The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2717 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 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 weekend came and went and the weather was fine to lovely. I did take Hannah and Danielle out for a bike ride but Trish wasn’t that interested. I wasn’t going to force her, but I made her do some chores—she started a new batch of bread and cleaned out the old ice cream tub—there was enough for one small portion, so she was hardly being overly rewarded.

We did about seven miles before turning back, “Aren’t we going for the hill again, Auntie Cathy?” asked Hannah.

“You up for it?” I asked Danni who rolled her eyes but nodded. So that’s what we did, detoured to take in a major hill climb and Danni struggled as much as Hannah. Being good at one sport doesn’t mean you can be good at another, especially as different muscle groups are involved. To be properly fit you need to do several different types of exercise so you build up opposing muscle groups to the same level or you get an imbalance.

We arrived home forty five minutes later, all hot and sticky despite the ice creams we had at the top of the hill. I couldn’t wait to shower, so set off upstairs and after stripping off got in the shower, moments later as I was washing my hair I felt another body get in. “Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Trish.”

“Dirty work eating ice cream is it?”

“What ice cream? I made the loaf as you asked but didn’t see no ice cream.”

“My mistake,” I said wondering where I put the note. “The note didn’t say where it was?”

“Note, I didn’t see a note.”

“So you didn’t clean up an ice cream carton?”

“Okay, let’s rinse off and get dressed. I dried and plaited her hair and thought she looked so sweet you could get diabetes just by looking at her. After dressing, well just in case the vicar called by, we went down to the kitchen and when I checked the nearly empty container was absent. It turned up washed and draining in the utility room. I wondered who’d eaten it, not that I was really worried but I was cross that Trish hadn’t got some.

The new tub from the reserve freezer provided her with a couple of scoops and she went off happy. I wonder what happened to the note. It turned up, all scrunched up in the kitchen waste bin. I made myself some tea and went off to ponder who could have taken it.

Meems followed Trish out to the kitchen apparently and then came demanding ice cream with menaces and as we didn’t have that flavour, she had to settle for raspberry ripple or some such variety. It didn’t seem as if she’d had any so who could it have been? It had to be Livvie. I found her in the dining room and asked her outright had she taken the note off the fridge and eaten the ice cream.

“Well, I saw the note and checked if the ice cream was still there, it was so I ate it. I washed out the box it came in. So I think I earned it, Mummy.”

“Except you stole it.”

“I didn’t,” she was quite upset.

“So what you call taking something I’d offered to someone else?”

“She wasn’t going to eat it—truly she wasn’t.”

“Only because you got there first.”

“That’s circiwotsit evidence.”

“Circumstantial evidence?”

“That as well.” These two girls are like small teenagers, perhaps I should get them cut in half and count the rings—well it works in trees.

“Next time I leave a note for your sister please don’t remove it.”

“Aw come on, Mummy, she’da known about the ice cream then, wouldn’t she?” I couldn’t fault her logic even if I wasn’t sure about the ethics. “I was just tryin’ t’ help by doin’ the washin’ up for her.”

“To destroy the fingerprint evidence was it?”

“Um,” she blushed. Ten years old and a master criminal, “well you know Trish.” I did too, a brain thinly disguised as a child.

“Don’t do it again because next time I’ll be really cross.”

“Yes, Mummy, I am sorry.”

“You sound about as contrite as Joe Stalin.”

“Who’s he.”

“He was a psychopathic president of Russia during World War Two.”

Monday dawned, and even though the dawns are growing fractionally later each day, they still come too early. I’d got Julie to tidy my hair on the Sunday evening. She did and it had quite a good shape on it. It was now well below my shoulders again and after using a good shampoo and conditioner, was shining nicely. I got her to tidy up Trish’s hair as well and I put hers in a single plait.

I went into the office in the morning and checked everything, it all seemed as it should be and Delia was sorting my post. I signed a few letters and after looking to see the dormice, went home doing some shopping en route.

I wondered what sort of image I should present at this talk. Daddy would insist, as a representative of the university, I should wear a suit. Simon would want me to wear something formal, too. I ended up in a denim skirt with a dormouse tee shirt with a fleece to take with me in case it was cold coming home.

The tee shirt I had made for me by one of these tee shirt printing places, using a photo I provided of a torpid dormouse. Then I went and changed into jeans but kept the tee shirt on. I slipped on some trainers and I was ready—well dressed. Trish was in footless tights, shorts and a dormouse tee shirt as well. Each of the youngsters had one.

We ate a substantial lunch of tuna jackets and salad and I packed a couple of chocolate bars in my bag as emergency supplies. Next I loaded my computer bag with computer and the DVD I made for the talk, into the car and added my handbag and jacket. Trish came out with her new red bag and some ankle boots. I’d already put her jacket in the car.

“You not wearing any makeup, Mummy?” she asked rolling some lip gloss onto her own mouth.

I’d put moisturiser on earlier. “I can’t honestly be bothered, girl. If they think I’m ugly, too bad. I’m not asking anyone to marry me.”

“You can’t, Daddy would be awfy cross if you did.” She’d picked up another Lallans expression from her granddad.

“It was a figure of speech, that’s all.”

“Well that’s all right then.”

“So glad, in you get, Missy, let’s go and play with the traffic.” I’d given myself a good two hours to get there and although it was heavy, the traffic kept moving and we were there in less than ninety minutes, so we stopped at a certain fast food chain and Trish had an elephant burger by the size of it, while I had a chicken salad roll or something nearly resembling one, with a coffee.

Fifteen minutes later we arrived at the village hall—there was no one else there. I reached for my bag and hoped I had Abi’s phone number.