Wheedling Dingoes (aka Bike) Part 581 by Angharad

“I suppose I’ll have to start saving for the wedding,” said Tom, looking anything but worried about it.

“No probs, the bank will take care of it, we always get married up in the parish church near the estate.”

“Do I get a say in this?” I asked, feeling very alienated and angry.

“Course you do, it’s your day after all,” said Tom, and Simon nodded.

“I’m being married by a lovely lady I met a year or so ago.”

“I thought you were marrying me?” joked Simon.

“The lady’s name is Marguerite, and I asked her to marry me–she’s a priest–when we spoke in her church.”

“But we have a tradition of marrying in Stanebury church.”

“Well, you go and get married there, and I’ll go and see Marguerite. Goodnight.” I went off on a strop up to my bed. I didn’t even kiss Tom goodnight, and I especially didn’t kiss Simon. The way I felt he was acting, he could have his ring back any time he wanted.

I washed and changed into my nightdress and went to see the kids, straightening up their beds and kissing them gently. These were my life now, Simon would have to learn to take second place in my attention. I also decided that I wouldn’t be making the harvest mouse film, so I’d call Alan and Erin tomorrow and tell them.

I didn’t feel like sleeping with Simon tonight, so I climbed in with Mima and held her close to me.

“What are you doing in here?” hissed Simon.

“She was restless.” I lied so easily some days it frightened me.

“Come on to bed,” he hissed again, “or are you going to act like a spoilt brat all night?”

“What do you mean?” I replied walking out of the girl’s bedroom, “You’re a fine one to talk about spoilt brats.”

“Well, you did a very good example of if we can’t play what I want, I’m taking my ball home.”

“Did I now? Well, Mr bloody perfect, you’ve obviously forgotten that I told you ages ago that I wanted to be married in Marguerite’s little church, in Gloucestershire.”

“Did you? Sorry, I’d forgotten.”

“So it seems.”

“Can we discuss this like adults in the morning?” he asked me.

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You won’t bow to five hundred years of tradition?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

“So your bloody ancestors are more important than what I want?”

“No, this done for the living, not the dead.”

“At this moment, I wish I was one of the latter.”

“Sorry, but I am not marrying a stiff,” said Simon, trying to inject some humour into the conversation.

“Neither am I, in fact I don’t think I’ll be marrying anyone.”

“You just told me you would.”

“If this is what marriage to you would be like, where I’m treated like a child and taken for granted…”

“Maybe it’s because you act like a child.”

“Hark, who’s bloody talking,” I slammed back at him, voices were becoming raised and we were in danger of waking the children.

In fact, Tom came up to ask us to turn it down. “Look, I know you need to sort these things out, but you’re going to wake the girls.”

“Bugger the girls, this is more important …” I don’t know if Simon realised what he’d said, he was getting very very angry, and Tom’s intrusion just added petrol to the blaze.

His comment stuck a knife straight through my heart. I went to my jewellery box, picked up the ring he gave me, and grabbing his hand with my left one, shoved it firmly into his hand. “I’d like you to leave,” I said and walked out of the room.

“Cathy, Cathy, look … can we discuss this …” I ignored his pleas and shut myself in Stella’s room and locked the door. I sat on the bed feeling totally gutted, and then the tears came and I just howled.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke up sometime later feeling totally bereft and confused. It took me a moment to work out where I was. I wasn’t lying in bed, but across it and on top of it. I was cold and sitting up rubbed my arms. I remembered bit by bit; Simon and I had had an awful row and I gave him his ring back and told him to go. Why? Because I was a fool and he’d insulted my children, or as near as I’d ever have to children of my own. Also, he’d been rather insensitive in telling me where we were getting married–up in f*~#king Scotland, ‘cos that’s what his porridge eating ancestors did–the ones who didn’t get hanged for cattle rustling.

He ought to know, I’m as wilful as he is. If someone tells me to do something, I do the opposite. My father, him that was married to my mother, told me to stop wearing girl’s clothes, look where that got him and me.

Life was total shit, if it wasn’t for the girls, I’d have walked out in front of the first truck that came past the house. I felt that wonderful; but because I had two little lives to support, I had to do my duty to them. They’d both been let down by their mothers before–I wasn’t going to do that. I’d given them my word–but what was that worth now? I’d also given it to Simon, and look what happened. I felt about as low as I’d ever done.

Perhaps I’d argued with Simon because I wasn’t really a woman. They can do all sorts of amazing surgery, and I can change my birth certificate, but that didn’t really make me a woman, did it? I mean, my chromosomes are still XY and I can’t have babies or periods.

A real woman would have accepted what her husband to be wanted and supported him. That’s what women do, let their husbands take the lead and build their lives around their hubbies and kids. I wasn’t prepared to do that, so I can’t have been a real woman. Instead I was a failed man who’d mutilated his body and duped two children into believing I, an emasculated man, could replace their mothers. Ha, what stupid, barefaced arrogance was that? Typical of a bloke, that’s what. So that’s what I must still be, despite no meat and two veg and these lumps of fat on my chest, I’m still a bloke.

I lay back down on the bed and cried some more, some of it was self pity, some was self loathing, some was regret that I’d misled the children, and some was bereavement–I’d lost the one person I thought I’d be with until one or other of us died. Feeling like shit was an understatement–so I cried some more.