The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2991 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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The weather was becoming warmer and I was glad to be home where I change out of my work suit and into a thin sleeveless dress and sandals. Mind you I felt much cooler when I took my bra off, but these days I have to wear them to support my milk churns.

The girls were all in tops and shorts doing their impersonation of the chimps tea party while regaling each other in loud, excited voices; each trying to outdo the others in terms of loudness and content. I looked for Hannah and she didn’t appear to be with the shrieking banshees. I patted Mima on the arm and asked where Hannah was, she simply shrugged and said probably upstairs.

I withdrew from the end of school fest and went upstairs to look for my missing daughter. I looked round the door of the main dorm and there sitting on her bed, her legs drawn up under her and arms around them, I found her rocking to and fro.

Sitting alongside her I put my arm round her shoulders and she leant her head on my shoulder and wept. I said nothing except that I loved her and so did all the others. She sniffed and nodded, the tears spilling onto my shoulder and running down my bare arm. We sat together for probably ten minutes with little said other than my embrace, which I hope showed that I both cared for her and loved her as my child.

She leant away from me and said, “I love you, Mummy, but I don’t belong here.”

“Why d’you say that?” I asked gently trying not to alienate her more than she seemed to be already experiencing.

“You’re all nice people, you’re a lady and daddy’s a lord and I’m dirty.” She started to cry again and I held her.

“You’re my daughter and we all love you.”

“How can you love me, I’m unloveable,” she sobbed and I squeezed her to let her know I’d heard her but still loved her. Trish wandered into the bedroom, saw us then did an about turn and walked out again. “See, she doesn’t want to be near me.”

“That wasn’t rejection, young lady, that was politeness, giving us space to deal with this trouble you appear to having.”

“It’s not just me who’s having trouble, the girls at that school don’t like me, they said I’m dirty and that my mother is dirty.” She burst into tears again and once more I felt them run down my bare arm.

“As far as I know both of us shower and wash as much as anyone else, so how can we be dirty?” I tried to lighten the conversation and possibly distract her.

“Silly Mummy,” she said sniffing, “it’s not that sort of dirt.”

“What sort of dirt is it, then?” I hoped we were about to get to the heart of the matter.

“They say I’m contaminated.”

“Contaminated? How can you be contaminated? You’re ten years old not fifty.”

“Through Ingrid,” she said very quietly, “I have the same blood as her.”

“Can I tell you something, sweetheart, and this is a fact?”

She nodded despite her head resting on my shoulder, then added so quietly I could hardly hear it, “Okay.”

“Your blood is changed over a period of three or four months. Every cell is renewed and the old ones are broken down and got rid of. It’s longer than that since Ingrid died, so you have our blood now–full of love and goodness. You are as good as anyone, sweetie.”

“Is that true, about blood?” she asked, “Being changed?”

“Yes. Pretty well all of your body is constantly being replaced every so many years.”

“Oh, it takes years?”

“In bone and denser tissue yes, but even there it is renewed with damaged cells being removed and new ones taking their place. Remember, too, that you are still growing, so at your age your body is dealing with all of these things at a very fast rate.”

“Gosh, Mummy, you are so clever.”

“Not really, Han, just reasonably well educated.”

“Did you go to a convent, then?”
The last thing I needed was to remind her of my past, this was hers we were dealing with not mine.

“Uh no, I went to a state school but it was a well regarded grammar school in Bristol.”

“What’s a grammar school, then?” she asked and I wasn’t sure if she was over the immediate crisis or just distracting herself.

“It’s an old term and goes back to Victorian days.”

“I didn’t think you were that old,” she said and chuckled.

“Hoy, you little horror, I’m not,” I said tickling her and we both laughed.

“Is everything all right,” called Danielle from the door.

“Yes,” replied Hannah, “Mummy an’ me are havin’ a chat.”

“Oh, okay–can you remind Mummy she has to take me to football training tomorrow at Reading?”

“I hadn’t forgotten, Danni,” I called back even though I had. “Is all your kit clean and have you packed everything?”

“Uh nearly,” she responded and I knew she was blushing nearly as much as I was at our mutual untruths. We heard her footfall back to her own room.

“Can I come when you take her to football?” asked Hannah.

“I don’t see why not and you can keep me company on the way home,” I said trying to show she was welcome and any ideas she had of doing a runner while we were away were completely stymied.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been to Reading before, is there a bluing and a greening as well?”

“Not that I’m aware off, the town is spelt like reading as in reading a book and I’ve come across the surnames of Greening and also Browning.”

“If you hated your baby an’ your name was Browning, you could call them, Gravy,” she chuckled, though it wasn’t an, ‘Ah Bisto,’ moment.

“I don’t know about Gravy as a name but there is one Graves, and he like Browning was poet.”

“If they got married they could be, Graves-Browning, or Oxo for short.” That made both of us laugh and I hoped for the moment she was better.

“How d’you feel now, sweetheart?” I asked hoping she tell me the truth.

“A lot better, thank you, Mummy–you certainly know how to cheer me up with your silly named poets.”

“They’re real names, Robert Browning and Robert Graves were real people.”

“They didn’t get married, did they?” she sounded shocked.

“No, it would have been difficult they were about a hundred or more years apart,” though in fact Graves was born only a few years after Browning’s death.

“Oh well that’s all right then, not that I’m a-verse to poets marrying each other.”

“That pun needs to be punished,” I said as I pushed her onto the bed and started tickling her again.