The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1945 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

After Trish’s intercourse with Mrs Alcott, I couldn’t wait to get home and the opportunity to drink a cup of tea in peace and quiet. I thought who would be at the house, just the girls, Stella and her pair, baby Cate and David with his two room-mates.

Then I realized that Hannah would still be in school. It seemed only St Claires were on holiday, or other private schools like them. I never saw Ingrid taking Hannah to school but she obviously did, unless David did it for her–that wouldn’t surprise me, he seemed rather taken with Ingrid and her daughter. Oh well, that’s their business, I refuse to ever do matchmaking again after what happened with Jenny and Caroline, or whatever he is calling himself now. I still couldn’t believe that someone as nice as Jenny had been could become the scheming shrew she became. The more I tried to help her, the worse she became. I hope she’s happy now because what she did nearly broke my heart. My relationship with Ingrid is very much less familiar. She is my employee and although we do things informally, and in a friendly manner–I’m still her boss and that’s how it’s going to stay.

I do wonder if I’ve tried too hard to be nice to everyone, to see them as equals when clearly we’re not. I don’t mean that in a superior way. I’m wealthier than they are, I’m better educated, and I’m happily married. I pay them well and they work hard and well for me. I’m not going to lord it over them, because I prefer to ask people to do things for me. They rarely refuse and most would I think prefer to be asked than instructed to do something, even if they’re being paid for the privilege. Civility and courtesy may be less common these days, and call me old fashioned, but I hope they never go out of fashion.

“What would you prefer to eat tonight?” David asked me as I made myself some tea. “Horseburgers and chips or spaghetti equinase?”

“Neigh lad, I want horse’s d’ouvres.”

We were joking about what could be quite a serious matter of misrepresentation, which a complicated way of meaning fraud. I have no idea what the price per kilo of horsemeat is, as it isn’t usually sold for human consumption in the UK, but I suspect it does abroad and is also used in pet food, much of which is also manufactured abroad.

I know it’s pure sentimentalism on my part but somehow I don’t see horses as part of the human food chain, though it’s more based on reading Black Beauty and watching too many cowboy films, than logic. Horses are noble creatures who dedicate themselves to serving humans–yeah, sure. Sounds like Animal Farm before the revolt. The reality is that they are big dumb herbivores just like cattle, and could therefore be eaten as such–though I’m not sure Clint Eastwood would necessarily agree.

We just don’t eat horses here, and I admit I don’t like the idea of being sold something as beef to discover it included horsemeat, especially if the latter is cheaper. That they’ve discovered pork in supposed beef meat balls, and there are suggestions chicken products aren’t always what they purport to be means this deception is going on on a large scale and stinks of organized crime.

That the Pope is retiring just as the meat scandal is emerging is probably coincidental, but where is the latter going to end, probably not at the Vatican, though I suspect Christianity died there a couple of millennia ago.

I took my tea down to my study and passed the dining room where Trish was holding court and telling the story of her encounter with Mrs Alcott. I could have intervened and told them what happened and how rude I thought Trish was. Instead I ignored it because that way it would die a death and be forgotten in no time. However, I decided that Trish was growing up quite rapidly and she was winding me up not being the innocent she pretended to be. So I’d need to work out how to deal with it–probably best by just ignoring it, and trying not to appear shocked. She really is a little monster, but a very clever one.

I dealt with some emails and then took a phone call which I wasn’t expecting.

“Cathy?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Erin, are you free next week to do a wildlife programme on Radio 4.”

“I don’t know–what sort of programme?”

“One about British mammals, this story about the fox eating someone’s baby in London has given them a chance to form a programme about mammals. Professor Harris from Bristol is taking part.”

“Well he’s the expert on urban foxes, he was on the radio the other morning talking about them, suggesting that a cull wouldn’t work–it would if Boris was the target.”

“Ha ha, don’t say things like that, will you?”

“Okay, I’ll just go on about the Pope resigning shall I?

“Don’t you dare.”

“Who else is on it?” I enjoyed teasing her.

“Oh some bloke I’ve never heard of.”

“Like who?”

“Some bloke called David Attenborough.”

“You’re joking?” I gasped, if he was on it, I’d do it for nothing and in the nude.

“Damn, you guessed,” she cackled down the phone.

“Bitch.”

“You started it.”

“What’s the fee?”

“A hundred plus travel–it would give you a chance to talk about your survey.”

“I know that, which is why I haven’t said no already.”

“Chris Packham is on it.”

“Why?”

“To balance all you academics.”

“All two of us?”

“Oh didn’t I say that Professor Freeman from Swansea is also on it?”

“No you didn’t–he’s a marine biologist.”

“I know, Cathy, I’m his agent too.”

“Oh, pity.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“He’s a prat.”

“He’s an expert on marine mammals.”

“My arse he is, he’s spent most of his time studying turtles.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Erin, turtles are reptiles–they lay eggs for Godsake.”

“Oh, are they?”

“If he’s there I won’t be.”

“I thought you like Professor Harris?”

“I do, he’s a lovely chap and very knowledgeable about urban foxes and badgers.”

“And you’re the survey queen–you probably know more about the distribution of mammals in the UK than anyone else.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So you know about fox populations.”

“No I don’t–I know about fox distribution–that’s different. I know about dormouse populations but as far as I know, they don’t go round biting baby’s fingers off.”

“Pity.” She paused, “Look, can’t you just cope with him for an hour or two?”

“Who?”

“Prof Freeman.”

“No way.”

“Why?” she pleaded.

“It’s a free country, I don’t have to do it, do I?”

“He might be a prat, but he’s quite a pleasant one. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I’m sure she could see me blushing, and she was spot on. We did have some history.

“There is, isn’t there?” she crowed.

“Okay, so there is.”

“C’mon tell your Auntie Erin all about it.”

“Okay, about five years ago, no it must be longer than that–I was still an undergrad at Sussex. One of my colleagues was due to give a paper on the Atlantic Grey Seal. He went sick at the last minute and I was persuaded against my better judgment to read it instead. I read the paper and fielded a few questions including one from Freeman, who knew a bit more about it than I did. He tried to humiliate me, but he wasn’t as clever as he thought, and in getting over confident he left a small crack in his argument. Despite the adrenalin I managed to stay focused on what he was saying, and spotted the flaw in his argument and came back at him. It backfired all over him. You see, he mistook a paper on Harp seals for one on Atlantic Greys. He misread the figures and because I’d read it on the way to Cambridge, where we were speaking, I was able to turn it round and fight back.

“You make it sound like it was personal, surely it wasn’t?”

“It was, I overheard him in the bar later talking about the little fairy who embarrassed him. He embarrassed himself while trying to humiliate me. He’s a homophobic or transphobic arsehole.”

“Is he–he never seemed that way to me.”

“I’ll bet he doesn’t know you were going to ask me?”

“He does, actually, he rather fancies you after your dormouse film.”

“Yuck–he obviously didn’t recognise me from before then–I suppose he didn’t know I was now at Portsmouth and doing dormice.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t confuse the dishy dormouse dolly-bird aristocrat with some feminine looking boy undergrad, would he?”

“I don’t care if he does, I’m not appearing with him.”

“It’s radio, Cathy.”

“I don’t care what it is–the answer is no. I have to go, Erin.” I put the phone down. I’d lost a chance to publicise our survey because of personal prejudice–mine. Oh well, too bad.