Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 742 by Angharad

It took me an hour before I rang Marguerite – I spoke to her husband, she was out at a meeting and wouldn’t be back before quite late. He offered to take a message but I said I’d call again. He told me that she wouldn’t be available until Monday.

So for the moment that was that. I managed to get Stella to shut up about it and not reveal anything to the children. The last thing I needed was three excited children asking unanswerable questions – I mean Trish and Livvie do anyway, simply because they’re cleverer than I am, and Mima does because she’s from a different plane t– her sense of reality is quite different to mine at times.

Stella looked a bit deflated, so I presume she was looking forward to talking about wedding things. Maybe I was too, but I had some reservations. I also asked her to keep quiet about Simon meeting with Mr Obama. Mind you, if he’d met with George Dubya, I’d have insisted she keep it quiet or banished her from my house forever!

Simon sent me a text saying that England were going to win the Ashes, I just hoped he hadn’t been betting with that Aussie bloke again. After the girls were asleep Stella insisted on talking weddings. I think I might have preferred talking about welding, she was so excited and asked me about the sort of dress I fancied. I actually didn’t know what I wanted, insofar as I couldn’t describe it, but if I saw the pattern or a made up dress, I would know instantly.

“What was the dress like in your childhood fantasy?”

“I can’t remember, Stella, it was fifteen or twenty years ago.” I did remember, but I wasn’t going to reveal it to her – but the whole thing was embroidered with a particular pattern of rosebuds. Goodness, I hadn’t thought about it for so many years, I suspect my tastes might have changed a little since then.

I turned in about midnight, my head was spinning as Stella wasn’t going to stop chattering about having to organise this or that. I went to bed and I couldn’t get off to sleep at all. I wasn’t sure if I was excited or frightened – yes frightened, of what? I wasn’t at all sure. Stella certainly hadn’t helped with her chatter and overwhelming enthusiasm. She positively gushed. Maybe I would have done in her place and was organising her wedding. For the moment I wanted to be miles away from it. Before I eventually nodded off, I let my mind drift off to going to Washington and I dreamt quite vividly.

Simon introduced me to Mr Obama, I was wearing my wedding dress and the President found that amusing. I tried to explain that it had only been worn once and we were on an economy drive –wasn’t it posh enough for him? It cost thirty-five pounds after all.

He asked if I was the one who’d had the sex change? I blushed and retaliated by saying I’d have voted for Hillary. He found that amusing, so did Simon, who didn’t seem to be defending my reputation very well. I mean, shouldn’t he have called him out for a duel or something?

“I have to say, Charlie, you look pretty good for a boy in a dress. If I was gay, I might just go for you.”

“Why thank you Mr President, if I were a boy, I’m sure you would go for me.” Then three huge men in suits came rushing in and dragged me off to a – dungeon? (Well it is a dream.)

“How dare you insult the President, the penalty for a fag like you, is to have your dick cut off.” I burst out laughing, he looked at me in disgust. “What you laughing at fag?”

“If you can find one, you can cut it off for all I care.” Then he got a small sharp knife and slashed at my dress, my wedding dress! I kicked out at him and caught him in his family jewels, so he slashed my dress again, ripped it up above my waist and yanked off my knickers. My suspender belt and the blue garter were still in place. I glanced down and still laughing caught sight of something that shouldn’t be there.

“NO!” I screamed and I saw the knife flash and maniacal laughter filled my ears.

I woke up in a bath of sweat. It was so real, yet it was also ridiculous. Would my history be of any interest to the US government, especially its security services? They would probably be aware of it, it was hardly a secret – but what if it got out to the press over there? British journalists are bad enough. The US press is even more sewer-like than ours, and with seemingly fewer regulations.

I could see it now, anti-Democrat papers could run with the story, especially if they managed a photo of me with el Presidente. The headlines would be unbelievable, ‘Is this the sort of President we want, one who consorts with transsexuals?’ My head was pounding, and I got up to get myself a drink of water and some form of painkiller, an aspirin or something.

In real life, I know Simon would be telling me to face it all down. As far as he was concerned I was as female as any other woman. The last thing he’d have done was allowed anyone to take me away like that, even in front of the most powerful man in the world. He’d have at least protested, at worst thumped someone, even li’l ole Barack himself. Mind you, I couldn’t see such as surreal event as that in my dream happening, except in a dream.

However, I was still trembling a little as I went downstairs and instead of a glass of water, I made myself some tea. I’d just poured myself a cup when Stella came down. “Bad dream?” she asked.

“Yeah, how d’you know?”

“I heard you shout.”

“Did I? Sorry if it woke you up.”

“If you pour me a cup, I’ll try and forgive you.” I did as she asked, dumping the wet teabag in the kitchen bin. She sipped her tea and sighed appreciatively. “So what happened in the dream?”

“I can’t remember.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Dunno, can’t remember any of it.”

“About the wedding?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember anything, so how d’you know it wasn’t?”

“I’m sure I’d have remembered that.”

“Maybe, so it had to be Washington. What happened?”

“How do you know that?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Don’t bother, I suppose it’s obvious really?”

“Yep, so what happened?” I related my strange dream and she sniggered then after further thought, told me she could see why I was upset by it. “But if you moved on, it would have even less relevance.”

“It has none now to my life as it is, but the US press might be looking for dirty linen type stories and mine would be right up their street – Grub St.”

“Shouldn’t that be, Grubby Street?” asked Stella.

“Probably, I hate it that of all the things that I’ve done, only one is of any real interest to the press.”

“What, the healing light?”

“Stella, don’t be silly.”

“I’m not, it’s a bit better than a boy called Sue, or Cathy or whatever.”

“I am not called Sue or Whatever.”

“Nor are you now or I suspect, ever have been, a boy, so move on and forget it.”

“How can I forget it?”

“Easy, just say it ain’t relevant no more, and fergit it gal.”

“Oh yeah, it’s as easy as falling off a bike, I suppose.”

“Not in my case, I fall off for a pastime.”

“Stella, your riding was fine, just a bit slow, and we could work on that.”

“Over your dead body,” she quipped back.

“You are so supportive,” I offered.

“Yeah, like a wonderbra.”

“Or a jockstrap.” I sniggered as I threw this at her.

“Bitch,” she cussed back. Then after a moment’s pause, she said, “Why don’t you want to marry Simon?” and I dropped a half full mug of tea.