The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1254 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I phoned home and just caught the girls before they left–everyone was okay and prepared to cope for a day or two while I worked on Gramps. I hoped I was worthy of their faith in me. Simon went off to work in the London office leaving me to the tender mercies of Mrs Jameson.

“I’ve heard tell, Lady Catherine, that you are something of a cook yourself.”

I wasn’t sure if this was a way of challenging me or finding an area of common interest. “I do most of the cooking at home, but that’s more from a default position than desire, although I do enjoy seeing people eat what I produce.”

“Yes, the ultimate compliment, a clean plate,” she smiled. “What sort of things do you cook?”

For the next hour we talked about food and preparing it, she taught me a few good ideas and shortcuts and much to my delight, I was able to show her one or two things. We had coffee and a pastry which she’d made and which was melt in the mouth stuff. She showed me how to make a delicious puff pastry and a rather good filo, which might give me some confidence in making more of my own sweets.

Finally, my tiredness got the better of me and she sent me up to bed to sleep. The bed had been turned back and a nightdress left for me to wear. Despite it being daylight, and quite a bright day at that and the strange room, I fell asleep in moments feeling almost like wossername in Rebecca, ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’

I woke some four hours later, it was nearly four in the afternoon and I mused upon the fact that I’d resisted coming to this house. I didn’t know why, I suppose I felt out of place, perhaps even inferior–I wasn’t a peasant exactly, I knew which knife and fork to use and how to use them–but I felt uncomfortable in these opulent surroundings or thought I would, and I was scared to death of Monica–although she’d only ever come onto me once that day at the hotel, since then she’d left me in peace.

So why had I felt so frightened about coming here? The usual stuff, I didn’t want to be compared to the Cameron women, who’d had the advantage of living this sort of lifestyle since childhood, oh and the fact that they’d been women a bit longer than I. I thought I’d be a proverbial fish out of water, but so far it hasn’t been like that at all. Then, Henry is the only one here, and he’s so lovely he’d put me at my ease as soon as I stepped over the threshold, which is what he did. As a pa-in-law, he’s about as good as it gets.

So was I laying my ghosts? I wasn’t sure because–let’s just say because and leave it at that. I stretched and got up, as I’d showered earlier I had a little wash to freshen up and dressed in the same outfit I’d had on earlier, the red trousers and white top. I did comb my hair out and put it up in a topknot, thankfully, I always carry a few basics–comb and hairgrips with me. I also usually have some mascara and lipstick in my bag, too. I applied them pinched a little of the perfume from the bottle on the dressing table and went down to see if I could help Mrs Jameson.

Of course she shooed me out of her kitchen, telling me that the master had left specific instructions that I should be treated as a family member, but not allowed to do any work–apparently, Henry felt I worked too hard and needed a little rest.

Mrs Jameson did disclose that Simon had phoned to tell Henry we’d be coming once I finished healing on Tom. Henry also knew from experience my healing powers and declared me a ‘perfect angel.’ Yeah one who can throw a tantrum as far as any other six year old when the mood took me, and who can be as spiteful and mean as any other ordinary woman on a bad day.

I’ve never been good at seeing my good points, probably because I was raised to be that way–it led to arrogance and conceit, both dreadful sins; notwithstanding that lack of confidence and self-belief cause all sorts of other problems. At times I could appear confident, for instance when talking to a group, students, prize giving schoolkids or audiences attending one of my ‘out takes’ fundraising talks. Then I’d be role playing, giving them what they expected to see and hear; but it wasn’t me–only my family, and that’s sometimes edited, see the real me–assuming one actually exists. Maybe after all this time, I could end up like something from the Matrix and discover that in reality, I’m a figment of some one’s imagination. Is that the definition of a nightmare–when characters in a dream become more real than the person dreaming them?

Simon came home early, when he did I was sitting in the drawing room reading, or was it drawing in the reading room? No, it was definitely reading–I was reading or should I say, rereading Daphne Du Maurier’s, Rebecca and so far wossername doesn’t have a name other than Mrs de Winter. I suppose it explains why I couldn’t remember it, mind you if Henry had had a housekeeper called Mrs Danvers, I’d have been out of there a bit sharpish.

We ate a delicious chicken pie, with some of Mrs Jameson’s amazing pastry and loads of vegetables. I was too full far too quickly, and cried off a pudding, even though it did look very appetising. Simon and Henry had no such qualms and stuffed themselves. Simon had the excuse that he’d be back to basic cooking again when we left, for which both Henry and Mrs Jameson castigated him. He then asserted he was only joking and he loved his wife’s cooking. I suppose to a starving man, even my cooking seems good–to a lazy one, it also has its commendations.

At ten, Simon took me back to St Bartholemew’s Hospital and I once again talked with the Australian nurse. “G’day,” she welcomed me, I didn’t want to point out it was night time. “I’ve been doing some research on mysterious healers, apparently there’s one in Portsmouth, who turns up now and again and performs miracles.”

“Where on earth did you see that?”

“In the local paper and it was picked up in the Sun, so it must be true.” She laughed after she said this.

“I’ve lived in Portsmouth for a few years and I’ve never met any super healers,” I declared trying to put her off the scent.

“Yeah, well they reckon it’s a young woman, who’s attractive and well spoken, so that excludes half the female population, and who always manages to disappear afterwards.”

“Oh yeah, well then, that excludes me, I’ve never perfected changing in a telephone booth.”

“She’s also been described as an angel, and you look suitably angelic to me.”

“Can you see my wings? You should be able to, in order for something my size to get airborne, I’d need wings at least as big as a king condor, probably larger.”

“No, perhaps you’re a walking angel, you know, wings only apply to certain orders.”

“Like Cherubim?”

“Yeah, that sorta thing.”

“Would angels have a sex or gender?”

“Well of course, they’re always female, aren’t they?”

“Um–what about Michael and Gabriel?”

“Probably typos in the Bible, you know miscopying by some monk somewhere who was also a bit misogynistic and miscopied Michelle and Gabrielle.”

Much as I enjoyed her theory, I felt unconvinced by it, not helped by her twinkling eyes and smirks after she’d expounded it. I did however agree that she could watch me work if she kept it in total confidence.

She agreed and to give her something to think about, I told her that if she kept my confidence I’d keep hers, especially with regard to Sonia not knowing about her dabbles with Naomi.

“How on earth d’ya know about that?”

“I just do.”

“C’mon, who told ya? Who blabbed? Not that blabbermouth in Obstetrics and Gynae?”

“No one told me, I just know it, I also know you need to do something about your irregular periods.”

“How d’ya know about them?”

“Let’s just say I do and leave it at that.”

“Have I got ovarian cancer–my mother did?”

I held out my hand and she took it, the next minute she groaned and doubled up, “Jeezuz Aitch Christ,” she said before standing up again. “What the frigging hell was that for?”

“You asked if you had ovarian cancer–the answer is not anymore.”

“What? You cured it?”

“No, I didn’t, the energy did, don’t ask me to explain anything else because I can’t. Oh your polycystic problem has resolved itself, too.”

“Does that mean I can get pregnant?”

“I should think so, but you may need some help with that.”

“Oh yeah, loads of us who don’t do men manage it, so there are other ways and means.”

“I’m sure, just keep it quiet won’t you?”

“Absolutely–I won’t tell a soul.”

“Now, can I see my daddy?”