The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2515 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad

---

He did eventually stop coughing and then began laughing. “Why oh why did I let you go to bloody Portsmouth?”

“As I recall, to get a master’s.”

“You could have got one of those at Sussex.”

“I needed to move on.”

“To find yourself?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“You weren’t the first transgender student we’ve had there, you know?”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” I sipped my drink. “But to have transitioned there would have raised a few eyebrows.”

“I thought that was what you did at Portsmouth.”

“Um—it was,” I felt myself grow hot, “but it was a much smaller department.”

“Wouldn’t that guarantee notoriety rather than anonymity?”

“Perhaps—but it worked out all the same.”

“You’re such an attractive and delightful young lady, I’m sure it would have worked out at either place.”

I felt like saying that Sussex didn’t have the catalyst, Stella, who kick-started my experiment in living as a female and from which I’d never reverted. I’d never have got to know Tom or Simon and a host of young people who now called me their mother. Perhaps it was just meant to be. I felt myself smiling.

“What’s the enigmatic smile for, Mona Lisa?”

“I’m quite content with my lot.”

“I’m sure you are, how many children do you have now?”

“At the last count?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Ten,” I smiled and blushed.

“A trifle excessive, don’t you think?”

“Some might feel that, but we all muck in together.”

“And Simon is happy to have ten children?”

“So it would appear.”

“What about Tom Agnew? How does he cope with ten children in his house?”

“He absolutely loves it.”

Esmond put down his drink, “He loves it?”

“They’re not all youngsters, Lizzie is a baby, Cate is nearly five, Meems is coming up nine and Trish and Livvie will be ten soon, Danni is coming up fourteen, Phoebe is seventeen, Julie is nineteen, Jacquie is twenty and Sammi is twenty one.”

“How can you have a daughter of twenty one?”

“She needed a home two or three years ago.”

“Aren’t you rather a soft touch? Does she work or do you keep her?”

“She runs the security section of the IT department at the bank.”

“Which your father in law happens to own.”

“It wasn’t nepotism, she’s doing a doctorate in digital security.”

“At Portsmouth?”

“No, UCL.”

“Which you’re funding?”

“No the bank is because they’re drawing benefit from it. What she can’t do with a computer isn’t worth thinking about.”

“What does she call you, Cathy or Mum?”

“She calls me Mum, why?”

“Don’t you find that incongruous?”

“Seeing it out of context, yes; but the way it happened is quite different. They are all damaged children.”

“Damaged?”

“Yes abused or bullied. Several came from children’s homes and one spent some time in a juvenile offenders institute where she was raped and became pregnant, only to have it aborted and the butcher who did it took away her womb and ovaries at the same time. That damaged enough for you?”

“What was she in for—juvie, I mean.”

“It’s irrelevant because we investigated the crime and she was framed. The conviction was quashed by the Court of Appeal.”

“St Catherine strikes again?”

“Actually it was Simon who made it happen.”

“So all’s well that ends well?”

“Not quite, we’re still trying to get her compensation from the Home Office for wrongful arrest, twelve years of wrongful imprisonment, sexual assault, mutilation and subsequent prevention of the human rights act.”

“Which one?”

“The prevention for her to marry and have children—obviously the children bit.”

“D’you think you have a chance?”

“They’ll settle out of court.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if they don’t it will double the national debt, my barrister will see to that.”

“So she’ll be set for life, won’t she?”

“Esmond, they destroyed her fertility—it’s monstrous. They treated her like an object not a young woman. This all happened when she was about fourteen. It was child sexual abuse followed by mutilation to prevent the abusers from being discovered by paternity tests.”

“So one of them was some sort of doctor?”

“Yes, but not a surgeon, or gynaecologist. He butchered her. When I took her to see a gynaecologist, she was horrified that someone so young had been mutilated. Unfortunately, the perpetrator is now dead, so we’re pursuing his employer, the Home Office.”

“And what does she do?”

“She’s doing a degree.”

He nodded. “You really care about these youngsters, don’t you?”

“Someone has to—the system nearly destroyed some of them for no fault of theirs. I’m just trying to ensure natural justice.”

“While saving the dormouse and Portsmouth uni from itself?”

“Sort of.”

The meal arrived and it was delicious, “Thank you, Esmond.”

We sat drinking coffees.

“You really are St Catherine, aren’t you?”

I blushed, “Not at all, just someone who tries to help the underdog.”

“And you need me to advise you how to deal with Dominic Gasgoine?”

“I’m sure any advice you can offer would be helpful.”

“I’m not. He’s a total douche-bag.”

I noted his use of the American phrase which is the most popular new insult according to one of the dictionary compilers.

“I think, I knew that already.”

“He has some powerful friends in very low places who are not afraid to have a pop at someone.”

“He won’t be the first who’s tried it with me.”

“So I’ve heard, bit of a super-heroine by all accounts.”

“Don’t believe all you read in the papers.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

“You don’t fly, do you?”

“Not without an aeroplane.”

“Damn, I was hoping to bum a cheap flight to Spain for Christmas.”

“What about Gascoine?”

“You need some dirt on him,”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Depends upon how you deal with it. If you demand money or favours, yes. If you reveal them to several charities—who knows what will happen.”

“I think I know the perfect researcher.”

“I must head back to Sussex, are you sure I can’t tempt you back?”

“Positive.”

“You’d get my chair in three or four years.”

“I’d have a better chance from an outside institution.”

“Perhaps. I must go.”

“Thank you for my lunch.”

“The pleasure was all mine, young lady.” He took my hand and kissed it saying, “Adieu, my dear.” It was three o’clock and I stopped in the car park to call Jim.

“And they reckon there’s some dirt to find?”

“That was the inference.”

“Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go...” he sang, making him the world’s tallest dwarf at about six foot two. I was too late to collect the girls so asked Jacquie to do it while Stella watched the littlies.

I didn’t see the bill, I don’t think there was one, just Esmond signing the chit like you do at a hotel. Anyway, I had dined at the yacht club and felt no different, perhaps Tom is mistaken.