The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1998 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I spoke to the manager of the hotel who was confused that I knew there was a vacancy for a receptionist–one of their regular receptionists had suddenly left, having been offered the job she’d always wanted–to be a trolley dolly at 30,000 feet. Okay, so when I was kid I wanted to wear the uniforms which everyone associated with being glamorous–but knowing a little more about it now, I wouldn’t do it for twice the salary they pay.

Jacquie had put the girls to bed–what would I do without her? I’d found out for a short time when she was in Salisbury, and I reflected that I’d find out again as I wanted her to continue doing a university access course to give her the best possible chance of making a career for herself. After the butchery she received during her abortion, she’d never have her own children so she needed a career to give her something to build her life around.

While I valued her assistance in the home, I also wanted her to make something of her life and to help her overcome the trauma she’d suffered as a child. I thought about the members of my household and nearly all of us were damaged goods, most of us had received some sort of trauma as children. Mine was physical and mental abuse from my father, the children except Livvie and little Cate had been sexually abused, up to and including Danny’s recent assault in France.

It made me think of a news story from Devon or Cornwall I think, where a young woman had gone on a school trip to France and she’d been raped and murdered in her bed while her friends slept in the same room. The French police had been next to useless and it was only pressure from her parents which caused them to reopen the case and they finally arrested and convicted someone about twenty years later.

That must have brought some solace to her parents, but how do you maintain that sort of pressure for so long? What happens after you get your conviction and have justice seen to be done? Does it bring you any peace? I hoped I’d never find out.

I was worried about Danny. He’d seemed to strike up a good relationship with Carly, Peter’s sister, which might help him forget some of the pain he’d experienced. She was certainly a very pretty girl, but as Peter’s sister, would it remind Danny of what had happened and Peter’s overreaction to the trauma.

The Easter holiday for the schools seemed to go on and on. They hadn’t broken up until just before Easter on what used to be called Maundy Thursday, when the monarch used to distribute Maundy money to a group of pensioners, the number of whom were determined by the age of the monarch. If they still do it, then there must have been a whole shed load of them because the Queen is about eighty six or seven.

I made myself a cuppa and drank it alone in the kitchen to fortify myself for apologising to Simon if he woke while I was getting to bed. I changed in the bathroom and slipped into my pyjamas, then after cleaning my teeth and using the loo, I slipped into bed beside my sleeping husband.

I sat for a while watching him sleep–the big lummock, who I adored and loved as much as anyone could. Yet there were times when we seemed able to say exactly the wrong thing to each other and feel like we were enemies not the best of friends.

They say we hurt those we love most. In my case it should be my theme song–I seem to spend half my life opening my mouth and saying the wrong thing or having it taken the wrong way–and, once out beyond my incisors, it’s too late to take back.

So far we’ve been able to resolve the situation but I dread the day when something one of us says to the other breaks the relationship for good. Being aware of the risk should help me prevent it happening, but it doesn’t–I get swept up in one of my passions and it’s out before I can stop it.

Simon does the same or worse, he makes silly jokes which no one but he thinks is funny and everyone else feels offended–especially me. I seem able to be offended at the drop of a hat, especially by Simon.

How can that happen? We love each other, we need each other. We work well as a team–yet still screw up quite regularly. I had no answers but watching my husband sleeping, his silhouette shining slightly from the moonlight coming through the crack in the curtains, made my heart beat a little more quickly and also for some reason, my eyes began to leak.

How would I cope without him? Would he miss me if I wasn’t here? What would happen to the family–would they rally round or fall apart? Would he cope without me, looking after the children–I know he’d try–but would it work?

I know how raw things felt when Billie died–I still missed the little cherub–I guess I always will. Thinking about the loss of things she’d never know, growing up as a girl, having boyfriends, making a career, riding her bike–she’d never know these things and that made my eyes drip even faster.

I looked at Simon, distorted through my tears and wiped my eyes but more tears formed. I thought of Billie and cried even more. I thought of the girl those thugs had beaten and only left alone when I stopped to help. I hoped she’d take the job and get out of prostitution–which was a dangerous occupation for all sorts of reasons.

I just felt plain old fashioned sad and dejected. My eyes continued to shed salty water and I glanced up at the shaft of moonlight streaming through the crack in the curtains. It must be clear skied tonight, the moon is rarely that bright. I caught sight of what appeared to be movement.

I wiped my eyes again, but there just at the edge of my vision, something moved but as I tried to focus on it, so it would move out of my field of vision. I thought it must be some sort of optical illusion, caused by tiredness or my now sore eyes but it moved again and once more I failed to see quite what it was, but I was increasingly certain it wasn’t my eyes deceiving me.

Finally, having failed to see what it was–perhaps something reflecting the light–I lay back and stopped trying to see it and just accepted it was there without worrying about it. I opened my eyes as I felt I was about to drift off to sleep when I saw, not more than ten feet from me, my absent daughter. My heart felt wrenched in two but she smiled at me with such warmth that I began to feel tears of what I could only call joy. At last I had seen her. She smiled again and the thought, ’You did well tonight, Mummy. The goddess is pleased with you and has allowed me to come and say I love you, now rest and don’t worry, you and Daddy are soul mates and so can never be parted, even by death. Good night, Mummy,’ she smiled again and faded from my view. I wanted to get out of bed and search for her, to touch her, to hold her, one last time but tiredness swept over me like a wave of seawater and I fell to sleep, but with a smile on my face and a new warmth in my heart.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maundy_money