The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3179 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 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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“What did you do today, Mummy?” asked Trish and I found myself colouring up, fortunately she was looking the other way.

“Oh the usual, you know, meetings.”

“Meetings, they sound more fun than boring maths.”

“I thought you enjoyed maths.”

“I do but this stuff is like ten years behind me.” I keep forgetting there’s the brain of a twenty year old genius inside the body of twelve year old girl. “Who was your meeting with?”

“I met with the departmental management accountant this morning and this afternoon, I met with le Duc de Burgundy.” Well it was true except the butterfly could have been a duchess rather than a duke.

“Wow, a frog aristocrat—had his head been cut off?”

“I think I might have noticed if it had been.”

“A duke a frog? He should be something exotic and colourful like a bird or a butterfly,” said Livvie again not noticing my sudden suffusion of blood to the superficial vessels of my face and neck.

“A butterfly?” mocked Trish.

“Yes,” snapped Livvie, “a butterfly, people who have socialist inclinations are called butterflies, alright?”

“I think you mean socialite rather than socialist, Liv.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Quite a lot. A socialist is someone who believes in a political philosophy, like all property should be shared or everyone should have the same amount. A socialite is someone who mixes with others at parties and social occasions, hence the butterfly term applied to them.”

“Perhaps he’s a socialist butterfly, thinks everyone should come to the party,” said Livvie and they all squealed with laughter, except Danielle who winced with me.

“Nah, he’s a socialist socialite, he thinks he should go to everyone’s party,” quipped Trish and once more Danielle and I winced at the squeal that pervaded our senses. Why do young girls have to squeal and shriek so loudly, they usually have splendid hearing so must damage each others in close proximity.

“Twish, why did you think he’d had his head cut off?” asked Meems, who isn’t slow she just likes to think about things.

“French revolution, liberty, egality an’ frat something or other—it made them all the same height when they had their heads cut off.” Trish’s take on ‘le revolution’ was somewhat different to most people’s.

“For eternity,” said Hannah, “it’s not fat anything.”

“It’s fraternity—means something to do with American universities where they all have strange Latin names like phi delta tango.” Livvie was a bit more confused than usual. I did however manage not to snort or snigger or even smirk.

“It’s Liberté, egalité et fraternité, means freedom, equality and brotherhood, you dummies,” said Danielle after hearing the various forms the younger girls had concocted. “If you stopped bloody talking in class, you might hear something.”

All that brought was ‘Oohs’ and giggles, which are nearly but not quite as annoying as shrieks and squeals. As soon as I stopped the car Danielle was out and off into the house.

“Woss wrong with her?” asked Trish.

“I have no idea, just let her alone for a bit, okay?”

“Yeah” or “alright,” came back as responses to my instruction. I didn’t know but I would do my damnedest to find out—this is not like Danielle who is usually even tempered and relaxed about most things and has a benign big sisterly approach to her younger siblings most of the time. I mean, tween-age girls get on most people’s toot some of the time, as do similarly aged boys, it’s sort of training so they can do it all the time as teenagers.

The girls were still on about the French revolution and guillotines as we entered the house. David was working in the kitchen and we exchanged pleasantries as the girls helped themselves to drinks and a biscuit.

“What all that about the French?”

“French revolution, I suspect they’ve just done it in history or something.”

“Ah, that makes sense, so does my boeuf bourguignon, some coincidence eh?”

That was nothing, wait until I tell him about my meeting with the duke of Burgundy, which is of course what bourguignon means, Burgundy beef—a casserole in red wine. Oh well a bit different—but the coincidence is pretty huge, but then they sometimes are in my experience. Whether that’s just me or what I hate to think.

“Mummy met the duke,” said Livvie, the better of the linguists amongst my motley crew.

“What, John Wayne?” gasped David. This was now getting too surreal for me, so I took my tea and excused myself to my study where I intended to transfer my photos to the computer to see if they were worth keeping. I last heard him explaining that Wayne’s nickname was ‘Da Dook.’ Once again the girls were shrieking with laughter.

I drank my tea and loaded my photos then discarded half of them, there was more wind than I noticed or I’m developing camera shake, and that bloody woman’s fingers with the pupa. Oh well I should feel privileged to have seen one. That done, I went up to change calling at Danni’s room on the way. She was standing staring out the window.

I spoke quietly and then put my arms around her from behind. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“I’m always gonna be a freak, aren’t I?”

“What d’you mean?” I said feeling a cold sensation in my solar plexus.

She explained that her so called boyfriend had discovered her past and dumped her by text, like they do today.

“He doesn’t deserve you, so that’s his loss.”

“He said he wouldn’t tell anyone he was dating a freak ’cos it would reflect on him, make him look like a fairy.”

I shut her bedroom door and made her sit facing me on the bed. “You are not a freak, you’re a lovely and very beautiful young woman who has incredible soccer skills. You’re also one of the nicest young women I know and I’m not saying that because you’re my daughter. Everyone who knows you thinks the same.”

“’Cept one.”

“He’s jealous because you’re better at the sport than he is.”

“Now he knows why, because I’m a fucking boy too.” She threw herself face down into her pillow. I felt so angry that I could have slapped the boy who upset her, no wonder she was a bit off in the car, a lesser woman would have cried all the way home.

“Look, darling, we discussed this some time ago after the assault by Peter. You agreed that it would be better to accept life as a girl and I have to say that you’ve done so brilliantly at it that I am so proud of you.”

“I wish I was dead,” she sniffed out loud to no one in particular. “I wish I’d died when he did it. It’d be better than this freakdom.”

“Is that how you see the rest of us—as freaks?” I felt very hurt by her comment but understood it and I needed somehow to get inside her thoughts and turn them from destructive urges to more positive ones.

“No—you an’ Trish knew you were girls when you were young, me—I thought I was a boy.”

“What about all the girly stuff with Peter before he assaulted you?”

“That was just a game—like dressin’ up—didn’t think I’d be doin’ it permanently.”

“What about the football, haven’t you enjoyed playing for England? You’ve made the rest of us so proud of you.”

“That’s about the best bit until someone tells the papers and they come lookin’ for me, calling me a cheat.”

“They can’t, you qualify as a female player and the FA and your local team have signed up to that.”

“They’ll drop me as soon as it happens.”

“They may regret it, I’ll get Jason to start one of the biggest law suits ever seen in this country.”

“Not worth it, if we won I wouldn’t wanna play for them anyway.”

“That would be for you to decide—but it may not happen.”

“It will.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic and think of other transgender children coming after you. You have to fight on for their sake.”

“I’m not transgender, am I? Or wasn’t until that idiot got hold of a scalpel. Now I am. I’m a freak.”