Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 741 by Angharad

“What’s all the fuss about?” Stella asked, coming from the kitchen.

“Simon has met President Obama.”

“You’re joking?”

“No, he’s been in Washington for a couple of days. There’s going to be a ball around Christmas time and he wants to take me, but we have to be married.”

“That’s utter bilge,” Stella said sharply. It took me by surprise.

“What is?” I asked almost apologetically.

“That you have to be married to go to a ball at the White House.”

“You don’t?”

“No, but it’s easier if you are, if only so you would then be Lady Cameron officially not Cathy Watts.”

“So why did he tell me I had to be married?”

“Search me, why does my idiot brother do anything? Who’s going to look after your brood while you’re gallivanting around the world? Don’t look at me, a few hours maybe, not a week or so.”

“We could take them with us, I’m sure top hotels have baby-sitting services.”

“That’ll cost you.”

“No, it’ll cost Simon.”

She laughed and said, “You’re learning at last.”

“Well, Simon told me a deliberate fib.”

“Don’t you ever tell him any?”

“Of course, but mine are acceptable fibs.”

“Acceptable to whom?”

“To me, who else?”

“Sounds a trifle one-sided to me.”

“You should know, Stella, you taught me all I know.”

She laughed again, “Nah, I just uncovered a whole pile of deviousness just waiting to grow.”

“It’s me ‘ormones, vat’s wot it is,” I said in the worst cockney accent since Dick Van Dyke. Stella nearly wet herself laughing.

“You sound like nothing on earth – no – correction, you sound like a poor American actress playing Eliza Doolittle.”

“I ‘ates you, guv’nor,” I said portraying the same dreadful abortion of a cockney sparra.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Tomorrow, I shall call Marguerite and ask to make an appointment for a quickie wedding. I wonder if she can do it?”

“You’d be better off with a register office, wouldn’t you? They’re used to doing quickies.”

“But I wanted a church wedding, even if it was only Simon and me and a witness or two.”

“Why?”

“To make my vows somewhere sacred.”

“Before a God you don’t believe exists?”

I blushed, “Um, did the kettle boil?”

“Never mind changing the subject, you want to do a church wedding although you don’t believe, is that about it?”

I blushed even more, “Yes,” I said in a very quiet voice.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” I felt a tear form in my eyes and dribble down my cheek, “When I was a kid,” I sniffed, “I always had a fantasy of walking down the aisle in a white dress with a bouquet of white roses and lilies of the valley, on the arm of my father.” The tears came more freely now.

“Oh, Cathy, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to sound – mean.” She wrapped me in a monster hug.

“Why is my Mummy cwyin’?” asked a little voice and I heard Stella trying to shoo her away. Then I felt her hugging my leg, like a lovesick puppy. I rubbed my hand in her hair.

“I’m okay, darling, I just had a sad thought, but it’s gone now.”

“What sad thought?” she asked.

“It’s gone now, darling, so I can’t remember. Ladies do this now and again.”

She looked at me as if I barmy, which isn’t too far from the truth. “You okay? Weally okay?”

“Yes, darling, I’m fine now, thank you for your concern.”

“It’s alwight,” she said and shrugged, then went back to watch the telly with her sisters. Stella released me from her bear hug and went off to the kitchen while I went to the cloakroom to splash some cold water on my eyes.

By the time I got to the kitchen, Stella was pouring hot water on teabags and I sat myself at the table, letting her complete the job. When she’d finished and we were sitting with a mug of the magic fluid before us, she asked, “Do you really want a white wedding with all the trimmings?”

“I don’t know what I want, if the truth be told. Part of me wants the Cinderella thing, doesn’t every little boy?”

“I have no idea, but lots of girls do.”

“Yeah, but I was a boy.”

“Only by virtue of wearing trousers and having short hair, I doubt it fooled anyone then either.”

“Okay, some saw through the sham, except my dad. I actually have a vague memory of asking him if he’d walk me down the aisle when I got married. He got cross with me and my mother gave me a lecture on the differences between boys and girls.”

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen.” I kept a poker face.

“How old? You idiot,” she slapped me on the arm.

“I was about six and had stood with my mother outside our local church as the bride came out; she looked beautiful.”

“All brides do. You will.”

“Oh God, Stella, I hope so.”

“You realise that it takes months to organise a white wedding?”

“Yeah, it was a pipe dream, wasn’t it. No more real than my early fantasies.”

“No, it could be done, but to start with you need a church and priest available when you are. Then there’s the dress, even if you got one off the peg it would need altering and could take weeks. Flowers, catering, honeymoon–it’s quite a lot to organise, Cathy.”

“Yeah, too much. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.”

“I said it could be done.” Stella looked me straight in the eye, “but we’d need to get on to it immediately.”

“I can’t ring Marguerite back now, can I?”

“Why not? Go and see if her if necessary.”

“What about the girls?”

“I’ll look after them for an hour or two.”

“But, I can’t, I mean it’s Sunday tomorrow.”

“So?”

“She’ll be doing her sermon or something.”

“She owes you, Cathy.”

“What for?”

“Cleaning up her daughter’s face. Strike now while she remembers.”

“I don’t know, Stel, it’s quite a big undertaking I’m asking her.”

“No, the undertaking is done by undertakers, she does the committals.”

“What?” I gasped not having clue what she was talking about.

“She buries or burns ‘em, the funeral director does the undertaking.”

“What’s that got to do with weddings?”

“It’s a stage or two later, that’s all,” she smirked, “now, dial.” She handed me the cordless phone.