Roger hadn’t seemed unduly concerned; on the contrary he seemed rather pleased with himself. ‘Well, we can get married, Connie. We’d probably be doing that anyway, so let’s just bring it forward a little.’ This was Roger’s idea of a proposal and she could only recall feeling grateful at the time.
When Connie returned with two coffees she found Hannah fiddling with her mobile.
‘He’s not answering,’ she said.
Connie handed her a coffee. ‘You weren’t going to tell him on the phone, were you?’
‘No, just wanted to arrange to see him later, to tell him then.’
Connie took a sip. ‘Believe it or not, many years ago, on my only previous visit to Manchester, I too discovered I was pregnant.’
‘But you were married?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘But he married you though?’
‘Yes, he did. Back then, Hannah, you usually got married if you could, because the disgrace of having a baby if you didn’t was too awful to contemplate. Families turned their backs on you; babies usually had to be adopted. Such a hoo-ha. You wouldn’t believe it. Not now.’
Hannah leaned forwards. ‘If it was now, would you have married him?’
Connie thought for a moment. ‘I really don’t know, and that’s the truth.’
Had she really loved Roger or had she been looking for security, stability and to be able to keep her baby? Life was very different then. She could remember poor Barbara Collins who’d been in her class in school. ‘Her mother isn’t married,’ Connie was informed in shocked, hushed whispers. It wasn’t Barbara’s fault, but she’d had to endure the boys shouting ‘Barbara is a bastard!’ again and again. Thank goodness times had changed.
Connie took another sip. ‘How old are you, Hannah?’
‘Eighteen. And I’m at college because I want to become a teacher. Little ones, you know, infants.’
‘You might need to postpone that for a bit then. What about your guy? Would you like to marry him?’
‘I’m not sure. Don’t think he’d want to get tied down ’cos he keeps going on about going to Australia for a couple of years.’
‘That’s tough.’
Hannah sighed. ‘I fancy him, but that’s not the same, is it?’
‘No,’ Connie replied, ‘it isn’t. What about your mum? Would she help?’
‘She’ll go ballistic. She’s a single mum herself.’
As if on cue, a toddler with a chocolate-smeared face tottered up and gazed, unblinking, at the two of them until his mother, muttering apologies, snatched him away.
Hannah laughed. ‘The thing is, I love little kids.’
Connie watched the toddler escape his mother’s clutches yet again, colliding with a coffee-carrying elderly woman, who was not pleased.
‘They can be a handful,’ said Connie, ‘but it’s so worth it.’
Hannah patted her tummy. ‘There’s just no way I’d want to get rid of it – I know that already.’
‘I’m glad to hear it because each life is so miraculous, so precious. I think so anyway. And you’ll make a lovely mum.’
She would too; there was something about the girl – a dignity, an independence. She’d be a survivor.
Hannah drained her cup. ‘Thanks so much for listening, and for the drink, Connie. You’ve really helped, you know.’
‘You just follow your heart, Hannah.’
As they stood up, Connie gave her a quick hug. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world, but I’m sure you’re going to be just fine. And, do you know what? If it happened to me now, I wouldn’t bother getting married. I’d go it alone.’ And that, Connie found to her surprise, was the truth.
She’d loved Roger, but was that different from being ‘in love’, which was such a hackneyed expression? Was she beginning to sound like Prince Charles? Perhaps she was a romantic at heart though and would have liked more passion, more heart-thumping, violins playing? And could she have managed to bring up little Diana on her own? Would she have been a social pariah like poor Barbara’s mother? And, if she hadn’t married Roger, she might never have had more children. No Nick, Lou, or Ben.
It was almost rush hour by the time Connie located the car park where she’d positioned Kermit and crawled into the snarl-up of traffic. Connie was unaware of which direction she was heading in. She seemed to be going in slow-moving circles for what seemed like hours. Could that possibly be the same Odeon cinema on her left that she’d passed twice already? Yes, it was. She needed to change lanes; she knew that, otherwise she’d be passing the Odeon for a fourth time. She was almost ready to head back to Kath’s, if she only knew how to get there. Finally a van driver let her out and she was able to move in a different direction – not necessarily the correct one – and at last found a sign that promised ‘Bolton – 10 miles’. Hallelujah!
Feeling very weary, Connie saw a Travelodge sign ahead. ‘Rooms at bargain prices’, it said. Well, hang the expense, she thought, although she’d had no intention of spending another night in Manchester, and she pulled into the car park.
The room was as she expected: neutral, functional and reasonably priced. She lugged in her bags, washed her dirty clothes and hung them up in the shower room where, she hoped, they would dry overnight. Then she needed to do nothing except loll on the bed, watch whatever was on TV and see how much wine was left in her bottle. There was a good half and, as she sipped it, she thought about Hannah, hoping that both her boyfriend and her mother would be supportive if nothing else.
That night Connie had her recurring dream again. There was Aunt Lorna peering down at her five-year-old self and saying, crossly, ‘Do we have to have her?’ And there was Uncle Bill saying something soothing like, ‘Of course we do…’ just as her aunt metamorphosed into a crocodile. This caused her to shout out as usual, which woke her up, also as usual.
Chapter Ten
THE GETAWAY GAL
The clothes had dried overnight. Connie decided to resist the Travelodge breakfast, and settled for a cup of do-it-yourself coffee in the bedroom, along with some digestive biscuits she’d bought in the mini-market. In spite of the nightmare, Connie felt refreshed and ready to leave the city sprawl behind, with every intention of avoiding all built-up areas in future. She’d worked out a route to bypass Bolton and then, eventually, arrive at the Lakes.
She’d filled up with petrol and driven several miles when it happened. Kermit gave a slight jolt, followed by the dreaded sound of metal scraping on tarmac, which signalled the death rattle of a punctured nearside tyre. The traffic was heavy and Connie knew she had to get off the main road, even though it would completely ruin the tyre by driving on it. She should have taken Nick’s advice. Mercifully there was a road just a few yards ahead on her left. Without having time to signal, she coaxed Kermit round the corner and parked noisily. Brandon Street had lots of parking spaces, but the terraced houses here were shabby, some with boarded-up windows, all with overgrown gardens. Connie pulled into the first available parking spot, outside a house whose front garden had an old washing machine sitting forlornly amidst the long grass.
She jumped as someone hammered on the window. She wound it down cautiously to find herself face to spotty face with a tall, gangly youth wearing a grey hoodie and dirty low-slung jeans.
‘You can’t park that here!’ he yelled. ‘Me brother and me mate will be here in a minute and that’s their space.’
Connie got out of the car to survey her deflated tyre. ‘Well, I’m very sorry but I can’t go any further because I have a puncture. As you can see.’
He looked down at her wheel. ‘Yeah, so you have,’ he said.
‘I’m about to phone for help,’ Connie continued, as she withdrew her mobile from her bag, ‘and then I’ll be out of here, I assure you. Pronto.’
‘Nice phone,’ remarked the youth. The comment suddenly made Connie aware of her vulnerability. She must have looked terrified because the guy said, ‘I weren’t planning to nick the bloody thing!
’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ Connie lied.
‘Christ, they’re ’ere!’ He turned his attention to where a noisy black Sierra had rolled up and parked behind. ‘Hi, Marco!’ he said reverently.
‘What’s that bloody thing doing parked there, Gary?’ asked the large, black youngster who emerged from the driving seat. A round-faced, long-haired boy got out from the passenger seat, and both of them glared at Connie.
‘She’s got a fucking puncture,’ replied Gary. ‘Sorry, Marco, I couldn’t do nothing about it – she’s only just got here.’
Marco kicked at the offending tyre as Connie stood awkwardly on the pavement. He and the other boy bent to examine the tyre, exposing varying degrees of builders’ cracks.
‘I was just going to phone for help…’ Connie began nervously.
‘Foxy’ll fix it,’ said the good-looking black boy, indicating his companion. ‘Won’t you, Foxy?’
Foxy looked like he knew which side his bread was buttered. ‘Yeah, OK, Marco. Have you got a jack in your boot, missus? And I’ll need the spare.’
Connie opened the boot with some trepidation. ‘But really, you don’t need to do this. I can easily get the AA.’
‘They’ll take all bloody day to get here,’ said Marco, standing back in a supervisory fashion while Foxy wrestled with the wheel. ‘Foxy’ll do it. He used to work in a garage – didn’t you, Foxy?’
‘Yeah.’ Foxy seemed to know what he was doing, loosening the nuts, jacking up the car and removing the wheel.
Foxy didn’t look at all fox-like, so perhaps Fox was his surname. Connie stared at him for a moment; there was something about him… Perhaps it was the way his hair grew upwards and refused to lie flat. Perhaps it was his cheeky grin. Something, something reminded her of Ben. Yes, yes, that was it, the way he grinned.
‘This is really kind of you,’ Connie said, wondering how much she should pay him.
‘It’s ’cos you’re buggering up our parking space,’ said Gary.
‘Shut up, Gary,’ ordered Marco. ‘She can’t help it, can she? And don’t just stand there, give your brother a hand.’
Gary also did as he was told.
Marco was obviously used to being obeyed. He was a nice-looking lad, his T-shirt and jeans immaculate, gold watch, gold earrings and signet ring. And he certainly didn’t believe in getting himself dirty.
After much swearing, Foxy replaced the wheel with the spare and lowered the car.
‘Take that across to Dick’s and see if you can get it fixed,’ Marco went on. ‘Though it’s a right bloody mess. You’re gonna need a new one, lady.’
‘Oh no, please, don’t go to any trouble!’ she protested. ‘I can get that done at the next garage I come to – really.’
‘Foxy’ll get it cost for you.’
The three stood murmuring together for a moment before Foxy stuck the offending wheel in the back of the Sierra and drove off.
‘You wanna cup of tea?’ asked Gary as he replaced her case in the boot.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you but—’
‘Of course she does!’ Marco said. ‘And I can’t keep calling you “lady” – so what do we call you?’
‘I’m Connie, but—’
‘I’m Marco, that there’s Gary, and his brother’s Foxy, the one that’s doing your tyre. He’ll be half an hour at least so you might as well have the tea. Get the bleeding kettle on, Gary.’
Connie locked her car and followed Gary up the overgrown path, past the washing machine and into a dark hall with ancient cracked linoleum on the floor, Marco bringing up the rear. She was led into a grubby and untidy kitchen, the sink jammed with dirty dishes and glasses.
‘Bloody tip,’ observed Marco.
‘Well, me mam’s away,’ Gary explained, as he cleared a path through the dishes in order to fill up the kettle.
‘Perhaps I could do some washing-up for you?’ Connie offered, feeling duty-bound to do something, anything. Not that she could see a sponge or a dishcloth or anything resembling washing-up liquid.
‘Don’t matter,’ muttered Gary.
‘I wouldn’t go anywhere near that lot if I were you,’ said Marco. ‘You could pick up a nasty infection. How can you live in all this shit, Gary? Sit down, Connie.’
He moved a pile of newspapers from one of the kitchen chairs positioned round the Formica-topped table, which was loaded with even more dirty crockery and an open carton of milk. He turned his attention back to Gary. ‘Where am I supposed to look for a clean mug for Connie here?’
‘Dunno,’ said Gary as he lit the gas ring under the kettle.
‘Connie here’s a lady who’d like a cup and saucer, I expect, wouldn’t you, Connie? Ain’t your mum got no cups and saucers, Gary?’
Gary looked bewildered. ‘Only them fancy ones in the cabinet in the front room.’
‘Well, go and get one then!’
Connie started to protest again but Marco was shepherding Gary into the adjoining room from where, with much swearing and clattering, they returned with Gary bearing a china cup adorned with blue and yellow butterflies.
‘Me mam would kill me if she knew…’ Gary began.
‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t get us a bloody cup of tea,’ said Marco as he found an open box of PG Tips. He rinsed out a couple of mugs in cold water and lined them up next to the cup and saucer, then stuck a tea bag in each. While Gary filled them up from the kettle, Marco picked up the carton of milk and sniffed it suspiciously.
‘It’s OK, I think,’ he informed Connie. ‘You take milk?’
‘Just a dash, please.’ The cup was very dainty, and emptied after a few sips, exposing a deep dark crack in the bottom. She wouldn’t let herself think about how many germs might have been harbouring there, or for how long.
Gary produced a packet of tobacco and some Rizlas from the pocket of his hoodie and began to construct a roll-up. ‘Where you heading for then?’ he asked as he sat down opposite her and slurped his tea.
‘Oh, the Lake District,’ said Connie.
‘Nice up there, innit,’ Gary remarked without much interest.
‘Don’t suppose he’s ever been up there,’ said Marco. He was standing at the sink, gazing out through the dirty window. He turned to Connie. ‘Excuse us for a minute.’ He then shepherded Gary, in the process of lighting up his cigarette, out into the hall. ‘Connie don’t want to inhale your evil bleedin’ smoke.’
She could hear them talking in low voices and wondered what was going on. Then she heard Foxy return and further conversation ensued before all three re-entered the kitchen.
‘Foxy’s brought back your wheel with the new tyre fitted,’ Marco informed her.
The amount was less than half what Connie had expected to pay and, as she fished around in her purse among the diminishing wad of notes, she said, ‘I just can’t thank you all enough. I only wish I could think of some way to repay my gratitude.’
Connie was aware of some exchanged glances before Marco said, ‘Well, actually, Connie, there is something you could do for us.’
She wondered what was coming and if this tyre was really going to be such a bargain.
‘It’s like this, see…’ Marco began.
‘We need a driver,’ said Foxy.
‘This lunchtime,’ added Gary, puffing on his cigarette.
‘A driver?’ Connie looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t you all drive?’
‘Well, yeah, we do,’ said Marco. ‘It’s just that we have this appointment, see. We need to pick some stuff up from a mate and he needs to see us all.’
‘And it’s all double yellow lines round there,’ said Gary. ‘And there’s one bastard of a traffic warden who’s got it in for us.’
‘So,’ continued Marco, ‘we wondered if you could just drive us there, park on the yellows and, if the law comes round, say you’re delivering something.’
This wasn’t making much sense to Connie. ‘Couldn’t one of you drive and the ot
her two collect whatever it is?’
‘No, no, Connie. Our mate definitely needs to see the three of us together, see. If it wasn’t for these bloody yellows it wouldn’t be a problem, but last time we got a ticket. And you can’t park anywhere round there – no car parks, nothing. And we’ll be in a bit of a hurry ’cos we’ve all got appointments afterwards. The dentist and all that. It would be doing us a great favour, Connie.’
This didn’t feel right somehow. ‘But I’ve never driven a Sierra before,’ Connie said.
‘No need, Connie!’ said Marco. ‘We’ll use yours! See, the reason we keep getting done for parking is ’cos they see this car coming a mile off. But they won’t know you, nice respectable lady and all that.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Connie.
‘Aw, come on, Connie!’ said Foxy. ‘We done you a favour.’
‘And it’ll only take a few minutes,’ Gary added.
‘And, after you’ve collected us and dropped us off, Connie,’ Marco said, ‘you can be on your way to the Lake District with that bargain tyre.’
Ten minutes later, the wheel replaced, the spare back in the boot and her case and belongings reloaded, Connie got into Kermit’s driving seat with Marco alongside. As the other two clambered into the back, she felt even more apprehensive; something was definitely wrong. She longed to be rid of them, and the whole area, once and for all.
Marco consulted his watch. ‘Off we go!’ he said cheerfully.
Connie must have driven only half a mile or so into the high street, before she was instructed to park – ‘just there, beside Dorothy Perkins’ – on the dreaded yellow lines in what seemed to be a normal shopping area.
Marco got out first and scanned the horizon. ‘You should be OK; can’t see any wardens. We’ll only be a few minutes, Connie, and then we’ll want to be away quick. I’ve got this appointment with the dentist, see, so keep the engine running.’
Connie was so busy looking around for any sign of police or wardens that she didn’t notice which doorway they’d entered. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, hoping fervently that they wouldn’t be long.
The Runaway Wife Page 8
