The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1578 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

With Danny’s new found fame preserved for posterity both on paper and computer, he seemed happy and went off to read. Julie had gone off to meet Tash who was apparently returning from visiting her parents.

“You mean she came to us rather than her own parents?” I was astonished.

“Yeah, she wanted to be with me.”

“Oh well, I’m glad we could accommodate her then.”

“Anyway, I’m off to see her.”

“Drive carefully.”

She stopped and looked at me and then at her car keys. “There’s no chance is there?”

“No chance?”

“Of her coming to stay with me, I go in on Monday, could she like stay for the weekend?”

“On the same terms as before, nothing more than kissing and cuddling.”

“You are an angel, Mummy.” She threw her arms round me and kissed me. “I’ll see you later.”

“Drive carefully.”

“I always do,” she called back as she left.

I went into the kitchen and discovered that a picture had fallen from the wall and cracked the frame–amazingly, the glass was fine, but the frame had large crack and a piece had broken off. I shoved some newspaper on the table and went to the cupboard coming back with a tube of superglue. I dripped a little into the crack and pushed it closed for a couple of minutes, it was certainly smaller. I then dripped a little onto the area where the chip had come off and carefully inserted the missing piece using a piece of kitchen towel. It seemed to have fused, and the crack around it seemed quite small, certainly invisible from more than a foot or two away. I dripped a little more onto the broken area and left it to dry for ten minutes then re-hung the picture.

It was one of Tom’s a pictures of a spaniel carrying a dead pheasant. It wasn’t a favourite of mine, given my very strong anti-hunting opinions, but he liked it and apparently it was quite valuable.

I remembered the argument I’d had with Simon in this very house the first time I’d stayed here, when I’d helped host the meeting which got us the funding from the government and Simon’s bank. It was the first time we’d slept together, and I was all glued up and we’d had a difficult few days, partly because Simon realised he was in a difficult position as a sponsor of something being run by his girlfriend–or should that be, would-be girlfriend. At that stage he knew nothing about me other than I was gauche, hypersensitive, tearful and keeping several balls in the air and a couple up in my body cavitiy.

When I thought about it, I was trying to maintain my status at the university, waiting to do a viva exam, trying to look after my dad in hospital, who would only eat food I made for him, run back and fore to Bristol from Portsmouth, and hide my original status from Simon while at the same time desperately wanting to tell him. The fact that I didn’t crack up must say something about me–I know, it shows–I didn’t fully understand the situation.

We got the funding to run the survey, I got my MSc, I also got my man–which was the biggest event in my life, because he actually coped with me pre-surgery, knowing what he was taking on. Okay, I found out the bastard was hiding the fact that he was the son of a bloody aristocrat and that on marrying him I didn’t just become Missus, I became Lady–not bad for a boy from a grammar school. I snorted when I thought about it like that. I’d achieved more than I ever expected to and again a major point was in being able to foster and then adopt children. That three of them had been GID was possibly a mixed blessing–it meant they had a home with acceptance and understanding; it also meant I had to be careful I wasn’t seen to influence them.

The last few years had seen some tricky and sad times as well, losing my parents at the start of my journey–my mother especially–was difficult. I did reconcile things with my dad whom I also miss. He’d been horrid to me all my life until Mum died and he had the stroke–okay, in between those things he did begin to change, because I was all he had.

I watched Stella change from my mentor, to my student as her mental health suffered and her unfortunate choice of men seemed to make things worse, not helped by pregnancies. Thankfully that resolved itself and she seems better these days and is enjoying the role of mother. She’s not as helpful to me as she could be–in fact at times she’s downright lazy–but I still love her as the sister I never had.

Losing Billie was the biggest upset of my life–I don’t think I shall ever get over the way she died; despite my brain inventing all sorts of Old Testament goddesses to look after her and ease my pain. I know she wasn’t my natural child, but I like to think I’ve bonded with all my children and provide a loving significant adult figure in their lives. I try to be a role model and frequently fail my own standards, not as new woman, but as a mother. I don’t give them as much time as I should because I have selfish needs of my own.

If I compare myself to my own mother, I can see where some of my sense of the role comes from. She was a typical housewife who didn’t need to work because Dad earned enough for her not to. She was therefore dependent upon him financially for the most part, and saw her role as supporting him and running the home as well as looking after me. She taught me lots about cooking and cleaning, mending and so on, yet seemed to ignore my obvious feminine streak which was a mile wide, probably because it annoyed my dad–who tried to toughen me up by beating it out of me. I wish she’d lived long enough to see me become her daughter and come to my wedding. But then if she had lived, I might not have been talking to either of them. How things can change for the better or worse in a twinkling of an eye.

I jumped when a pair of arms gripped me and I was kissed on the back of my neck. “Simon, you frightened me to death.”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist it, what were you thinking about?”

“Lots of things–all of them in the past.”

“Like what?”

“Like the first time we stayed in this house together at Tom’s dinner party–d’you remember?”

“How could I forget? You were as prickly as a cactus with nettle rash.”

“What?”

“Well you were, I nearly left you if I remember correctly.”

“You didn’t though, did you? You stayed and held me.”

“Yes.”

I turned and kissed him. “Thank you.”

“What was that for?”

“You didn’t leave me then or subsequently–I love you so much.” I hugged him and felt myself sniffle.

“You didn’t leave me either, even though I’ve arguably given you just cause many times over.”

“Yeah, well don’t push your luck, Simon Cameron.”

“I don’t, babes, I count my blessings everyday and you’re the first one each time.” With this sentimental twaddle, I burst into tears and cried all over him. “What did I say now?” he said as I blubbed onto his shoulder.