots about three weeks. The attrition rate was enormous in both allied and axis airforces.

I thought I might watch the movie of the Battle of Britain again, although I didn’t like war films generally, Ron Goodwin’s score coupled with Sir William Walton’s Spitfire prelude and fugue make it worth struggling through Susannah York’s wooden acting and Laurence Olivier frowning and sighing as Air Chief Marshall ‘Stuffy’ Dowding. He was the man who saved Britain from the Luftwaffe though the costs were high in terms of pilots and aircraft on both sides.

My preferred aircraft from those times was the mosquito which I think is the prettiest aeroplane ever built and I saw one fly—I think a replica—but it was so beautiful, a real racing aircraft made of balsa and plywood and covered in canvas. The originals were unarmed and used for photo reconnaissance as they flew quite high and faster than anything the Germans had. Later versions carried bombs and had cannons in the nose becoming fighter bombers. I shall never forget the sleek lines and the sound of those twin Rolls Royce engines.

“What are you thinking about, Mummy?” asked Livvie noticing my lack of interaction with the girls.

“Nothing much, why?” Well I could hardly tell them I was thinking about a World War 2 aircraft, could I?

“You seem very quiet, Mummy?” she persisted.

“Am I? Okay, you lot, change and get your homework started and I might do some sewing with you after dinner.” My comment was met with a mixture of cheers and groans.

Trish and Danielle enjoy sewing, while Livvie hates it and Meems is a bit cack handed, last time she did any with us she sewed her material to her skirt. Took me half an hour to undo it. Julie is quite good but she’s often in work or going out when we’re sewing so she rarely joins us.

I had some repairs to do to various bits of school uniforms, which I threatened to make the wearers do themselves, except that was Livvie and Meems and we’d have been there all night. Trish eventually agreed to hem Meem’s skirt and I did
Livvie’s blazer—she’d somehow split the shoulder seam. She claimed not to know how she’d done it and I couldn’t see how in normal wear and tear it would happen, but it had. It took most of my evening to sort so the repair didn’t show.

To my delight Julie did come and join us and we all chatted as we sewed, except Trish. When she’s concentrating her tongue is sticking out and she doesn’t hear half of what is said let alone reply to it.

At nine I told the younger children it was time for bed and they eventually managed to get there by half past—they could dither for England—Danielle was sent up at ten, though she reads for a bit and Simon and I went up at eleven leaving Julie and Sammi talking. I wasn’t quite sure what Jacquie was doing, possibly reading for her course.

Simon appeared tired claiming the Brexit nonsense was losing his bank and the rest of the economy money it didn’t need to, due to the uncertainty of the referendum outcome. Believing that it was better to remain in the EU, I decided that was how I’d vote but it took a long argument with their father for Julie and Sammi to agree with me.

Of course if England votes out and Scotland votes in, the nationalists will push for another referendum on independence and probably win it, so destroying the United Kingdom. If that happens I hope Boris and Gove will feel proud of themselves, because I think they’re like a pair of nasty schoolboys voting to abolish school because they think they’ve learned enough. Sadly, Cameron doesn’t look likely to take his revenge on them—how about locking them up together in the Tower for the next two hundred years?

I mentioned to Simon about David Lane’s email to call by when I was next in Bristol. He was as puzzled as I was. I’d kept Des’ house and rented it out to the same person for the past couple of years, the proceeds going into a trust fund for Puddin’, which was now quite sizeable. Simon controlled it, as he did with the funds we’d set up for most of the others, to maximise profits for them—they’d come in handy in the event of going to university or if they married and wanted to buy a house.

“So what does he want?” asked Simon.

“I have no idea, unless he wants to see his granddaughter.”

“That’s a point, you could always take her with you, I’m sure Stella would agree.”

“It’s hardly like she ever goes to see them, is it?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“That’s probably it then.”

“Yes, probably,” I agreed but had no idea if it was right or not. I had mentioned it at dinner but Stella said nothing so I’d have to ask her outright. If she refused I wasn’t sure what I’d do or say, especially to Dave and Sue lane; and Stella could be awkward, even with her back to her old self.

If she did refuse, I’d ask Simon to speak to her. Once before, she suggested that her dad, Henry and Tom were enough grandparents for her two girls, with Monica of course, as well. Except part of me felt you could never have too many grandparents provided you gave all of them definite guidelines for how you wanted your kids treated—with parity, for instance.

What else could the Lanes want? I couldn’t think of anything, so it was probably about their grandchild. I drifted off to sleep and when I awoke the next morning, Simon and Sammi had gone off to work without me even hearing them go. At least it was light now, well in theory it was but the heavy cloud and cold winds made it feel as if we’d gone straight from spring to autumn—again. I kept trying to understand that Portsmouth is about as far south as one can go in the British Isles and south is supposed to be warmer—so how come temperatures were higher in bloody Scotland than down here? Global warming I suspect but doubtless, the Scottish nationalists will claim credit for the sunshine.

I showered then woke the girls, thinking how I might ask Stella if she’d let me take Puddin’ with me when I next went to Bristol, which I was thinking I might do on Saturday. Oh well, breakfast could prove interesting.