The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2339 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I confided in Simon that evening that Stella had mentioned some uncertainties about Mitchell. “You didn’t say anything, did you?”

“Duh, what d’you take me for?”

“That could mean she won’t fall apart when the denouement occurs.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it, she as good as told me she’d kill me if she lost this one through my intervention.”

“Oh, that could be unfortunate.”

“Quite.”

“I mean, with you dead and her in prison or Broadmoor, who’s going to watch the kids?”

That surprised me a little. “Perhaps you’d have to become a house husband.”

“Bugger that for a game o’ sojers. I’d get someone in.”

“Good to know I’d be missed.”

“Absolutely, it could cost me a veritable fortune and no one sews on a button like you do, wifey.”

It doesn’t look as if he’s going to get his wicked way tonight, not unless he works very hard for it—sews on a button—pah!

“Might it be worth speaking to Henry?”

“Why, he’s not going to look after the kids, is he?”

I do wonder about Simon some days. “To speak to Stella.”

“To ask her not to kill you or the babysitting?”

“No, to speak with Stella to explain there’s something not very savoury about our friend Mitchell.”

“What, now?”

“Whenever he thinks it appropriate,”

“If he tells her now, she’s going to tip him off.”

“I doubt she’s that much in love.”

“No, you nit, Cathy, she’ll unconsciously give something away and as he’s been trained to pick up on it, he’ll either run or get nasty with her.”

“Personally, I think she’d play him along, especially when she realises he’s probably working for the Russians.”

“What happens if she lets something drop when they’re miles from anywhere—he could hurt her.”

“And skedaddle. Not a nice scenario.”

“But I’ll speak with Dad when I get a moment.”

The next day, which seemed much like any other school day, comprised of me getting four children ready for school, none of which seemed in a mood to cooperate. By the time we’d breakfasted and got to school, I was ready to strangle someone—I didn’t mind who.

As we left for school, David called after me to get some more garlic—the previous lot had gone funny. I agreed I would and went to Waitrose on the way back from dropping four, seemingly tired, schoolgirls at the convent. I had never seen such a queue at the checkouts and I felt quite irritable before waiting my turn to pay, so by the time I got to the checkout, I’d almost lost the will to live. The young man on the till apologised for keeping me waiting and beamed me such a smile, I’d have forgiven him for anything.

As I walked into the kitchen David asked if I’d got his garlic. I threw it to him, “That cost me one pound twenty and an hour of my life,” I grumbled.

“Did you have to dig it up then?”

“No, I had to queue for it and they only had two tills working.”

“Wish I could afford to shop in Waitrose,” he complained.

“Why, you’d be complaining that you got stuck behind a stupid woman who’d be castigating her son, ‘Tarquin, stop dribbling in Daddy’s avocado dip.’”

“I know that woman,” he said to me.

“Which woman? I retorted.

“Tarquin’s mother?”

“Yep.”

“How come?”

“I’m sure I once got stuck on a train with her and her idiot offspring.”

“Did it shorten the journey?”

“Did it hell? She told him off virtually the whole journey. I nearly offered to throw the kid out of the window to reduce his sufferings.”

“Very compassionate, I’m sure.”

“No, you’re Cathy, just concentrate. Shaw was an Irish git with a huge beard.”

“It was also an alias of TE Lawrence.”

“What Florence of Arabia?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right he re-enlisted—strange person.”

“He was a bit strange, but I remember reading a biography of him and it explained a few things. He was illegitimate to start, gay and possibly masochistic, or that might have been his sense of guilt because of his sexuality.”

“Did he ever do it then—with another bloke?”

“The biography I read thought not, he desired it so much but was probably stuck in the closet.”

“What about the Turks, didn’t one of them—you know...?”

“Not according to that biography, he was a British officer and treated with respect. It was suggested the whole thing was fantasy.”

“Well it happened in the film.”

“So?” That meant nothing in terms of historical accuracy.

“It was in the film, that’s all.”

“I cycled down to his cottage a few years ago, it’s called Clouds Hill it’s owned by the National Trust, strange place. He’s buried in Moreton churchyard. The old school is now a coffee shop bistro place and they have the funeral bier there.”

“What, in the bistro?”

“Yeah, they had cakes on it.”

“Luvverly,” he said meaning the opposite.

“Did you know he was born in Wales?”

“Who was?”

“Lawrence.”

“No—I thought he came from Oxford.”

“He went there with his parents and studied there.”

“Archaeologist, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, David, that’s how he came to get involved with the Arabs, he was out in the Negev desert or something supposedly on a dig while covertly surveying for the War Office.”

“How come you know so much about him?”

“I read the book, remember?”

He shook his head.

Despite being very busy I did manage to speak with Henry and told him what Stella had said about having some doubts about Mitchell. He agreed with Simon that we said nothing to her in case it warned him off or endangered her.

I wasn’t best pleased with his decision but agreed to abide by it on the understanding that he explained the truth to her once things happened. To make me feel worse, Stella came to my study and announced, “Ta da...”

“What?”

“That was a drum roll or a fanfare.”

“What was?” Half my mind was still on categorising records for the survey.

“Ta da,” she repeated.

“Why would you need a drum roll?” I asked feeling as if I’d missed something—important.

“Roger is coming tonight.”

“So?”

She gave me a really funny look, “He’s coming tonight.”

“I hope you’ll have a pleasant evening.”

“Here tonight.”

“To collect you?”

“Nooo—here tonight,” she pointed at the floor.

“Sorry, Stella, you lost me about five minutes ago.”

“Roger is coming here, to the house to meet you all.”

“Oh,” I said rather diffidently.

“What’s wrong now? What have I done now?”

“Nothing, Stel, it’s me, I was hoping for a quiet night in.”

“Ha, you expect me to believe that?”

“It happens to be true—up to you if you believe it or not.”

“You kept on about meeting him...” she pouted.

“I know, okay, we’ll meet him. Is he coming for dinner?”

“No, we’ll go out to eat, wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble seeing as you don’t like him and you’ve never even met him.”

“That‘s unfair, Stella, it was you who had worries about him being something other than he portrayed.”

“I did not,” she declared.

“You did, you asked me if I thought he was kosher because you weren’t sure.”

“Did I?” she blushed. “Anyway, he’s coming to say hello so wear something half decent and don’t put the kids in rags or let them make mud pies or slaughter something, I want him to think we’re almost normal aristocrats.”

“Normal or normal aristocrats?”

“Pass,” she said, “I gotta go and sort out my outfit.” She dashed off and wondered what was going to happen next, and why was he coming, was there an ulterior motive?