Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 923 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

This news sent chills down my spine–it wouldn’t take long for someone to find out who I was and the paparazzi would be round again pestering and annoying me. I called Simon–he was still on the train but I managed to get through to him.

“I’ll try and find out who released the film and shoot them personally. Leave it with me, I’ll get our public relations people to talk to you.”

Which is what happened. As the media and the rest of the country woke up–I was described as a female customer who declares war on the gunmen. A senior police spokesman, when asked if they knew who the customer was, said: “We’ve spoken to a young woman, whose identity cannot be revealed because she is a witness to the event and might therefore be endangered by being identified.

“She acted in a very brave if foolhardy way, and we would not encourage anyone else to try it–she was very fortunate none of the guns fired actually hit her. A sawn off shotgun is very dangerous weapon at close range. We always suggest people surrender their possessions or money to armed robbers–it’s better to lose your money than your life. The latter can’t be replaced.”

Okay, so I’m impulsive–we all knew that anyway. I came back from the school run with some trepidation, but there were no reporters waiting. I had discussed alternative strategies with the children if it became necessary–in which case I would let them know through their respective schools.

In the afternoon, after a morning of housework, Julie and I took the dog for a walk. We went to a wood I’d never been to before, sort of mixed deciduous–birch scrub with one or two ash and beech forming what climax there was, plus a few sycamores.

I used to hate sycamores, until I found out from a friend in Wales that sycamore can become important in the diet of dormice where there is a shortage of oak. They eat insects which live on the tree.

I nearly always carry a hand lens with me when walking anywhere remotely countrified–within ten minutes of our stroll, I found hazel shells which had fed dormice. I checked the grid reference with my records–I keep a small pocket notebook with all these in, and I was pretty sure I had a new site.

Once I’d traced the owner, I’d seek permission to erect nest boxes and monitor populations. It would also be another record for the survey. Southern England wasn’t doing too badly–depending upon how things fared during the cold winter–if it wasn’t too bad in terms of mortality rates and the spring and summer were good, the situation for dormice wouldn’t be too bad, one of the things my survey and co-workers would be able to help me determine.

After dashing home and changing, I left both the dog and Julie there and went to collect the girls. “Nothing happened, Mummy,” Trish reported.

“Good–maybe it’ll all blow over.” Like I believed that? No way. For someone who would prefer a quiet life, I seem determined to do everything I can to prevent it. I just don’t like bullies, which was how I saw those thugs. Too many memories of being bullied in school–like being left naked in the girl’s toilets; or beaten up for refusing to do something demeaning one of the bullies demanded. I used to get hit quite regularly, especially in high school. Despite it being a grammar school, there was still bullying going on–it’s endemic amongst school kids, boys and girls–so I may not have been much better off being a girl at that age, except I’d have been happier in myself.

“Do you ever get bullied?” I asked the girls as we drove home. They all said they didn’t, now that little brown calf had gone. I wondered where dear Petunia had been transplanted.

Back in the house, I asked the boys if they were bullied. Danny, who was the larger by far of the two said he wasn’t but hinted that Billy might be. Billy, began by being quite a little tearaway when he first came to us. Now he’d settled down to being much quieter and sensitive.

I sat with Billy in the kitchen and handed him a drink of juice, “How are things in school?” I asked him.

“’Sokay, why?”

“I wondered how you were getting on, that’s all?”

“Alright.”

“Nothing you want to talk about?”

He looked away from me, “No, why?”

“Sure?” I asked deciding whether I’d mention Danny’s hint. “Has the reading helped?”

“Oh yeah, Mummy, it’s much better an’ I don’t get like, teased so much.”

“Is bullying a problem there?”

“Sometimes, but they leave me alone, because I fight back–Danny doesn’t.”

“You think Danny gets bullied?”

“A bit, because he likes to talk with the girls–he says it’s because we have a house full of girls here and he likes them. He says boys are all dickheads if they don’t like girls.”

“It’s unusual for boys of his age to think that, don’t you think?”

“No, I agree with some of it, girls are okay–most of my like, friends in school wouldn’t say so, but I do.”

“Because you have to cope with them here?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Would life be easier if there were no girls here?”

“No, I don’t think so–I like my sisters, they’re kewl, ’specially Julie–she’s hot.”

No wonder my kids are mixed up–he fancies a girl, who’s really another boy, which he knows about but ignores. Mind you, if adults were the same, life would be so much easier all round. Perhaps he sees her essence–although it’s her body he fancies–oh I dunno, seems they’re okay for the moment.

I got dinner–some fish for a change. I managed to get some fresh mackerel on the way back from our walk and I baked them in foil in the oven with garlic butter. I’ll serve them with new potatoes carrots and sliced beans.

Before serving them, I pulled most of the bones out of the mackerel, and warned the children not to eat too quickly, because there were still some bones in the fish. Meems took an hour–she checked out every square millimetre of the fish and anything that looked remotely like a bone she put on the side of her plate.

I’ll wait a few years before I give her mackerel again, because otherwise she’ll have died from starvation before she eats them. Simon, Tom, and I enjoyed them–Stella of course had gone off on her date–Julie was babysitting Puddin’.

I reminded her that she needed to be up and dressed tomorrow for the salon. She wasn’t impressed by my message. Still if she doesn’t enjoy it, it might provide enough incentive to get her back to do A-levels at college. I really felt she could do better for herself if she tried, all I could do was try to get her to think about it and perhaps do it.

It would also show her shrink that she was doing well in her transition, and help count towards her chances of surgery. I know Timmy became Kimmy in Germany last year, but that was exceptional–would I support surgery at seventeen, or eighteen? In the latter it wouldn’t much matter. Apart from finding the money, she could please herself.

Oh boy, the responsibility of planning someone else’s future–too much, let’s have a chocolate biccie and a cuppa before I chase the kids up to bed.

The girls were easy to get to bed, and I noticed someone lurking in the shadows as I read to the youngsters–Julie–who was babysitting Puddin’–was standing just inside the door of Stella’s room listening to my rendition of Enid Blyton’s gang of kids.

I tucked the girls in and kissed them goodnight. As I left I thought I heard a sniffle. I gently eased open Stella’s door which wasn’t properly closed, and Julie was sitting on her bed gently crying to herself.

I entered the room and closed the door quietly, then sat gently beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. “Hey, what’s the problem?” I asked quietly.

It took her a moment or two to be able to talk to me, “I thought that was really nice, you reading to the girls like you do every night.”

“I don’t do it every night. Simon and Tom do it as well, you know. I didn’t realise my reading was so bad it made you want to cry?” I tried to joke.

“It wasn’t–it was beautiful, I just wished I was one of those little girls being read to and tucked in by a mummy who loves them.”

I hugged her, “Don’t you think I love you too?”

“I s’pose so.”

“I do, you know–now c’mon dry your eyes and relax. In an hour, I’ll take over with Puddin’ and you can get off to bed. I’ll come and read to you and tuck you in–how’s that?”

I hoped she’d smile and tell me it wasn’t necessary, instead she burst into tears. 'Oh well, looks like I’ve got another job tonight.' I hugged her and kissed her forehead. “I’m going to sort out the boys, I’ll see you in an hour.”

Still sniffing she nodded.