Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 764 by Angharad

“Where on earth have you been?” ranted Stella when I turned up at half past eleven.

“Out for a ride, I told you.”

“You said an hour, that was three hours ago.”

“So?”

“I was worried about you, especially on a bloody bicycle – dangerous bloody contraptions.”

“No, cars are dangerous, they kill cyclists; bikes generally don’t.”

“So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been?”

“Certainly not, you’re not my mother, Stella, just my bossy sister-in-law-to-be.”

“I was worried about you, you’re not usually this late – are you?”

“Your neurosis doesn’t control my life, Stella. I am a free agent unless the girls are here.”

“You ran into trouble, didn’t you?”

“How do you know?”

“You have a large piece of shrubbery stuck to your jumper.”

“Oh bugger – I thought I got it all off.”

“Okay, girl, spill the beans.”

“And if I choose not to?”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“Oh, alright you fascist.”

“At last you’re getting to know me,” Stella beamed.

I told her about the encounter this morning. Her expression went from concern to weeping with laughter. “This bloke got run over by his dog?”

“Exactly.”

“Cathy, that sort of thing only ever happens in America.”

“This was decidedly Hampshire in its location.”

“That’s just bloody unbelievable.”

“For something to be true it doesn’t have to be probable or even vaguely possible. If that was the case, we wouldn’t have manned flight, let alone jumbo jets.” I felt I had to make a point of logic here.

“But I mean, getting run over by your dog is just too weird.”

“It was probably preferable to being run over myself.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m going to shower, then I’ll make some lunch.” Which is what I did. Thence we went to see Tom, who had baffled medical science – which pleased him no end. To be an enigmatic anomaly wrapped up in a conundrum, as the consultant described him, chuffed our ancient bastion of learning, no end.

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.

“What does what mean?”

“The anomaly bit?”

“The enigmatic anomaly wrapped in a conundrum?”

“Yeah, that bit.”

“I haven’t got the foggiest idea – unfortunately, neither do they – the medical establishment.”

“It’s not Cathy and her blue lights, is it?” asked Stella.

“Be sensible, Stella. Cathy can work a few con tricks on children, but not an auld sceptic like me.”

“I think she managed to help a bit more than a placebo effect.”

“Perhaps.”

“Tom, you were only saying a few weeks ago that she had a gift and ought to use it. She did on you, how do you think you’re home now, not still in ICU?”

“There isnae one shred of evidence supporting this sort of claim, is there?”

“Isn’t there? What about the kid whose brain tumour went into remission when they were expecting him to die? Or the kiddie with the wonky kidneys? The Injured children she’s got walking again including her own.”

“Pure suggestion.”

“So she suggested that Puddin’ make herself better, is that it?”

“She micht hae done.”

“This was a premature baby, Tom, whose mother – me – was sick. That woman is a miracle worker, she worked all day on you.”

“I don’t recall her being there for the first few days.”

“Ah, so you were very ill, Tom; our Cathy saved you.”

“Modern technology saved me,” Tom insisted.

Stella looked as if she was going to blow a fuse, so I calmed her down. “No, I expect Tom is right, Stella. I didn’t do anything.”

Her eyes narrowed but she nodded at my glance.

“I can come home whenever you’re ready,” said Tom, smiling.

“Fine, I’ll go and get the car.” I left Stella waiting with him while Puddin’ and I went to get the car. She loves her pushchair, especially when I pretended we were at Monza and made silly racing car noises as we trotted down to the car park. She was squealing with pleasure as we got to the car. I popped her in the car seat, which is tilted for her easy occupation, and she was still laughing so I made some more silly F1 type noises. I dumped the pushchair in the boot and off we went to pick up Tom and Stella.

They had no more than entered the car when the mobile beeped with a text. Simon was home with the girls. Oh well, my little break was over and in lots of ways, whilst I was glad to have had it, I was pleased to have my babies back.

We got home and the girls swarmed over me like a disturbed ants nest. They squealed and shrieked and reached up to kiss me and hug me. I think they might have been pleased to see me! They had piles of goodies, where Henry and Monica had spoiled them – DVDs, jewellery, computer games, clothes and shoes.

I winked at Simon, “Is Henry trying to spend his way out of the recession?”

“The recession is over, Babes – I told you Gordon would pull it off.”

“With a little help from his friends.”

“Friend, I think would be more apposite.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Dead man walking, if you listen to the pundits.”

“What do you think?” I asked him.

“Never underestimate him.”

“I’d have thought you we’re supporting your namesake on the other side?” I teased Simon.

“Him no. God I hope we’re not related, Eton? No thank you.”

“That’s up by Windsor, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, near the river.”

“So you don’t like Old Etonians? And I thought it was I who had the socialist leanings?”

“Me, I’m a capitalist, an opportunist but one with style and panache – that man is an chancer who doesn’t know which way is up.”

“He could still be the next prime minister.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right, Babes.”