The Runaway Wife

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘My late mother did the costumes for a production of King Lear here before the war, and apparently she loved Stratford. And it is lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘Thanks so much for the wine,’ Connie said, relieved to hear the bell summoning them back to their seats. ‘And I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip.’

  ‘I only wish Hannah was with me. Say,’ he went on, ‘would you like to meet up tomorrow for some sightseeing, some lunch maybe?’

  ‘Well, that’s sweet of you, Aaron. But I’m hoping to get together with some friends.’

  ‘Gee, that’s a shame. It’s been nice to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you, Aaron. It’s been most interesting.’

  Connie smiled to herself as she returned to her seat. That poor guy is lonely, she thought, already looking for a replacement for the sainted Hannah. They’d probably been one of those couples joined at the hip. Not that I ever wanted that, which is just as well because I didn’t get it. And Aaron Forrest the Third should really have gone on a cruise. He’d have met many willing replacements there.

  Aaron was a nice guy but next time, she decided, she wouldn’t mind at all drinking her glass of wine on her own, although she could recall a time when she had so wanted to be one of a couple – a long time ago now, of course – and when to be on her own somewhere like this would have been social stigma. That thought had been uppermost in her mind when she’d first arrived at the theatre this evening. But she’d straightened her shoulders, taken a deep breath and, with her head held high, strolled inside, hoping that this show of outer confidence – which she did not feel inside her churning tummy – would make her appear more interesting and mysterious. Plainly Aaron Forrest the Third had thought so. As she settled back in her seat, Connie smiled beatifically at everyone who looked in her direction. And they all smiled back.

  By the end of the play, Connie felt as if Shakespeare had stepped inside her mind and helped to move things round a bit. She’d never considered that anything the Bard wrote could possibly apply to her and was therefore astounded to find that his turn of phrase could sum up her feelings so completely: ‘Thus play I in one person many people, and none contented…’ It might have been written for her! There she was, pulled in every direction, and definitely not contented. That Bard knew a thing or two.

  The bed at the Cedars was surprisingly comfortable and Connie slept well. She woke early to the rhythmic sound of a bed creaking against the wall behind her. The creaking got faster and faster, making it impossible to get back to sleep, and making her wonder if she herself would ever like sex again, not having given it much thought for a long while. Because she and Roger hadn’t indulged for years; was that normal? She’d read somewhere about septuagenarians and even octogenarians still shagging away happily and regularly, apparently age being no barrier; in fact, it could even be nicer in old age. Oh, really?

  Perhaps if she still fancied Roger she might feel like that, but presumably he didn’t much fancy her either because she couldn’t remember when he’d last made any overtures in her direction. In fact, his attitude to sex was dutiful at best. So she didn’t think he had ever been unfaithful – although one could never be sure. The wife was always the last to know and you read such mind-boggling stories in the newspapers. No, not Roger though. Of course she wasn’t aware of what he’d got up to during his working days but it seemed highly unlikely. Apart from anything else, an affair wouldn’t fit in to his strict routine.

  At seven-thirty, when Connie ventured downstairs, she found Len seated at his desk in the hall, still wearing yesterday’s purple shirt. Or perhaps he’d bought a job lot.

  Len looked at his watch. ‘You’re early! The missus is just starting breakfast.’

  The missus, who was called Mary, loomed large at the door of the dining room, enveloped in a voluminous red kaftan, with a great deal of gold embroidery for good measure across her enormous bosoms. Connie doubted health and safety would ever have recommended such apparel for the serving of breakfast. They were indeed a colourful couple. The tables wobbled noisily as Mary bounced around the room setting down cutlery, little pots of red and orange jam and miniature blocks of butter.

  ‘I like things to be nice,’ she informed Connie. ‘Do you want your egg poached or fried?’

  Connie considered for a moment. She might as well start as she meant to continue and have the full works, which should keep her going until the evening.

  ‘Poached, please.’

  She was glad that the dining room was still empty as she didn’t want to engage in the usual banal conversation and, fortunately, Mary did not appear to be in a talkative mood. Which was just as well for Connie, because she had plenty to occupy her mind. She’d seen the main tourist spots in Stratford, albeit briefly, on her previous visit with Roger, so now she decided to head for the Cotswolds as it was such a lovely day and she adored the pretty villages.

  But her decision was mainly because of Freddy. Who could forget Freddy Barclay? Their friendship had developed from the summer they had spent as tour guides in Athens for a holiday company, forty-odd years before. She was supposed to have been accompanied by a Greek-speaking girl, who failed to turn up and, at the last moment, was replaced by Freddy. (‘Here I am, darling, to help you hurl the plates!’) He was the funniest man she had ever met; camp as a row of tents and didn’t care who knew it. They frequently fell in love with the same guy. Neither of them spoke a word of Greek but they were popular with the tourists. Back then homosexuality was kept firmly in the closet and the holidaymakers loved the jokes, the innuendo, the pure camp. And Freddy still lived in one of those Cotswold villages.

  When Connie checked out Len asked in a not-very-interested voice, ‘And where are you heading today, Mrs McColl?’

  ‘The Cotswolds, I think.’

  As he lifted up his money-box to give her some change, Len’s purple sleeve rode up a few centimetres, and she was able to decipher ‘I love An—’. Who could it be? Anne? Anita? Angela? It certainly wasn’t Mary.

  Connie laughed out loud at the very idea of Roger having her name tattooed on his arm. Or wearing a purple shirt.

  Chapter Six

  FOREVER FRIENDS

  It was another beautiful morning, the sun high in the sky, the swans idly gliding along the Avon, as Connie got into her car.

  She rooted in her handbag for her address book because she knew Freddy’s number wasn’t on her phone. They’d kept in touch over the years and always exchanged Christmas cards. And he’d even come to stay a couple of times after she’d got married, when Roger had endured Freddy for Connie’s sake, but admitted afterwards that Freddy’s sexuality made him feel uncomfortable. And Roger’s sense of humour did not extend to Freddy’s risqué jokes and never-ending innuendoes. Nevertheless, Connie and Freddy had still met up occasionally, but it struck her now that she hadn’t seen him for years, far too long in fact. However, according to last year’s Christmas card note, Freddy and his partner, Basil, had opened up an antique shop in Chipping-Somewhere-or-Other. She studied the address book for his phone number, and then, ridiculously pleased to find it, Connie realised just how much she missed the Freddies of this world. He might be a tad outrageous, but at least he was fun. And she needed to laugh, very badly.

  She was delighted when Freddy himself answered the phone.

  ‘Connie, darling, how wonderful to hear from you! How’s life down there in Sussex-by-the-Sea?’

  ‘I’m not in Sussex-by-the-Sea, Freddy, I’m in Stratford-on-the-Avon! And I’m about to head for Stow-on-the-Wold and Somewhere-or-Other-on-the-Hill!’

  ‘That is just fantastic! But these villages are heaving with tourists at the moment, darling, so come to see us as soon as you can. I’ll be here from mid-afternoon. Is The Roger with you?’

  ‘No, Roger isn’t. Just me…’

  ‘Even better! No offence, darling, but he’s not really my cup of tea. Oh, this is so exciting – just wait until I tell Baz! Now, here’s
how to find us…’

  ‘I’ll be with you later,’ she assured Freddy after she jotted down the somewhat vague instructions.

  ‘And you’ll stay the night, I hope? Oh, please say yes!’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Connie.

  With time to kill, and in spite of the tourists, Connie decided to visit some of the pretty villages on the way: Moreton-in-Marsh, Bourton-on-the-Water, Chipping Campden. Once she’d found somewhere to park Kermit, she strolled round one honey-coloured village after another, admiring the pretty cottages, their steeply pitched roofs and mullioned windows, their gardens bursting with roses and geraniums. And the inevitable begonias. The larger houses, set further back from the road, had impressive drives leading up to oak front doors and wisteria-laden porches. She explored the teashops, the boutiques, the antique shops. (Roger would have classed the lot as twee, but very pretty nonetheless.)

  Connie had a bowl of soup in Tilda’s Tea Shoppe (snacks and light lunches a speciality), where she was served by a tall, elegant, Boden-clad, white-haired lady. Could this be Tilda herself? Whoever she was, she was as far removed from Mary-of-the-kaftan as it was possible to get. Tilda’s had white lilies in tall vases, and scones with cream and homemade strawberry jam in pretty, flowery dishes. None of Mary’s nasty little pots in here.

  Connie got lost several times trying to find Freddy’s hideout. ‘You’ll see a sign for a pottery, darling,’ he’d said, ‘just outside the village. Then first left, just up the hill and past the field with the llamas. Easy-peasy.’

  Easy-peasy it was not, but she found it eventually, having had to ask for directions several times. Finally, there in front of her was a large barn conversion, which was not at all what she had expected, having pictured him in the archetypal country cottage with the roses and the geraniums.

  Freddy’s hair had gone from salt and pepper to sugar-white since she’d seen him last. He was about the same age as she was, of course, and obviously didn’t indulge in highlights and lowlights – although she wouldn’t have put it past him – but he looked very dapper, slim and tanned in white shirt and tight jeans.

  ‘Darling! This is such a surprise! You’re looking fab – not a day older! Come in, come in! Do you like? Isn’t it wonderful? Baz and I did the conversion; well, we did the designing, not the digging, darling – didn’t get our hands too dirty.’

  Connie stood awestruck inside the building. It was beautiful indeed with its soaring, vaulted ceilings, exposed stone, oak beams and walls of glass overlooking the countryside. She hadn’t expected anything as modern as this, although there were a few strategically placed antiques dotted around. There were also several enormous red sofas, positioned with care to take in the stunning views, and sumptuous oriental rugs on the acres of polished floorboards.

  ‘Wow!’ Connie said.

  ‘Tea?’ he asked. ‘Coffee? Something stronger?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Is it wine o’clock yet? Sun must be over the yardarm somewhere.’

  Connie laughed. ‘Tea would be lovely for now. And I’ve brought you some wine.’

  ‘Naughty girl, no need! Now, I’m longing for you to meet Baz – he’ll be home any minute; he’s been minding the shop today.’

  Connie followed him into the equally impressive kitchen area with its granite worktops and red accessories, climbing onto a red-cushioned stool at the breakfast bar while Freddy fussed around the red Aga, made the tea – proper tea, with tea leaves – in a large red pot. Not a tea bag in sight.

  ‘Now, why are you up here on your own? Tell me all.’

  ‘Nothing to tell, really. I just decided to take off.’

  ‘From The Roger?’

  ‘Well, yes, but from them all really. I’d got settled in a sort of domestic rut, cooking, chauffeuring, endless babysitting while Roger’s permanently golfing, and I just need a change of scenery.’

  ‘Good idea – make them appreciate you. What did The Roger have to say about this idea?’

  Connie cleared her throat. ‘Well, the thing is, I didn’t exactly tell him I was going.’

  ‘Exactly tell him?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him at all. I just decided to do it and departed, all within two days. I left him a note.’

  ‘My God, Connie, whatever brought that on? Is he having an affair? Are you having an affair?’

  ‘I’m not and I don’t think Roger is either, Freddy, but we lead such separate lives now. I mean, quite apart from the golf, he’s always organising things: the district newsletter, the Rotary Club, the church fund-raising, the Masons.’

  ‘E-nough, darling!’ Freddy rolled his eyes.

  ‘The thing is,’ Connie continued, ‘I’m not much of a joiner. I’ve probably become a bit of a loner. It was different when the children were young because I didn’t have time to think, and their needs came first. You remember I trained as a florist after I left school? And that I had the florist’s shop in our village until the lease ran out a few years back? Well, since then I’ve felt somewhat superfluous to requirements except for becoming the family dogsbody. It sounds clichéd, but I’m hoping to find myself.’

  ‘Darling, you’re independent – you don’t need to be forever joining things. Ah, here’s Baz!’

  Basil Braden-Smith wasn’t at all like Connie had imagined, having envisaged some sort of older, aristocratic, tweedy, dusty type – not this good-looking, shaven-headed, be-jeaned guy, at least twenty years younger than Freddy, who further surprised her by speaking in what could only be described as an Estuary accent.

  ‘Hi, Connie – great to meet you at last. Christ, Fred, haven’t you got anything stronger than tea on the go?’

  Shortly afterwards, comfortably settled at one end of an oversized red sofa, gazing out at the rolling Gloucestershire countryside with an enormous glass of Shiraz by her side, Connie felt supremely happy and relaxed. Her hosts insisted on waiting on her, in between popping in and out of the kitchen to stir this and sauté that. She realised she was ravenous, and looking forward to whatever it was they were concocting, which turned out to be slow-cooked shoulder of lamb – the best she’d ever tasted – accompanied by an inexhaustible supply of wine. They regaled her with stories of how they’d met, how difficult it had been to get their shop up and running, and peppered the conversation with oodles of hilarious local gossip. Neither Freddy nor Baz questioned her further until they were back on the red sofas later with coffee and liqueurs.

  ‘Nobody drinks liqueurs these days except us,’ announced Freddy, as he proceeded to half fill a wine glass with chilled Limoncello, to which Connie had admitted to being very partial. ‘We brought this back from Amalfi, didn’t we, Baz?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Baz as he set the glass down beside Connie. ‘We did. In my suitcase. And we could have bought it in the bloody supermarket here. But never mind. As you can see, Fred doesn’t believe in those teeny weeny glasses.’

  Connie was beginning to wonder if she’d ever make it to the bedroom, as she was already feeling decidedly squiffy. The Limoncello might be chilled, but it was producing a nice, warm feeling somewhere deep inside her.

  ‘Now,’ said Freddy. ‘I’m curious. If The Roger is leading his own life, and you’re leading yours, why do you feel the need to get away?’

  ‘I don’t know. I sometimes feel like I’m disappearing into everyone’s lives, being put upon and not much appreciated. I suppose I’m loved, but I don’t feel it. And I’m under-stimulated, too. Maybe now they might all be more aware of my existence or, at least, my absence. Does that make sense? My two youngest live locally, both with infants who need constantly looking after. Don’t get me wrong, I love them all to bits, but…’

  ‘But they take you completely for granted?’ Baz suggested.

  ‘I suppose they do. I think I’m too eager to please, and so I seem to have lost all sense of who I am. Of being Connie, who had a job, and who met people every day and had something interesting to talk about. All I’ve done for years now is what everyone else wants. I’ve
forgotten how to make my own decisions, to stand up for myself. Do you follow me?’

  ‘I think I do, darling.’ Freddy was waving the Limoncello bottle with raised eyebrows. ‘Refill?’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent pickled already.’

  ‘Make it the hundred; it’ll do you good. You must have a lovely time and do all the sorts of things you wouldn’t do at home. Mind you, you’re a bit long in the tooth to be having a mid-life crisis, so what should we call this? A Saga saga?’ They both dissolved into gales of laughter. ‘Now, do tell us why you were in Stratford in the first place. I hardly had you down as a culture vulture.’

  ‘I wasn’t in Stratford in the first place. I started in Oxford.’

  She told them about Oxford and her first love, leading to the nostalgic visit. And she told them about Martin, and his quest to meet ‘a Dorothy’, and about MMM.

  ‘MMM?’

  ‘Apparently it’s “Meetings for the More Mature”.’

  ‘Mmm!’ exclaimed Baz, and then they all dissolved into further gales of laughter.

  Connie didn’t remember getting into bed, but must have done so because she woke up in the middle of a king-sized modern four-poster, with only the faintest trace of a hangover, having slept for nearly ten hours. She looked around. Everything was cream and calm and countrified, a gentle breeze ruffling the filmy curtain. She felt she wanted to stay there forever; safe, cossetted, entertained. But she knew she must be on her way; the urge to keep travelling north was stronger. When she’d set out from Sussex she felt she was getting away from something; now she felt she was moving towards something, and it lay in the north, of that much she was certain. But quite what it was, she wasn’t so sure.

  Freddy and Baz insisted that she have a ‘teeny-weeny bacon butty’, which was the perfect antidote to any hangover, they promised.