Common Part 3 of 3

Right.

I had just been slapped, labelled "common" despite buying a hand-tailored suit, and utterly humiliated.

I needed to go back to the Convent and sort this thing out. I needed time with my Galehaut.

I had that rickety old black bike the nuns had provided for me. But trust me reader, it ain't easy biking in Wellies with a waistcoat, with an aching cheek, and the windy East Anglian rural lanes. Plus, it had started to rain.

It would be a 5 mile trip from the nearby Abbey town, and I was still uncomfortable navigating rural English roads. They are so small. The people drive in a different direction. But worst of all are the "roundabouts".

I have never mastered them, and never will.

So with the rain, my wellies, and my cheek (needed to get ice on that soon), I pedaled furiously back to the Manor. And then there it was - the one roundabout that always would haunt me.

I really didn't know where to go. Clockwise? Counter-clockwise? How do I get out of this thing? The rain was soaking me and misting my glasses. I went around a few times confusedly when a large lorry muscled it's way into the procession. With the slippery pavement, my anxiety, and the large looming machine bullying it's way past me, I instantly careened into a muddy ditch. I was inches away from death.

The lorry stopped. I was in the ditch, soaked, filthy. The driver looked out of his window and yelled, "I'd walk if I was you, laddie" and sped off.

Dazed, I looked around. The rims were bent and a tire had popped. Worst of all, my new suit was covered in mud. Stains on my pants and coat. Impossible stains. It would cost a fortune to clean, if anyone on earth could even clean it.

I lifted the remains of my bike and started the walk back. Another 2 miles. At least the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. I'd be at the Convent in a bit, I thought, and then spend some time reveling in self-pity.

Finally, passing the gatehouse, I decided to discreetly ditch my bike under a bush. The nuns wouldn't notice, and that would give me a bit of time to repair it. More about that later.

I went to the West Garden and found a secluded Yew with some mossy stone nearby I could lie on (oh yes! I remember that stone so clearly!). I spread out a bit, took off my Wellies, and grabbed Galehaut from my coat. I'd scribble soon but for now I needed to rest and nurse my cheek, look at the widening sky and scattering clouds.

Christ, I was a mess.

Dozing a bit, perhaps even sobbing at times, I heard some crunching on the lawn. An approach. The smell of detergent. It was the Hungarian laundry-maid I wrote about before. Henceforth, "Angelika" - not the real name, reader.

I looked up. Her head blocked the sun which somehow produced a halo-like effect.

She bent down and looked at me, a tilt of the head which made the long black hair cascade on one side. She said in that unmistakable Magyar way of blurring vowels:

"You are dirty."

"Yes.Yes I am."

More on this later.

Fantastically appropriate soundtrack for what happened to me on that roundabout, my furious pedaling on that bike, and what would happen soon.