The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3059 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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The next day the new babysitter arrived, as I mentioned before, she’s a teacher who does supply teaching during term time and anything she can grab outside that, like watching my litter of overgrown mouseketeers. She apparently has a whole bag of educational stuff they can do without realising that she’s been expanding their minds, using a combination of subjects like maths and history or geography with some science thrown in, too.

Her name is Liz Fairey and apparently one of her ancestors used to make aircraft some years ago.

“Was one of those a swordfish?” I asked while we chatted on the phone.

“Not many women would know that, how come you do?”

“I took the girls to the Fleet Air Arm museum at Yeovilton a while ago and the name just stuck in my head and Taranto, was that a battle of some sort?”

“Absolutely, the swordfish destroyed an Italian fleet there in 1940.”

“Ah, good-oh, now I can file those away for archiving, probably never to be heard of again. Anyway come over for lunch and meet my hordes, I think they ate their last babysitter.”

“Sounds like a challenge?”

“What the lunch or my kids?”

“The children, I hope.”

“Yes the food is quite safe and I won’t be doing it, David does.”

“Is that your husband or partner, Professor?”

“Uh no, he’s my cook.”

“You have a cook?”

“Yes a very good one.”

“Wow, I thought only the landed gentry and millionaires had their own cooks and things.”

I momentarily choked on my tea, I hadn’t told her my married name because we got her through a friend of Diane’s, who’s also a teacher.

“Are you okay?” she asked as I dabbed at my watering eyes with a tissue.

“Yes, sorry some tea went down the wrong way.”

“That is such a nuisance when it happens.”

“Indeed,” I agreed pausing for one last cough to clear me tubes. “So is Sunday a good day for you, and is there anything you don’t eat?”

“Not too keen on fish.”

“Fine, but you eat meat?”

“A bit.”

“Great, I’ll ask him to do a chicken on Sunday.”

That conversation had happened a couple of weeks before when she’d called me back after I’d left a message on her voicemail. Of course that had happened while I was in the office and the call had been answered by Diane stating, “Professor Watts’ office.” So she knew my status, all I'd given her was my name, Cathy Watts.

Sunday morning was a pain trying to motivate ten thousand offspring to help tidy the place up—until Simon offered rewards—without saying what they were. If they’d been hoping for money they were disappointed, it was a chocolate bar each. A small bar, but it served them right for being both lazy and materialist. To give her her due, Danni did volunteer at the outset, so she got two bars, the others grumbled but accepted their own bar with only minor resentment.

David produced a huge chicken for the meal—I’ve seen smaller herons and Simon tried to kid the others that it was a swan. Meems was horrified, Danni snorted and Trish called his bluff. “All swans are owned by the Queen.”

“Uh, they’re not, Trish.” I corrected her, “Some are owned by the guilds, like the Worshipful Company of Mercers.”

“You made that up,” she accused, “No such thing as a mercer unless it means more than merce, like worse.”

Her logic was good, her vocabulary not so good.

“Hard luck, kiddo. A mercer is someone who deals in cloth or textiles mainly valuable ones.”

“I thought that was a draper,” said Livvie, who probably has the larger vocabulary of the two middle order daughters.

“Yeah, me too,” said Trish.

“It is but the term mercer is probably older as most of the guilds as the worshipful company stuff relates to, were formed in the eighteenth century or earlier. The language has changed significantly since then. I mean back then, there was no word for a female child.”

They all thought I was joking and began to laugh.

I soon disabused them. “It’s true.”

“What about, girl?” said Livvie stating the obvious counter.

“In those days, the word girl meant a child who was still home with its mother.”

“What about boys?” she challenged.

“Male children could be called boys or girls, girls if they were quite young or boys when they got a bit older.”

“But that’s silly, boys can’t be girls...I er,” she said as Trish blushed furiously and gave her a daggers look.

“In those days they would have been but it was just a word, although they were both dressed the same when young and their hair wouldn’t have been cut, so they could quite easily both looked like female children.”

They looked at me as if I was spinning them some sort of yarn or a shaggy dog story, but it was all true.

“So in those days, I’d have been able to wear dresses when I was little,” mused Trish out loud.

“From what I recall, you did anyway,” said Simon.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have had to beg for it, would I? It would have been the normal thing to do, wear dresses and long hair.”

“It would,” I agreed. “Right, go and change and behave yourselves when Ms Fairey is here.”

“A fairy?” asked Livvie in a loud voice, “I always wanted to meet a real one.”

“Her name is spelt with an E in it before the Y. F-A-I-R-E-Y and she’s a teacher, so she’ll know how to deal with rogues and vagabonds like you lot, besides which if I hear anyone try to make fun of her, they’ll live to regret it. Everyone got that?”

The grumbles as they went upstairs tended to indicate that they had understood but didn’t like it and I knew for the next half an hour they’d all be making stupid jokes about her. She’d sounded really nice on the phone, so I was hoping my impression was correct and she’d prove to be so. I didn’t care what she looked like, a yak wearing a yurt would do as far as that was concerned, in fact that would suit me better than someone who looked like she’d stepped off the fashion pages of the Sunday Times—less competition.

She arrived in an ancient Citroen Dyane but she looked anything but ancient. A woman of early thirties with long dark hair and a neat figure contained in a jumper and jeans and ankle boots. She was also very pretty and I knew Simon and Tom’s attention would be captured immediately. I just hoped that Stella behaved herself.

She rang the bell and before I could answer it, Trish ripped open the front door and invited her in. “Hi, I’m Trish, you must be the fairy—I mean, Ms Fairey.”

“That’s me,” she replied without so much as batting an eyelid, “enjoy the laughs, I’ll get my own back in the week.”

“D’you know how Schrodinger’s cat is?” asked the brain.

“How old are you, Trish?”

“Ten, why?”

“Most ten year olds don’t know of Schrodinger let alone his cat.”

“Mum’s great aunt lived with him—she was a mathematician.”

“Really?”

“’Fraid so,” I admitted. “Welcome to the madhouse, I’m Cathy, Trish you’ve met...” I introduced the others and then we went into the dining room for lunch.