Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 692 by Angharad

After drying us all, and then drying the girl’s hair and plaiting it, I managed to dry my own hair and tied it back in a ponytail. It was getting quite long, so maybe I needed to speak with Stella, ask her to trim it.

I rubbed some arnica cream on my bruised backside–Simon would pay for that, the pig. Revenge is a dish, best served cold, besides I had to sort out three girls. I threw on jeans and tee shirt, after my customary bra and panties. These days, I probably needed a bra much of the time, I seemed to have had a growth spurt–in the chest, come to think of it, my bum seems a bit bigger too, stretching out the jeans I had on. Must be putting on some weight–I need to get back into riding again.

I asked Simon to check if the school was back or still off. He called back two minutes later, saying they were back. “Okay, girls, school uniform dresses, school is back in session,” except they break up for summer holiday in two or three weeks.

Mima, bless her, had dressed herself. She was actually quite adept, and wore a simple dress something like a school uniform. Next year, I’d get her into nursery, I believed they had one at the convent. At this rate it might be cheaper for Simon to buy the school outright.

I rushed them down to breakfast, which Simon had started making for them, and while they ate, I did their packed lunches–some fruit salad in little pots, some yoghurt, a sandwich each, an apple and small bag of crisps; plus of course the obligatory chocolate bar.

I barely had time for a cup of tea before whisking the girls off to go to school. Mima decided to come with us today, bringing along her little backpack, copying the others. I gave her an apple to put in hers.

The parking outside the school seemed very easy, we were the only vehicle there. I couldn’t understand it, so we all walked in to the school playground and towards the school. It was all locked up. What’s going on? I called home on my mobile and Stella answered. Simon had left. I tried his mobile, but if he’s driving and forgotten to wear his blue-tooth thingy, he won’t answer.

I got his voice mail, and left a message. Glancing at my phone I saw the time. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, we were nearly an hour early. No wonder the radio hadn’t come on.

We got back in the car and I drove down to the nearest convenience store. I bought them each a cereal bar for elevenses, in case they were hungry. I ate mine in the car, well, I’d had no breakfast. After parking up again outside the school, I decided we’d play a story telling game, where each of us would add a line to that of the others. I knew it would get silly very quickly, but they would at least laugh and stay awake.

It went something like this: Once upon a time, there was a young lady who…
…wanted to grow up to be a princess…except her daddy wasn’t a king or anything…and she was ugwy, with a face wike a tomato…she went to see the local doctor…who sent her to the hospital…by ambulance, with the blue lights flashing…’cos she was so ugwy, they had to keep their eyes cwosed…Driving with their eyes closed meant they had to go very slowly…in case they crashed into other cars and things…they did crash, driving over a ditch they couldn’t see…and they aww died happiwy ever after.

Despite the tragedy of our tomato faced ugly princess, they all roared with laughter, so it seems I might be raising a brood of sociopaths. By the time we’d finished killing her off, I saw the headmistress drive into the school, then one or two others, I presumed were teachers.

When the first parent and child arrived, we disembarked and walked back to the school. The headmistress welcomed us back and asked Livvie how she felt. “I don’t hate my old mummy and daddy anymore, Mummy Cathy, helped me to write them a letter so they won’t come and frighten me when I sleep.”

“Your new mummy, seems to be a clever lady, doesn’t she?”

“She is clever, she knows Latin.”

“That is clever indeed, all I ever managed to learn was the odd word.” She looked at me–oh poo.

What I should have said was anything, only in English, instead what came out was definitely not English. “Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” I blushed, well I was to blame for the wrongful opinion of my foster child, but some days I didn’t help myself.

The kids looked on with astonishment all over their faces, “What does that mean, Mummy?”

“It’s my fault or blame, all my fault, or near enough, though that would be omnia, not maxima, wouldn’t it?”

The headmistress looked on in what looked like awe, she was nodding but I suspect she had no idea what I was talking about. “You wouldn’t like to teach some Latin here, would you?”

“Um, no, it’s not good enough for anything except the odd crossword and occasionally translating gravestones. As a Latin scholar, I made a good scientist.”

“You’re far too modest, Lady Cameron.” Oh poo, she will project that title on me.

“I tell you what, when they start labelling bicycle components in Latin, I’ll brush up on it and teach your kids. Until then, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer.”

“Decline, oh very funny,” I took me a moment to get the joke. It was too early in the morning, my sense of humour was still tucked up in bed like a hibernating dormouse.

We took our leave just as Mrs Browne-cow arrived. We nodded at each other with minimal politeness, and as I expected, she was parked so close, we had to climb in from the passenger side of the car. I quickly reversed out of the narrow space, and then nipped back in and deflated one of her tyres. We were gone before she came back, but I’ve seen how much effort is required to undo the wheel nuts on a 4x4, so that should keep her busy for a few minutes. I swore Mima to secrecy as we drove home, she thought it was hilarious.

Nobody had seen me, I hoped, and the half a minute it took, no one arrived or departed. Revenge is perhaps a dish most enjoyed if taken when hungry, but not ravenous.

As we drove home Simon called and I told him what I’d done. He laughed but warned me to be careful in future. I assured him I would, and to myself remembered he had a surprise coming soon too. All I had to do was think of one. Then in the supermarket, I hatched a plan, buying the essential ingredients.

That night after the girls were in bed, the wine flowed freely, at least with Simon and Tom, it did. They both went to bed almost legless, and once in bed, Simon almost went into a coma. I set to work. It took me a good half an hour and I was surprised he didn’t wake up. I hid all the things, and went to bed. I was almost too excited for when he woke up the next morning.

The girls invaded as usual, and this time I checked out the time. I got them all washed and dressed while Simon lay groaning in bed, it was some time since he’d got plastered. He still hadn’t spotted my modification on him. I sent the girls downstairs after they were dressed and Simon lumbered on unsteady feet towards the bathroom. I stood at the top of the stairs. I heard him use the toilet and was amazed he hadn’t noticed. Then the shower began to run and I heard him call, “CATHY–what the hell have you done…?” I didn’t hear anymore, I was flying down the stairs.

The girls were busy eating their breakfasts when he came down, he looked daggers at me, “I’ll see you later,” he snapped.

“Don’t I even get a goodbye kiss?”

He ignored me and bustled past. Stella came into the kitchen yawning. “What’s up with him? I heard him yelling.”

“He’s had a bit of a surprise,” I said innocently.

“What have you done?”

We moved out of earshot, and I told her. “You didn’t?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Pink?”

“Yes, I thought it would look spectacular.”

“If only I’d had the chance when we used to do things to each other.”

“He started it, marking my bottom.”

“So you marked his front?”

“I had to, he was lying on his back.”

“But bright pink, Cathy, it’s pure malicious genius.”

“Of course.”

“And he didn’t wake while you were trimming it?”

“No, he didn’t even notice when he went to the loo. But he did when he got in the shower.”

“I’ll bet he did, bright pink, heart shaped pubes–that is so funny, pity you didn’t get a photo.”

“Who says I didn’t?”