Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 708 by Angharad

That evening after the bairns were abed, as Tom would say, we discussed celebrating Simon’s winnings. Tom agreed with me that England could still lose the series and thus the Ashes and the Aussie broker seek redress from Simon.

Si insisted that he wouldn’t accept the bet, but none of us believed him, he shrugged and muttered something about bad dogs and hanging. Simon is a lovely man, generous, kind and patient. He is also susceptible to peer pressure–how do I know? I’ve used it to guide him to do what I wanted. If the Australian broker does the same to him, and I think it quite possible, then he’ll bet and go for double or quits or whatever threshold the Aussie suggests. I was almost in favour of suggesting he give the money back on the quiet, of course and say he’d made his point. I’m sure the Aussie would have thought him crazy, but decent–which is about right.

I did try that night, but Simon proved harder to convince than I expected and he refused to give the money back. The downside is that his love-life is on hold until he apologises. All is fair in love and war, so they say.

The next day, Simon was a bit huffy before he left for work. I pretended not to notice, rather to see how he was when he came back tonight. The weather was uninspiring, breezy with frequent showers. Question: What’s the difference between an English summer and winter? Answer: The rain is warmer in the former. The only good thing about it was that I dislike barbecues, I prefer my food cooked. I’m not wild about eating outdoors either; if I’d been meant to eat insects, I’d probably have been built like a swift or a shrew. Simon might consider the latter isn’t so far from the truth.

We made cakes and bread. It actually took longer to clean up the kitchen than it did to do the baking, but that’s the joy of children. Stella sat and laughed much of the time, feeding Puddin’ who gurgled and giggled at the antics of her ‘cousins’.

Lunch was some of the new bread with cheese and salad. Then we went on to ice the cakes. If Michelangelo had problems with the Sistine Chapel, he should have tried supervising three little uns icing cakes. Meems had the job of spreading hundreds and thousands on the icing. These are little tiny coloured bits of sugar candy. She spread a few hundred thousand on the first cake and had run out by the third.

Trish was icing the fairy cakes, using a spoon and a knife. Drop a blob of icing on the cake, spread with cold knife with wet blade–easy peasy–sadly not. She forgot to wet the knife several times, and Livvie who kept reminding her had the cup of water thrown over her. So did Meem’s cakes.

I went ballistic, I’d only gone to take Stella a cuppa when the mayhem arose and couldn’t believe the mess when I got back to the kitchen. Meems was crying, so was Livvie and so was Trish. The latter was sent to her room to cool off, then the other two helped me clean up.

I helped them ice the Victoria sandwich we’d made, Livvie iced it while Meems cut chocolate buttons in half and made a pattern with them. After this, I put on a DVD and they went to watch it. I went up to speak with Trish.

“I’m sorry, Mummy,“ she said when I went into their bedroom.

“I should think so, you spoiled everyone’s fun.”

She sat sobbing on the edge of the bed and nodded. I let her stew for a moment, then gave her a hug. When she’d stopped crying I asked her a question. “Why did you flip like that, usually you are quite calm, and normally you wouldn’t forget to wet the knife?”

“I don’t know, Mummy.”

“Is anything worrying you?”

She shook her head, "No."

“Is it having Livvie here?”

“No, Mummy, I like having Livvie here.”

“Then what is it? Do you not feel well?”

“I dunno, Mummy.”

I held her while she cried. I cooed to her and stroked her neck and back. Maybe it was just a bit of boredom or something similar? Could it be the strain of living as a girl? Was she reconsidering?

“Are you still happy as a girl?”

“Of course I am, Mummy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well because if you’d changed your mind, we wouldn’t mind at all. All we want is for you to be happy.”

“No, I like being a girl, did you think I didn’t?”

“No, but I was just checking. I want you to be happy, and while I accept we can’t all be happy all of the time, I wanted to make sure you were reasonably so.”

“Thank you, Mummy.”

“What for, sweetheart?”

“For caring about me.” Now it was me who was weeping; bloody five-year-olds, they get me every time. I hugged her and in trying to avert my eyes and slow down the tears, I glanced around the room. My gaze fell on the calendar. Then it all fell into place.

“What will you wear tomorrow?”

“For what?” she asked.

“To go and see the doctor.”

“Do I have to go?”

“Yes. I’ll come with you, you know that.”

“I know,” she said glumly.

“Dr Rose has promised that it won’t be anything like last time. He said it was a nice man, who has some experience of GID children.”

“I know, you said before, but I don’t know if I want to go.”

“Trish, you tell me that you want to be a girl, and as much of a girl as you can be.”

“I do, Mummy, I want to be a proper girl like Livvie and Meems.”

“And I promised to help you achieve that as much as we could, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“To do so, we have to jump through the hoops.”

“What does that mean, Mummy?”

“Sorry, I assumed you’d know. It means we have to do what they want so we get what we want. It’s from the days of performing animals in circuses and so on. The animal wanted the titbit from the trainer, so was prepared to jump through hoops to get it.”

“Oh, I see, so the doctor is like a lion tamer?”

“In your case–quite possibly.” She did a mock roar and we both laughed.

“Is he going to make me a girl, Mummy?” she asked after a little while.

“Not tomorrow, he isn’t. He’ll want to assess you and then over a period of time, he’ll probably give you medicine to stop you becoming more boyish. That could go on for years, then if he’s satisfied it’s in your interest, he will either prescribe hormones or refer you on to someone else who will. Those will be the drugs which make you grow into a teenage girl and eventually a woman. Finally, you might have surgery to alter your bits to resemble a female’s.”

“Will you help me, Mummy?”

“I will on one condition.”

“What’s that, Mummy?”

“That you tell me honestly, that it’s what you really want, and more importantly, if it ceases to be what you want. Do you understand?”

“It is what I want, Mummy, it really, really is.”

“Okay, but if one day it isn’t, and that you want to revert back or stay as you are, or anything else, promise me you’ll tell me.”

“I will, Mummy, I promise.”

“Then I promise, with all my heart to help you.”

“I love you, Mummy.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”