Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 676 by Angharad

Tom helped put the wains to bed, reading them a story in the lounge first, then chasing them up to bed. Story telling became more difficult with the two different bedrooms, although I don’t think I want three kids sleeping in one room, even if they are all girls–well, nearly–they’d be like a flock of starlings.

Tom read them some more of the Gaby book, I’d bought. Trish probably got the most out of it, but the other two wanted to know who won races and so on. Tom seemed quite taken with it, because he read two chapters instead of the usual one.

He later confided that he’d thought all transgender stories were likely to be pornographic, and aimed at adults. I pointed out that the Gaby stories were aimed at adults, but many of whose girlhoods never developed, so they could vicariously live them through such stories. I also tried to explain that most TG people were actually gentle and enjoyed reading about children.

“So why don’t you try writing some then?” he asked me.

“Meeee?” I gasped, “I can’t write fiction, I have enough trouble doing a scientific paper.”

“I don’t know, most of your stuff looks like a fairytale anyway.”

“Oh thanks, well you marked it and awarded the degree.”

“It was a sympathy thing,” he said winking and locking himself in his study. Like I said, he knows how to press my buttons.

I was sorting the washing when he emerged from his bunker. “Whit wis it ye wanted to talk aboot?”

I made some tea and bade him sit at the table. “This looks serious,” he observed as I poured the tea.

“Not really. Look, there are three of us sharing your house and none of us are paying you any rent.”

“An’ ye're complaining?”

“Yes, it isn’t fair.”

“Whit wuld ye like me do aboot it, pay ye fer stayin’?”

“No, Daddy, we should be paying you.”

“Whit furr?”

“Using your house, your utilities and your patience.”

“Ma patience,” he roared with laughter, “aye, ye use up more o’ that than ye dae ma electric.”

I blushed at this although I could see how I’d walked into that one. “You get my drift?”

“Who’s idea wis this?”

“Mine, Daddy, why?”

“Ye call me yurr faither, yet expect me to start chargin’ ye rent? Ye're a strange lassie, Catherine Watts: is that whit happened at hame afore?”

“No, I didn’t ever pay anything to my parents unless I asked for something special, and even then my mum used to give it back to me.”

“Well, I’m no yurr mither, but I am yurr adoptive faither, an’ I say no.”

“No what?”

“If ye must push a point, no thank ye.”

I blushed, he assumed I’d just corrected him like I do the kids. “Daddy, that isn’t what I meant, as you well know.”

He chortled. “Aye, I wis jest checkin’,” he laughed loudly, “ye're so easy tae wind up, ye ken?”

“Grrr,” I said biting my tongue.

“Noo look here, ye dae ma cookin’, cleanin’, washin’. Ye’ve brought me a family, maybe only a temporary one, but it’s been wonderful. Ye’ve also brought yersel’ and that’s nothin’ short o’ miraculous. Apart frae cleanin’ this big auld place, ye fill it with life and love. I should be payin’ ye, no th’ aether wa’ aroond.”

I hugged him and felt my eyes fill up. “I love you, Daddy, you are so kind to me, an’ I don’t deserve it, I really don’t.”

“Ye don’t deserve it? How can ye say that? Ye deserve it more than anyone, ye silly goose.”

I hugged him and wept against his chest. I felt his strong arms around me and safe in his love, I let go and sobbed. All the things which had worried and beset me for months, perhaps years bubbled up and I cried and cried, secure in his arms and his love.

I learned later that Simon had heard me and come to see what was wrong, but Tom had waved him away. Stella had also come to see what was happening. When it was all over, I realised I’d spent half an hour crying into his chest, his shirt was all wet and gooey. I felt exhausted and embarrassed. Here I was twenty five years old and responsible for three children, crying like one of them, on the shoulder and chest of an old man. I felt ashamed.

“I’m sorry, Daddy, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Never apologise for being honest with those ye love.”

I nodded and fled to my bed. I was asleep by the time Simon worked out where I was. He cuddled me but I didn’t wake up until several hours later when my bladder achieved more than he could in rousing me.

I lay in bed with Simon curled around me, fast asleep but protective of me, his arm holding me around the waist. I pondered on what had happened earlier and how calm Tom had been. He must have been a wonderful dad; it was so sad his own daughter was taken from him, but now he had me–very much the second prize, if not booby one–and I had three lovely children, with whom I hoped I had as good a relationship as Tom did with me.

I clasped Simon’s hand to my tummy, I wished I could have had babies of my own–of our own–but it wasn’t to be; instead I had the three babies whose mothers had failed to care properly for them, for whatever reason. I wasn’t looking to apportion blame, because I’m far from perfect myself, but those women’s loss was my gain. My eyes were sore from my tears earlier, but the became moist again as I realised how lucky I was. Many biological females can’t have babies, and here I was with three. Apart from happiness, what did I have to cry about?

I felt a warm glow inside me as I drifted off to sleep. Simon’s arm around me and my babies and my ‘father’ along the landing. I was the luckiest woman alive and I drifted off into dreams of sunshine and roses.

“You awake?” said a voice close to me–bugger it was Simon, I hoped that wasn’t Australian foreplay.

“I am now, why?” I half slurred and grunted.

“What was all that about last night?”

“All what?” I said turning over on to my back, so he could stroke my chest–he liked doing it, and I quite enjoyed it too.

“The tears with Tom, he didn’t upset you did he?”

“No, far from it.”

“You’re not finding the three children too much are you?”

“Yes and no, they’re a handful, but they’re not too much, they’re lovely kids.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Yeah.” I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

“So what was it all about? You’re not wanting out of the wedding are you?”

“Uh? What? No, ’course not, why would I?”

“I dunno, just trying to work out what was what, that’s all.”

“I don’t know what it was, perhaps stress, maybe it was the hormones, they tend to make one more emotional.”

“What like PMS?”

“Yeah, like that, can I sleep some more now?”

“Yeah, but it’s gone seven.”

“Whaaat? Where are the kids?”

“I left a note on the door, saying, Do not disturb.

“Shit, come on Si, I’ll need some help to get them ready for school.”

“There isn’t any.”

“Of course there is, the swine flu was a mistake by that stupid gardener’s wife.”

“He’s actually quite a wealthy business man.”

“Yeah, but she’s all tit and no class.”

“True, but she was nearly right in some ways.”

“How could she be right, she’s a moron?”

“Another child has gone down with suspected swine flu, didn’t I tell you?”

I groaned and rolled over to sleep some more.