The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3127 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 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.

“Professor Watts,” I offered into the phone when Diane connected the journalist.

“Oh,” he hesitated and I felt much better. “Of course, your working name,” he said rounding up the few wits he actually possessed. Still I mustn’t be too catty, he may have more than I do functioning at any one second.

“What do want, Mr Jackson?” I asked directly. If it was dissection, I’d do it personally for him.

“Direct, yes I like that, Mrs Cameron.”

“Get on with it, Mr Jackson, I have a meeting to attend.”

“On a Friday afternoon, you are conscientious.”

“Mr Jackson stop beating about the bush.”

“Was I, I do apologise...um...it’s like this.”

“What is and like what?” This could take all day and I smiled gratefully when Diane brought me in a mug of tea.

“Your girl, the soccer player.”

“Which one, three of them play football.”

“Do they? Uh, the one who plays for England.”

“What about her?”

“Could we do a feature on her?”

“Why?”

“Why? Jeez, she scored three goals against Russia for god’s sake, one was an amazing curling free kick that Beckham would have been proud of and the other was an overhead bicycle kick that any striker would be impressed with. It was sensational. She’s a local hero—um—ine, I mean heroine.”

“What of it?”

“People want to know more about her.”

“Why?” I wasn’t playing soft ball as our American cousins are wont to say.

“Because she’s something special, that’s why.”

“All my children are special—to me and the rest of the family.”

“Did you see the game?”

“The football match, you mean?”

“Yes, the soccer game.”

“I did.”

“So what did you think of her goals.”

“I feel very proud of her whatever she achieves, as I do with all my children.”

“Yeah, but I mean how many of them score, like three goals, against Russia.”

“Only one as far as I know, why?”

“Jeez, Mrs Cameron, I think you might have noticed if you’d had more than one playing.”

“Quite right, Mr Jackson, my arithmetic is good enough to count up to eleven.”

I heard him sigh and had to cover the mouthpiece as I sniggered. I suspect I was enjoying it more than he was.

“So can I interview her?”

“You mean, may you interview her? I’d expect a journalist to have some idea of grammar and semantics.”

“I got English at A-level, that good enough?”

“I suppose it will have to be.”

“So can I, I mean may I?”

“May you what?” This was great fun.

“You know bloody well what, can I interview your daughter, Danielle, isn’t it?”

“She’s only a school girl, you realise that?”

“I wasn’t sure, does that make a difference?”

“It could insofar as you’re not entitled to ask her any personal questions, assuming that she agrees to submit to your interview, which isn’t a given.”

“Okay, okay, I can see my life passing before me, look I agree no personal questions just asking her what it’s like being the youngest England player and how she managed to score those goals.”

“If you leave me your number, Mr Jackson, I shall ask her if she’d like to speak with you, but I won’t guarantee it and if she says no, I’ll have to ask you to honour her decision.”

“Look, she’s a national heroine and lives here in Portsmouth, you’ve got to get her to do an interview with us, we’re her local paper.”

“Indeed.” I said that as sarcastically as I could though I suspect his skin is thicker than the vulcanised rubber on my car tyres. I’m sure he’d make the average pachyderm seem sensitive.

He gave me his mobile number and I finished my tea, took the cup out to wash and glowered at Diane as she snorted at me. Walking back I glowered some more before saying, “I’ve just thought of who you remind me.”

“Oh,” she said taken aback, “not Julianne Moore?”

“No, Muttley.” I turned and went into my office before laughing myself silly.

“Who is Muttley?” she asked completely ignorant of the Whacky Races in which Dick Dastardly’s dog appears.

“Google it, see you on Monday,” I smiled sweetly and left chortling as I went. You have to take your pleasures where you can.

The sense of fun was lost before I got home, being delayed for twenty minutes at road works to repair a broken gas main. The stink of gas was awful though the piece of the Mendelssohn violin concerto they played on the radio did help reduce some of the stress, The Lark Ascending would have been even better but there you go, one can’t have everything—why not?

“Mummmmmeeee,” squealed Lizzie and she was then nearly crushed in the stampede to hug me.

I gave each one a hug and a kiss back and noticed Danielle wasn’t amongst them. “Where’s Danni?” I asked.

“Gone over Cindy’s, her mum will bring her back later,” answered Hannah.

“Okay, I’m going up to change, somebody put the kettle on, please.”

“Won’t fit,” called Trish and made the little ones snigger.

“It will if I use the hand blender—don’t tempt me.”

“Violence isn’t becoming in a gentlewoman,” she shouted back.

“I’m no gentlewoman, I’m good ol’ middleclass, not one of yer actual nobs.”

“And just what’s wrong with being an actual nob?” sneered Stella as I got to the top of the stairs.

“Think about what you just asked, Stella,” I said before closing the bedroom door and nearly wetting myself laughing. See all that breeding and education—total waste of time.

If laughing liberates endorphins I should be as high as a kite, but I wasn’t and still had to talk to Danielle about the Echo. At least if she does it with them they could syndicate it and stop any others looking for her. The decision is entirely hers but if asked I will give an opinion and that would be to do one, at the Pompey ground so any photos they take won’t encourage anyone else to come looking for her. This house is quite unusual if not unique, so wouldn’t take too much effort to find, especially with Google Earth.

I gave into temptation and had a quick shower to wash away the contact with Jackson, even though we’d only spoken on the phone, it still made my flesh creep. I dried, dressed and did my hair. A quick squirt of smellies and I felt ready to face—a cuppa and discover what David had made for dinner, it certainly smelt rather good as I descended the stairs.

The smells were emanating from a large pie he’d made. We have some of the catering size baking tins and trays, so if he’s done steak pie, it will take half a cow—yeah like Desperate Dan and his cow pie, only the tray is rectangular not round and there aren’t any horns sticking out. Apart from the appearance upsetting the children, since BSE or Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, you can’t use the brains or spinal columns of cows for human consumption—and except oxtail, for making soup, I don’t think I’d want to anyway.