Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 552

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Wuthering Dormice
(aka Bike)
Part 552
by Angharad
       
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The phone rang again, I ignored it. “Answer it, Cathy, it could be Simon or the hospital.”

“It could also be the paper.”

“Okay, I’ll answer it.” Stella took the phone and pressed the green button. “Hello, oh yes I’d love to talk to you…about the accident, no I can’t do that, I wasn’t there…Mrs Watts? No, I’m not, but I’d still like to talk to you, you have a nice voice. Can you speak to her, I’m afraid not, she’s not available, she just went in the shower, to get all the blood off her. Well when you sacrifice a goat, it tends to bleed all over you…Funny man he’s rung off.” She cackled as she handed me back the phone.

“What have you done? These provincial newspapers will believe anything.”

“So, let them print it.”

“They’ve probably taped the conversation.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that…um, surely, they won’t believe I was serious, will they?”

“How do I know?”

“Shall I call them back?”

“No, let it stand now. I need to get some washing on,” I thought if I kept busy, it would stop me thinking about it. I collected the dirty clothes and was sorting them when the doorbell rang. I carried on, loading my whites and switched the machine on.

“Cathy, it’s for you.”

“I’m doing the washing, Stella, can’t you deal with it?”

“Not really.”

I went to the door and there was a huge bouquet of flowers being held by a man. “What’s this about?”

“These are for Mrs Watts, from the family of Mrs Townsend, who she saved from drowning.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m John Jackson.”

“From the Echo?”

“You recognised me?”

“No, but it’s a pretty low trick.” I slammed the door but he put his foot in the way.

“Please, wait a moment.”

“Why should I? What’s to stop me really slamming the door and breaking your foot?”

“Your good-heartedness.”

“Sorry, I’ve used up all my good-heartedness today.” I went to shut the door again.

“Please, just talk to me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s a good story and I’ll write something anyway.”

“So?”

“If I get things wrong…”

“I’ll sue.”

“What, a nice lady like you?”

“Absolutely, I employ a barrister on a fifty-fifty basis, he makes loads from me.”

“Why are you being so horrible to me?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I asked it first.”

“Because I don’t like being in the spotlight.”

“But you’re a beautiful lady and you’ve done a wonderful thing.”

“And you asked me if it was dangerous to be near me, it could be for you if you don’t move your foot and go away.”

“You’ve done some remarkable things, haven’t you? You’ve saved about three or four people’s lives, a regular Superwoman.

“Do I look like a comic strip heroine?”

“No, you look stunningly beautiful.”

“Mr Reporter Jackson, you are so full of poo, you could grow roses in your belly button.”

“Oh, well please take the flowers.”

“You can stick your flowers, where a monkey shoves his nuts.”

“How did you save her?”

“If you continue to harass me, I won’t save any more.”

“Are you likely to?”

“Of course, when I came from the planet Krypton, I vowed to save stupid humans, now push off or I’ll exert my superhuman strength and crush your foot to jelly.”

“I think you are trying to wind me up.”

“Mummy, wotcha doin’?” asked Trish.

“Trying to get rid of a troublesome insect.”

“I’m not kid, I’m a nice man who just wants to talk to her.”

“Why don’t you talk to him, Mummy?”

“He’s not very nice, darling.”

“I am kid, I brought her some flowers.”

Trish stood on tip toes to look out the window by the front door. “He has brought you flowers, Mummy. They are so pretty. Why don’t you take them?”

“He’s trying to bribe me into giving him an interview.”

“Oh for God’s sake Cathy, talk to him. If you keep his foot jammed in the door much longer, it’ll turn gangrenous.” Stella huffed and took the girls into the kitchen.

“Listen to her, Cathy, my foot, it’s hurting.”

“Maybe that’ll teach you to shove it so far into your mouth.”

“Please, Cathy. Look I’ll pay you for a story.”

“How much?”

“I dunno, fifty or a hundred quid, how does that sound.”

“Paltry.”

“Okay, two hundred, that’s my limit.”

“Payable to any charity I name?”

“Yeah, but we expect exclusivity and a picture.”

“Two fifty.”

“I can’t…oh, all right, two hundred and fifty.”

“Okay, you go and get me a cheque payable to the St Nicholas Children’s Home, and I’ll talk to you and you can take a picture of me, but you ask nothing about my family, especially my children.”

“But that would only be background stuff, anyway. It’s a human interest story, local heroine saves woman’s life, that sorta thing.”

“No. Now remove your foot or I shall break it and a few other bones afterwards.”

“You have a vicious side to you, don’t you?”

“Only when provoked.”

“I don’t believe you’d really hurt me.”

“There is evidence to the contrary, I put two thugs into hospital.”

“Wow, you really are a colourful character, aren’t you?”

“I am going to ease the pressure on the door and you had better remove your foot, because if you don’t, I will break your ankle. Your choice.” I eased the door open a fraction and he pulled his foot away. I then shut the door.

He of course kept banging on the door and ringing the bell. I went back to my laundry. After a while I looked and he’d gone. I half relaxed, a small amount of research would give him plenty of info, which would have surfaced before they ran the story anyway. He’d be back, and the fee would have gone up.

The phone rang a bit later, Stella answered it, but it just clicked. They were checking we were still at home. I felt shades of the attack from the Russians. I sent the children upstairs and told them to stay there. I pulled the curtains in all of the downstairs rooms, and suggested Stella stay in her room.

I watched a man, not John Jackson, approach down the drive. He had tabloid written all over him.

“Cathy Watts, I know you can hear me. I’ll pay your childrens’ home a thousand quid if you’ll give me an interview. I’ll be back in five minutes to hear your answer.”

I ran to the bathroom and filled a bucket with cold water–nothing like pouring cold water on a story, is there?. My next action was to call BBC Bristol and invite them to send a reporter. They would from Southampton, with a camera crew.

“No, on second thoughts, send me a cab with darkened windows and I’ll come to Southampton.”

“Okay, we can do that.”

“Tell the driver to come right up to the front door.”

“Okay. About half an hour?”

“I’ll be ready.” I put the phone down and went to tidy myself up. The childrens’ home was missing out, but maybe I’ll send them a donation some time in the future. Even dealing with the BBC without Simon or Des, could be a problem. I called Erin, she agreed to drop everything and get down as quickly as she could. At least I had some moral support. Finally I spoke to Simon, he told me to wait until he got there, he was calling for the chopper and would be there within an hour.

I went to ask Stella to look after the kids. She reluctantly agreed.

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Comments

Cathy And Media

OK, now what happens next? Poor girl, she simply can't stay out of the spotlight.
May Your Light Forever Shine

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

If cash flow were any better...

I'd ask Cathy for an exclusive... Just to meet this fascinating person LOL...

Okay, I know it's fiction, but seems like Cathy's dealing with things better than she has in the past. Even thinking about going to the BBC without backup is a step up.

As to the children; how do you explain that a reporter (or anyone bearing a gift) may not REALLY be nice or that they actually might be, but you can't know? Cathy's got a tough bit of explaining to do to Trish, I think.

Thanks,
Annette

This looks bad..

So who gets doused with the bucket of cold water, the taxi driver? Simon?

Cathy

Cathy is learning, it appears. Then again, we shall see.

Don't dump water on the BBC

Don't dump water on the BBC reporter.
Take the 1000 quid that's quite a lot for the kids.
Woman of steel.

Cefin