The Weekly Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3298 by Angharad Copyright© 2021 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 day after our beach outing, there were lots of rather pink itchy bodies occupying the house and this was despite our generous applications of sun-blocker, so quite how some of the people I watched at the beach who didn't appear to use any would feel today I had no idea, but it was reassuring that Homo cretinus was alive and well and taking up space on a beach near me. It also seems they breed rather too successfully judging by the numbers of kids they had.

It was nice having a few days off, and Jodie was doing really well in distracting Trish from creating a death star - just to see if it worked, by presenting her with problems in maths or physics. Most kids would grumble, Trish was in her element and Jodie was a very competent teacher. I just couldn't understand how the school she'd worked at could treat her so badly, unless there was something she wasn't telling me. I did wonder if I should perhaps make discreet inquiries to Sister Maria to see if they needed a good teacher of mathematics.

I suppose, it was an expensive almost luxurious thing that I could afford to hire someone to coach one of my children, but then people do it all the time with sports, dance or singing as well as academic subjects and Trish seemed to be enjoying it and, bless him, Simon seemed okay footing most of the bill. But that Jodie not having a regular job meant something was broken and I'm a compulsive fixer. I rescue people whether they want me to or not - I am aware of it - I wonder if there's a Rescuers Anonymous group anywhere?

I have no idea why I am this way and can only think it's because I can't cope with seeing people in trouble. Loads of others seem to be able to ignore or walk away from such situations, but I can't and looking back I never could, from picking up stray animals to helping children in distress.

I had a sudden recollection of an event that happened when I was about twelve. Siân was away on holiday and I had to amuse myself. It was the middle of the school holidays and my parents were talking about us all attending some evangelical gathering in Devon or Cornwall. Having seen Dad checking out the trailer tent, it was probably going to involve camping. It would also involve me being told to get my hair cut or him threatening to take me to his barber to get the job done and I was pleased because my hair was actually about two inches below my shoulders, however, he'd be trying to avoid people speaking to him about his daughter, so the hair cut was a definite risk, one way to avoid it was to be out and about.

The weather was fine, so I was gone just after breakfast and before Dad had noticed my absence. My mother knew what I was up to and muttered warnings to me, but I ignored them and went off with my jam jar, pond dipping net and backpack filled with my collection of dissecting instruments and pipette bottles. I was very fortunate that my local pharmacist was a kindly old chap who when her realised why I was buying the pipette bottles gave me a couple of them and a two pipettes because he wanted to encourage girls to take an interest in science and nature. Yeah, I was constantly mistaken for a girl, which I suppose I didn't discourage.

That day I was on my way to our nearest pond, about half an hour's walk from home and I was really pleased because I'd persuaded Mum to donate an old enamel cooking dish for my science kit. It meant I could now examine my catches more easily than in a jam jar or test tubes. Usually what happened was I'd use my weed drag, a piece of pipe hammered flat with a few bent nails at the end and piece of cord at the other end like a miniature grappling hook. I got the instructions from John Clegg's The Observer's Book of Pond Life as well as using it for identifying most of the things I caught. I still regard it and the series of books produced by Frederick Warne as one of the best things ever published for enquiring minds. If dormice hadn't got me first, I may well have ended up as a freshwater biologist and my story would have been somewhat different.

I was walking along minding my own business, carrying my net and my rucksack on my back with all my kit plus a drink and sandwich when I glanced over a garden wall and spotted what looked like a pair feet protruding from under a bush. I spent a moment walking up and down hoping for an adult to appear, but like the police, they're never there when you want them. In the end I felt I had to act, and cautiously entered the garden. The feet were attached to legs and those were sticking out from the rest of the person to whom they belonged - see my observational skills were rubbish back then as well.

I called to the person, "Are you all right, sir?" he didn't move or say anything and I felt the hairs on the back of neck stand on end. I ran to the door of the house and began ringing the bell, what felt like hours later, nothing had happened. Oh poo, what do I do now? Still no one else around. Bugger, try next door. They were out as well, or not answering the door, so I had to run to the other side of the house and try there. Finally, I got someone to answer, it was a kid who yelled back into the house, "Muuuuum, some girl here says there's a body in next door's garden."

Finally a rather harassed woman in her thirties came to see what he was on about. "Yes?" she said looking directly at me.

"I was walking past next door's garden and saw somebody lying under a bush, I went to speak to them to see if they were okay and they didn't respond."

"Which next door?" she clarified and I pointed towards the neighbour's house. With that she accompanied me into the garden and saw the man lying there. She then took over and called to her son to get his dad to come. A minute or so later, a man arrived and they checked over the elderly man, who I could now see had a wound on the back of his head. The man ran off back to the house while I stayed with the woman and the elderly person and within five or ten minutes police and paramedics were all over the place along with flashing lights and sirens.

I glanced at my Minnie Mouse watch and saw the morning was rapidly receding but I'd been told to stay put by the adults, so I did. Finally, I was spoken to by a WPC who called me Miss, so I thought I'd better keep quiet about my true gender.

"Tell me what happened?" she asked firmly and I explained I was going off pond dipping and just saw him lying there, and yes I had tried speaking to him and then got help. She took my name and address, interpreting Charlie as Charlotte, and told me I'd done the right thing and had probably saved the old chap's life.

Despite losing a hour or so of terrorising freshwater invertebrates, I went off with a spring in my step, I'd done the right thing and perhaps had helped save an old man. At the pond, I managed to capture a great diving beetle and that took my attention for some time, along with various backswimmers and water bugs, so when I got home at tea time I'd forgotten all about the little episode in the morning. I was more interested in showing my dad all the bugs and things I'd caught than telling him about the drama. He wasn't especially interested in my enthusiasm but tolerated it for a couple of minutes before the weather forecast took his attention.

The approaching thunderstorms meant we never did get to the religious thing, and instead I spent much of Sunday in church trying to shut out the boring sermon of the Rev Peabody by reading my pond life book and imagining him being grabbed by a humungous bug which pierced his chest and sucked out all his blood. It was far more fun than his hell and damnation tirade which he flung at all the congregation. Nah, John Clegg was far more interesting.

I'd forgotten all about the old man when a week or so later, our front doorbell rang. I was upstairs so Mum answered it, a moment later after I heard the hum of voices my mother came upstairs and said, "I have a WPC downstairs asking for Charlotte Watts, what have you been saying now, Charlie?"

I was dumbfounded, "I dunno, Mum, honest. I haven't done anything."

"Tidy yourself up, Charlotte, and get down to the lounge as quickly as you can."

"Eh?" I asked.

"Comb your hair and put it into a ponytail."

"Oh, right." She left me and I went into the bathroom and did as she told me. What it was all about I had no idea, but as I went downstairs I could hear several voices and the chink of teacups - everyone who visits us goes away full of tea or coffee.

"Charlotte, remember me?" asked the policewoman.

"Uh yeah," I said blushing to the roots of my ponytail.

"This is Mr Dyer, it was his father you saved when you were on your pond dipping expedition."

"Hello, Charlotte, I hope you didn't mind me coming to thank you in person for saving my dad. We've told him time and time again about trying to prune his garden, but he never listens."

I shrugged feeling myself blushing like an electric fire, and smiled, when in doubt smile.

This went on for several more minutes as they went on and an about my saving his life, I didn't do anything more than anyone else would have, and they had some photographer there who took a picture of me shaking hands with Mr Dyer and him handing me a gift of thanks. Like most twelve year olds I was more interested what was in the wrapper, it felt like a book and my hopes rose. Have I mentioned I love books?

When it was all over I was left sitting in the lounge with my mother. "Why didn't you tell them you were a boy?"

I shrugged feeling close to tears. "I told her my name was Charlie and she assumed it was short for Charlotte. I didn't like to correct her as it didn't seem important at the time and there were several police and ambulance people there, I didn't think anyone would be interested in me."

"You did something very important, so I won't tell your dad about being taken as a girl again, because he'll just go on about getting your hair cut and you'll be squabbling again, but let's get one thing straight young lady, if you are going to continue having long hair, you wash and condition it regularly and use elastic hair-bands to keep it tidy or I'll take you to my hairdressers and get it permed."

"Yes, Mum."

"I'm beginning to wonder about those dungarees, too. Your father got them because he thought it would make you look like an artisan or a farmer." I didn't tell her they were actually girl's ones and had cut the label out in case she noticed and told my dad, but they seemed to fit me fine and I enjoyed wearing them as I had on the day I apparently saved Mr Dyer senior's life.

The day the photo appeared in the paper, it mysteriously disappeared, the paper that is, and Mum handed me the clipping to do with as I wished. I shoved it in the book Mr Dyer had given me, John Clegg's, Freshwater Life. which is a bigger version of the Observer's book and which I still have on my library bookshelf.

My dad never got to hear about my exploit that day as neither Mum nor I thought it was a good idea to tell him and he didn't notice the new book on my bedroom bookshelf with the inscription, 'To Charlotte, grateful thanks for saving my dad's life, David Dyer.'

So far none of my kids have noticed that book or its inscription or the clipping still inside it, albeit somewhat yellowed with age. I think I'll let sleeping dogs lie.