The Runaway Wife

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘Well, you have the opportunity now. Perhaps you should go.’

  Quite suddenly Connie felt light-headed, and it wasn’t the champagne; it was an unexpected sense of freedom. ‘Yes, I think I will.’

  He smiled. ‘Getting back to your flowers,’ he said, ‘I have a book which I think you might like. It has the most beautiful drawings and watercolour prints of flowers. And, if I remember correctly, it doesn’t feature a single begonia or dahlia! I bought it for my wife as an early birthday present, but she’d bolted by then. Why don’t I send it to you? That’s if you wouldn’t be offended?’

  ‘Oh, that is so sweet of you, but I really have no idea when I’ll be getting home.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Connie, I’ll just stick it in the post sometime in the next few weeks. You’ll have it when you eventually get back.’

  ‘Thanks so much,’ she said, delving into the depths of her shoulder bag for one of her cards. She hadn’t planned to let anyone make contact with her at home, and here she was, doing just that, on her very first night away! Well, rules are made to be broken, she thought. And he’s a true gentleman.

  ‘Keep in touch, Connie. Let me know what you decide and how you get on. I rather envy people who take life by the scruff of the neck and really jolly well live it!’

  Gosh, is he referring to me? Connie wondered. Have I changed already?

  He insisted on walking her home and seeing her to her hotel door. ‘I’ve enjoyed my evening with you enormously,’ Martin said. ‘How about I come in and we order some coffee, or a nightcap or something?’

  She took a deep breath: payment time! I don’t want to spoil this beautiful friendship, she thought, but I don’t want him to kiss me, attractive though he is. She could feel the beginnings of panic rising in her breast as he leaned towards her.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Connie. ‘I’m so tired, Martin. It’s been a long day.’ This was going to be difficult because he had insisted on paying for the dinner. And she was really beginning to warm to him.

  ‘No hanky-panky, I promise!’

  She laughed. ‘I’d really prefer not; I just want to get to sleep. But thanks for the offer. And thanks for a lovely, lovely and totally unexpected evening.’

  As she braced herself for his reply, he very slowly lifted a stray tendril of hair, which had fallen over one eye, and placed it gently behind her ear.

  ‘Goodnight, Connie,’ he said, and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Please keep in touch.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, as she watched him walk a little unsteadily down the corridor. ‘I will.’

  Chapter Three

  ESCAPE ROUTE

  In spite of her exhaustion, Connie couldn’t sleep. Martin must have fancied her a little, or at least fancied her enough to want to take things further, and she was flattered, no doubt about that. She felt elated. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be desired by a man. She was almost regretting warding him off. She’d never once in her marriage been unfaithful or even thought about being unfaithful. Was it fear, or was it faithfulness to Roger? And had he always been faithful? There were times when Connie wondered about those golfing weekends in Scotland, Ireland and Spain. It was difficult to think of Roger as a womaniser, though. Connie spent most of the night trying to analyse her feelings. She finally woke at nearly nine o’clock, not having got to sleep until four.

  She’d had a lovely evening with far too much to eat and drink and now she couldn’t face a big breakfast. Which was a pity, because you could fill up for the day on a big breakfast, and that was exactly what she was going to have to do from now on. There was no sign of Martin downstairs and Connie found, to her surprise, that she was slightly disappointed as she tackled a solitary croissant. Well, of course he wouldn’t be around at this time in the morning! He must live locally, after all, and at this very moment would probably be busily churning out his plastic bowls and boxes.

  But, she’d had a date last night! OK, so it wasn’t a real date, not a prearranged meeting because you fancied someone. But he hadn’t fled in horror when he realised she wasn’t Dorothy, had he? He must have thought she was all right.

  Afterwards, when she’d eaten all she could manage, she drifted into the reception area and noticed the computer in the corner. Intrigued to know more about the agency behind her ‘date’ the previous evening, she sat down and googled MMM, and there it was! ‘Meetings for the More Mature! Find your friend or partner with us! You’re never too old!’ There followed countless pictures of impossibly glamorous oldies gazing at each other in awe or, arm in arm, beaming at the camera. ‘Only some of our success stories,’ it warbled on. ‘Just fill in your details, join us and we guarantee to introduce you to new friends!’ In return for typing in her name, age, occupation and general interests, she would receive a list of ‘friends’ who might be compatible. And it appeared to be a free service. Connie giggled to herself. The last thing she needed right now was a list of needy men. She’d bear it in mind if she ever became needy herself, God forbid.

  Connie bought a newspaper and sat reading it for a little while, before edging out of Oxford through the mid-morning traffic. She was heading for Stratford-upon-Avon, not least because of the connection with her mother, but also because she’d only been there once before, briefly, with Roger. She’d wanted to look around but Roger hadn’t been impressed. It had been raining, he didn’t fancy Romeo and Juliet, and they were meeting his cousin in Evesham. For golf. She’d always wanted to come back.

  The minor road would have been delightful had it not been for the enormous milk tanker that had positioned itself in front of her, mile after mile, with no opportunity to overtake, and which afforded her a view only of its huge shiny steel derrière.

  The road twisted its way through picturesque villages of golden Cotswold stone, most with a pub, a church and roadside cottages, their gardens overflowing with summer flowers; sometimes a petrol station, a Spar and occasional flashing signs informing both her and the tanker that they were exceeding the speed limit. She’d only taken her eye off the speedometer for a minute but Kermit still had amazing oomph. Finally the tanker turned off to the right and headed down a narrow lane to collect its cargo from some unseen farm, signposted ‘Stitfield’ (some comedian had changed the first T into an H), and at last Connie had a view of the rolling countryside and the road ahead where, with half a ton of stuff on his back, a hitchhiker thumbed hopefully.

  ‘Never, ever pick up anyone thumbing a lift,’ Roger had instructed her shortly after they were married and when she’d started to brake, having passed two girls on the A29 waving a sign that said ‘Bognor’. Connie wondered at the time why these two, with all the destinations on the planet at their disposal, would choose Bognor. Not that there was anything wrong with Bognor. Perhaps they lived there? But she never did find out because common sense had prevailed. These girls could be anybody, Roger had said, and they could be armed with knives, or even guns. Probably druggies as well. Otherwise why didn’t they just get on a bus when there was a perfectly good service to Bognor half a dozen times a day? Roger knew this because he’d always lived in Sussex, and always would. And he was most definitely not the type to have ever hitchhiked, not even in his youth. Perhaps she should have realised then how their future might be.

  As she passed the hitchhiking boy she was immediately aware of his dejected appearance as he plodded along, being constantly ignored. There was a layby ahead and it seemed like fate was guiding her decision, so Connie decided to pull in. She studied him in the rear-view mirror and thought that he didn’t look too menacing. This escape was, after all, an opportunity to do what she wanted and not what Roger would have done. Now that he was level with her, she could see that he couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, clad in the usual attire of T-shirt, jeans and trainers. She wound down the window and the boy looked in.

  ‘Hey!’ he said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Stratford-upon-Avon.’

&
nbsp; Connie smiled. ‘Stratford’s just where I’m going. Dump that rucksack on the back seat.’

  ‘Jeez, that’s great.’ He humped the rucksack off his back and stuffed it into Kermit’s rear.

  As he eased his long frame into the passenger seat she studied his freckled face, sandy hair and long, skinny legs in their faded denims.

  ‘I’m Harry,’ he said, holding out his hand. He made it sound like a question. Aussie? New Zealander?

  Connie shook his hand. ‘I’m Connie and, as soon as I can pull out of here, we’ll be on our way to Stratford.’

  ‘Cool. I didn’t think you’d stop – a woman on her own, and all that.’

  ‘I don’t usually,’ Connie said, ‘but you just looked so dejected somehow.’

  ‘Rejected, more like. It’s not easy getting lifts. Truck drivers stop occasionally.’

  ‘So, where have you come from today?’

  ‘Last night I stayed in Oxford. Oxford was cool; I met a really nice girl there.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘And nothing. Nah, just ships that pass in the night, as they say. She was older than me anyhow, and cleverer.’

  ‘Clever folk in Oxford. And lots of ships that pass in the night.’ Connie grinned to herself. ‘And where do you hail from originally?’

  ‘I’m from Australia, near Sydney.’

  ‘And now you’re going to brush up on your Shakespeare?’

  ‘Yeah, I might meet up with a buddy of mine there, and then we’ll probably head north together. You live round here?’

  ‘No,’ said Connie. ‘I live in Sussex. That’s on the south coast.’

  ‘So, you going on holiday then?’

  ‘Something like that. Are you a student?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m on a gap year, doing Europe. And, hey, your weather’s beautiful; everyone back home said I’d either freeze or drown in the British summer.’

  Connie laughed. ‘They have a point; we do get some awful ones. But this year’s an exception, so far anyway. What are you studying?’

  ‘Law. My dad’s a lawyer too, in Sydney.’

  ‘Sydney. Lovely.’

  ‘You been there?’

  ‘Some years ago, when we went to visit my husband’s sister.’ And God knows why, she thought, because Roger had never got on with his sister.

  ‘That’s cool! Did you see much of Australia?’

  ‘Well, we did do all the touristy things in Sydney, and even got up to the Blue Mountains on one occasion. And we went to Melbourne and Brisbane too.’

  They drove along in silence for some miles. Connie thought about the Australian trip. She’d liked Roger’s sister; in fact, truth be known, she liked her better than Roger.

  Then she thought about her mother, who’d made the costumes for that Shakespeare play all those years ago. How gifted she must have been! After all, you couldn’t just sew a few sheets together for a production in Stratford; it was no school play. She’d probably have to have had some knowledge of history as well as sewing skills. Connie had an old notebook of her mother’s showing the sketches for Lear and lots of notes and, taped inside, the actual programme of the performance with her mother’s name there under ‘Costumes’. She had plainly been proud of her participation, and Connie was too. As a youngster, she and her cousin Joyce, who was a year older, had decided they too were destined to become costume designers or, better still, fashion designers. Until, that is, they produced some oddly shaped dolls’ outfits, which had caused great mirth among the older cousins. Connie hadn’t been very hot on history or needlework at school, but she’d been good at art and, years later, had won prizes for her floral displays, so perhaps she’d inherited a tiny bit of her mother’s flair. She often longed for contact with the mother she barely remembered. How would they get on now? And what would her mother, and her father for that matter, think of her taking to the road like this and leaving her family behind?

  ‘Are you visiting someone in Stratford?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No, not really. My late mother was a costume designer and did some work for the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in the days before there was an RSC. She loved the town, so I’d like to get to know it a little.’

  ‘So you’ve got no definite plans?’

  ‘Well, just a trip to the theatre.’

  Connie knew he was curious and was aware of his surreptitious sideways glances. No wonder, she thought: an elderly woman driving alone in an elderly car.

  She smiled to herself. I think I’m going to like being an object of mystery!

  ‘If my husband had been with me I wouldn’t have been allowed to pick you up. He’d have had you down as an axe-murderer or something.’

  ‘But I haven’t got an axe. Why would he think that?’ Harry sounded confused.

  ‘Because that’s the way he is – careful…’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘I’m trying not to be. Do you fancy a Mars bar? Help yourself – glove compartment.’

  ‘Yeah, great. Jeez, how many Mars you got in there? You an addict or something?’

  ‘Special offer. Tell me, have you eaten lately?’

  ‘Not really. A slice of toast for breakfast.’

  ‘I only had a croissant and I’m becoming peckish now. I’ve just seen a sign advertising an All Day Breakfast one mile ahead. Do you like All Day Breakfasts?’

  ‘Love ’em!’ said Harry, through a mouthful of Mars.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘My treat.’

  Connie, still feeling a little full from last night’s Italian, settled for an omelette, and Harry had chosen the most enormous breakfast on the menu. ‘You sure it’s OK?’ he’d asked. Later, as he wiped the last of his toast round the now empty plate he said, ‘That was awesome.’

  ‘You remind me of my son, the way you demolished that lot,’ Connie laughed.

  ‘So, you got kids then?’

  ‘Yes. Well, they’re hardly kids of course. Diana, my eldest, is forty.’

  He whistled. ‘Jeez – I wouldn’t have put you at more than fifty, fifty-five maybe.’

  ‘You flatterer, you! And I have a son of thirty-two and another daughter of thirty. And three grandchildren.’

  He was looking longingly at the slice of toast she’d left on her side plate.

  She pushed it towards him. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Hey, thanks! You’re a real angel, Connie. Hope your family appreciate you.’

  ‘Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.’

  ‘So, where’s the husband that doesn’t let you pick up axe-murderers?’

  Connie consulted her watch. ‘Heading towards the eighteenth hole, probably.’

  ‘Aw, right. So, you leaving him there then?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘You said that with feeling! How long you planning to be away for?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m free as a bird – a newly uncaged bird, though, and trying to remember how to stretch my wings and fly.’

  ‘Well, looks like you’re on your way, Connie.’

  ‘Yes, I’m on my way. Now, do you want some tea, and a doughnut maybe?’

  ‘That would be tickety-boo.’

  When they arrived in Stratford-upon-Avon and she eventually found a parking space, Connie helped Harry heave his rucksack out from the back seat.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed your company,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been a star, Connie.’ He’d hoisted the rucksack onto his back and was trying to regain his balance. ‘Wherever you’re going, I hope you have a great time. And learn to fly again.’ He gave her a clumsy hug.

  ‘Thank you, Harry. You, too.’

  ‘And don’t you go picking up any axe-murderers now.’

  Chapter Four

  FIRST REACTIONS

  Roger had read Connie’s message. And then he’d read it again. And again.

  Dear Roger, Di, Nick and Lou,

  By the time you read this I’ll be on my way to who-knows-where, geographica
lly at least, but hopefully on the way to finding myself emotionally. If I don’t do it now I never will! Because all my life it seems that I’ve been told by everyone around me what to do. That probably began when I was dumped on poor Aunt Lorna as a newly orphaned five-year-old. With four of her own I was naturally at the very bottom of the pecking order. So I became a dutiful niece, and I like to think I’ve been a dutiful wife, mother and grandmother, because I’ve tried hard to please you all. But, do you know what? Being dutiful isn’t enough any more!

  I’m now going to spend some time pleasing no one but myself, finding out who I really am, and what I might like to do with the rest of my life, before it’s too damn late. My senses need awakening and my wings need stretching. I’m not sure you’ll understand but I don’t know how else to explain it.

  Last, but far from least, every single one of you forgot the anniversary of Ben’s death. Everyone, that is, except my dear friend, Wendy, in Scotland…

  I love you all very, very much but I just need some time for myself. I promise to come home when I’m ready, but not before. xxxx

  Diana McColl read her mother’s email twice.

  ‘Yesss! Go for it, Mum!’ She clapped her hands with glee. And not before time, she thought.

  Diana was the only one of Connie’s children who had been even remotely interested in her mother’s childhood. Di found it very difficult and quite heart-breaking to imagine losing your parents in a car accident when you were so young. It wasn’t as if Aunt Lorna was ‘blood’ either. Uncle Bill was ‘blood’, of course, but he had been in Africa – something to do with oil – most of the time.

  And Di was also aware that she was the real, and unplanned, reason her parents had married in the first place. It’s what you did back then if the man hung around long enough. Two dutiful people! She also knew, much as she loved them both, that her parents weren’t compatible at all – probably never had been. Well, no way was she, Diana McColl, going to get tied down with anybody, compatible or not.