Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 760 by Angharad

I’d read stories of people clearing blocked arteries by changing their diets, I’m sure Tom’s habit of chicken curries can’t have helped anything, at the same time, if I switched him to a radical diet at home, he’d tell me that it didn’t make him live longer, it would just feel like it. He’s not the easiest person to accommodate change.

So I kept pushing light into his coronary arteries, or I hoped I was. I still can’t see it, so I had no idea if anything was happening apart from me getting a headache.

The cardiologist arrived with his entourage and I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and left. Back at the car I sent Simon a text to let him know Tom was okay but possibly required a by-pass.

He texted back asking if they asked the Department of Transport before they did said by-pass. Simon can be very droll when the mood takes him – which isn’t often – today was a case in point.

Back at home, I made a meal for us while Stella got Puddin’ ready for bed. It had been a long and emotional day – all I wanted was my bed, except Stella wanted to hear chapter and verse about Tom and what I’d done to help.

“I can’t help, except to take in his clean underpants.”

“What about this mythical miracle worker and her blue flashing lights?”

“That is just a myth.”

“Not a myth-ter, then?”

“Ha ha, no we’ve discussed that, and I’m stuck like this whether or not I want it.”

“You sound as if you’re not sure?”

“No, I’m fine. My silliness caused Tom to have his heart attack, so I accept who I am.”

“Out of a sense of guilt?”

“No, that just helped me to see that my life affected others, and the impact my decisions and behaviour can have.”

“Gosh, grown up stuff, Cathy; are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Yes, I am, why?”

“I’m pleased for you. Your decisions affect more people than you will ever realise.”

“I doubt that, but I have three little ones who are bound to be affected by anything I say or do. Then there’s Simon, Tom and you. I know you’re all independent adults, but we are one family in effect, sharing this one house. So we need to work together for each other.”

“I thought that was how you were doing things anyway?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, the past seems a long time ago, even yesterday seems months past. I don’t know if I’ve changed or what, but I don’t intend to make those mistakes again.”

“So are you any more secure in your femininity?”

“Me? I’m hardly what I’d describe as feminine – I mean, bike racing and field biology is hardly girly stuff is it?”

“You are, Cathy; you’re the girliest girl I know.”

“That’s rich coming from you, frilly dilly.”

“Frilly dilly, and that coming from the heaving bosom.“

“I beg your pardon? Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it says on the tin.” She poked out her tongue for effect.

“Heaving bosom? Are you mad or just poor sighted?”

“Compared to me, Cathy dearest, your bosoms are heaving.”

“No they’re not. That was something from penny dreadfuls in the nineteenth century, caused by corsets and high emotion – Victorian melodrama, that sort of stuff. All swoons and no sex.”

As I finished this statement, Stella roared with laughter, “All swoons and no sex – that’s priceless.”

“Well the ideal Victorian/Edwardian novel comprised unrequited love and sexual frustrations.”

“Heaving bosoms and innuendo.”

“Yep, they’d have spoken to swoon.”

“Oh, Cathy, that was dreadful and nowhere near worth a penny.”

“Huh! My humour is nearly as drop dead gorgeous as I am.”

“Both are in the eye of the beholder, and from where I’m sitting, as a comedienne, you’d make a good model – especially with those heaving bosoms.” She sniggered and then laughed loudly which woke Puddin’ so that served her right. Heaving bosoms–my arse.

I’d tidied up a few things in the kitchen when she came back, “Right, where were we?”

“I was going to bed.”

“What for?”

“To rest my heaving bosoms and the rest of my aching body.” Stella giggled and wished me good night.

“Fancy some company?”

“Why?”

“Well, it gets lonely sometimes.”

“Will you actually stop talking?”

“Me? she gasped.

“Yes you, I’m tired and need to sleep.”

“Of course.”

“What about Puddin’?”

“I can always bring her in, too.”

“No thanks, we’ll leave the door open.”

“You could always go and sort her out if she wakes, you know?”

“No I can’t, if you weren’t here maybe––”

“You’d have to, can’t expect the boys to do it.”

“Okay, if you weren’t here, I would, but you are here – so it’s your job.”

“You heartless woman,” she pretended to sneer at me.

“Yep, that’s me – just you remember it, and yes woman, not man.”

“Welcome back, Cathy, we’ve missed you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said knowing full well what she meant, but I wondered if I could get her to qualify it.

“You know damn well what I mean. C’mon, bed time.”