The Runaway Wife

by Dee MacDonald

  That final morning Pam hovered over the breakfast table. ‘Will you be having the full breakfast today, Mrs McColl?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Connie, wondering where and when she might be having her next meal.

  Pam was obviously curious. She already knew the life stories of the retired couple from Denver, Colorado, the middle-aged couple from Christchurch, New Zealand, and the Scottish couple from somewhere unpronounceable near Perth.

  ‘Well, Mrs McColl, and where might you be heading when you leave us today?’ she asked with a fixed smile as she delivered Connie’s breakfast.

  ‘Do you know what, Pam, I might just head north.’ Then she couldn’t help adding with a smile, ‘Or wherever the fancy takes me.’

  ‘Oh well, at least the weather’s holding,’ Pam added lamely before heading off to the American couple, who would doubtless provide her with a detailed itinerary of their day ahead.

  Martin from MMM’s suggestion had taken root and Connie knew exactly where she was going: Newcastle. She could still recall her father’s Geordie accent, and his height. She’d remembered him as being very tall but then, of course, she’d been very small. And she remembered clearly that he’d lost the tip of one of his fingers – the little one, she thought. How had he done that? A police incident? A schoolboy prank? She’d never know.

  She’d kept meaning to visit Newcastle during her teenage years, but somehow the pull of holidays in the sun had won over until she was twenty-one, when she’d finally come up to trace his birthplace, and found the tiny terraced house where he’d been born in Boxwood Close. Now she longed to see it again, and also the little church on the corner with the wonky spire and the tiny churchyard where her grandparents were buried. She’d taken photos at the time and wished now she’d brought them with her. For the first time Connie felt a little homesick; probably something to do with looking into her family background. She opened up her emails in the hope that one of the family might have been in touch. There was nothing from any of them but there was a message from her friend Sue.

  Sue, of course, was beside herself with curiosity. Surely Connie didn’t have a lover?

  Or surely she’d have told Sue if she did! She was so envious! Perhaps she could come along too? She could join up with Connie somewhere on the way? Perhaps Connie was lonely?

  No, Connie thought, definitely not. I am not at all lonely. And, fond as I am of Sue, this is one time when I very much need to be on my own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A LOVE OF ROSES

  Connie was becoming addicted to the excitement of being on the move, of never staying anywhere long enough to get bored, and never knowing when and where she might go next or who she might meet along the way. Of being impulsive again, defying the conventions of forty-one years spent playing by the rules.

  Perhaps, had the weather been unsettled, she might have felt differently, but one warm day followed another and Connie began to wonder why she needed to seek accommodation at all. Why not buy a sleeping bag and bed down under the stars? A memory stirred somewhere deep inside her. What? And be awakened by the dawn chorus, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep? Then washing in a nearby stream and perhaps picking wild berries for breakfast? Connie considered this rural idyll for some miles without really concentrating on signposts, fairly confident that she was heading towards Newcastle. Even so, she was gobsmacked when she drove past the iconic, awe-inspiring Angel of the North, standing tall over Newcastle and Gateshead – so much so that she nearly veered off the road.

  After her experiences in Manchester, she decided to avoid city centres at all costs, but she did need to find somewhere to withdraw cash, and perhaps visit a shop that sold tents and sleeping bags. And Primus stoves? Well, that might be taking things a bit too far, but a sleeping bag for sure. And she could ask around if anyone knew where Boxwood Close was, because she certainly couldn’t remember.

  A few miles further on, Connie turned into a multi-storey car park attached to what seemed to be a sizeable out-of-town shopping area, and decided to have a look around. Luck was with her and there was a camping shop nearby.

  ‘This,’ enthused the young sales assistant, whose name was Brian, according to his badge, ‘is the Miracle, so-called because it always keeps you at just the right temperature; warm when it’s cold, and cool when it’s hot. They don’t call it the Miracle for nothing. And you’ll need a nice self-inflating sleeping mat to go with it.’

  It all sounded good to Connie, who was fascinated by the way Brian’s Adam’s apple bounced around as he extolled the further virtues of the bedding. She reckoned it might be quite possible to sleep al fresco so long as it didn’t rain, and she could always try stretching out in the car when it did. And no, he’d never heard of Boxwood Close. He pointed out, not unreasonably, that Newcastle was an enormous place and hadn’t she best check with the post office or the library or something? Or, better still, buy a map or use her phone to access a street map? Brian was full of useful tips.

  She was about to emerge from the shop with her purchases when she heard a scream from outside on the pavement. Dumping her packages with Brian, she rushed out of the door to find a tiny elderly lady struggling to get to her feet, and the rear view of a hooded youth as he sprinted away towards the end of the street.

  ‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Connie, as she bent down to help. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’

  ‘It’s my bag,’ said the little lady plaintively, ‘he’s taken my handbag!’

  A small crowd had gathered by now, with much tut-tutting.

  ‘That’s the second mugging round here in as many weeks,’ one man said.

  ‘Which way did the bastard go, pet?’ asked another. Nobody made any move.

  ‘You won’t catch him now,’ said the first man cheerfully. ‘He’ll be miles away.’

  ‘Can you manage to stand?’ Connie asked as she bent down.

  ‘Perhaps in a minute or two, dear.’ The old lady rubbed her head. ‘He tripped me, you see. And he’s got my purse, all my money.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Connie. ‘Is there anyone I can contact for you?’ She turned towards the onlookers. ‘Do you think we should call an ambulance?’

  ‘No, no!’ protested the lady. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. Really. Just a bit dizzy.’

  ‘Somebody should be with her,’ said a woman with bright green hair.

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Connie said as she helped her to her feet.

  Brian, from the shop, had produced a chair from within and positioned it in the doorway. ‘Here, get her to sit on this,’ he said, patting the seat.

  She tottered slightly for a moment and then sat down gratefully. ‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,’ she said. She was so tiny and bird-like.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Connie asked as Brian reappeared, on instruction, with a glass of water.

  ‘I’m Jeannie,’ she said as she took the glass from Connie. Her hand was shaking so much that water was spilling everywhere.

  Connie steadied the glass for her. ‘I’m Connie. Just take it easy, Jeannie. Do you have far to go home?’

  Jeannie shook her head. ‘No, not far, but I need to get the bus. And he’s got my bus pass and all my money.’

  The onlookers were now dispersing, one by one, clutching their bags more tightly and relieved that someone else appeared to be taking over. ‘Tsk, tsk,’ they said to each other. ‘And in broad daylight too! It didn’t used to be like this round here, did it, pet?’

  ‘We should call the police,’ Connie said. ‘And would you like me to take you to the hospital, just to get checked over? You’ve had a nasty fall, quite apart from the shock of what’s happened.’

  ‘You’re very kind, dear, but really I’m fine. I’m tough as old boots. It’s just my pension, you see, and he probably saw me coming out of the post office.’ A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.

  Connie wished she could get her hands on the mugger. What sort of rat would do something like t
his to a pensioner?

  ‘I’m eighty-nine,’ said Jeannie, ‘so it takes me a minute or two.’ She chuckled, but Connie could see that she was still quite shaky.

  Jeannie must have been a beauty in her day, Connie thought, as she noted her straight little nose, chiselled cheekbones, large brown eyes, and thick white hair tied up in a chignon.

  ‘Tell you what, Jeannie, do you see that cafe across the street? If you lean on my arm do you think we could get across there for a cup of tea? And then, when you feel strong enough, I can drive you home.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you.’ Jeannie stood up slowly.

  Connie noted she was wearing mascara, lipstick and some trendy cut-offs too. A youthful old lady. I want to be like that, she thought.

  The cafe owner, who was elderly, bald and, judging by his T-shirt, a Newcastle supporter, had witnessed the event and fussed about, pulling out chairs and refusing Connie’s offer of payment for the teas.

  ‘It says something when you can’t walk down the street in broad daylight,’ he ranted. ‘And who would rob a pensioner?’ With that he produced a plate of cream cakes. ‘And I’ve already rung the police,’ he added importantly. ‘Apparently there’s a copper just a street or two away and he should be along any minute.’

  The young policeman, when he arrived five minutes later, found Jeannie on her second cream cake and looking surprisingly perky. He was polite, concerned and took copious notes before adding, ‘I’m really sorry to say it, madam, but the chances of retrieving your money are virtually nil.’ That, of course, was hardly a surprise.

  ‘Are you related to this lady?’ he asked Connie.

  ‘No,’ Connie replied, ‘but I’m happy to take her home and make sure she’s OK.’

  The policeman seemed satisfied with this and departed, having promised to let Jeannie know if there were any further developments.

  ‘There won’t be,’ Jeannie said sadly after he left. ‘Nobody got a proper look at him and he’ll have spent the cash by now – probably bought himself a raspberry, or something like that.’

  ‘A raspberry?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a sort of phone, you know, which does all sorts of things.’

  ‘Oh, a BlackBerry!’ Connie laughed.

  ‘Whatever, dear.’ Jeannie was looking much recovered after the cream cakes.

  ‘Now,’ said Connie as they finished their tea. ‘Do you think you’re steady enough to accompany me to the car park? But first I must collect my packages from the camping shop over there.’

  Fifteen minutes later, weighed down with her parcelled-up sleeping equipment under her left arm and Jeannie leaning on her right, Connie was reunited with Kermit in the car park. Jeannie had regained her composure and was proving to be remarkably light on her feet, but quite frail. She was also extremely lucid and gave Connie precise directions to where she lived, which turned out to be a one-bedroom ground-floor flat in a large, converted Victorian house on a tree-lined avenue.

  ‘This is lovely!’ Connie remarked as she took in her surroundings, having parked and helped Jeannie out of the car. Well-maintained houses, glossy front doors, shiny brass knobs and knockers. Jeannie’s front door was painted black, the polished-brass number ten positioned at eye level, just like Downing Street.

  ‘Oh, I like it here,’ said Jeannie. ‘It’s so important to live in as nice an area as you can afford. Where do you live, dear?’

  ‘Sussex.’

  ‘Sussex!’ The old lady stopped in her tracks. ‘My word, you’re a long way from home! Are you up here on business?’

  ‘No,’ said Connie. ‘It’s a long story, but basically I just felt I needed to get away from things for a while and, since I found myself heading north, I thought I’d revisit my roots, or my father’s roots at least. He lived in Boxwood Close. I don’t suppose you know where that is, do you?’

  ‘No, dear, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.’

  ‘No matter, I’ll get directions tomorrow from somewhere. I know it’s near the docks because I came up once before, but that was over forty years ago.’

  ‘Newcastle’s changed a lot in that time…’

  Jeannie asked no further questions but led Connie into a large hallway, withdrew a key from her pocket (‘Thank goodness this wasn’t in my bag, dear!’) and opened a door on the left which was labelled ‘Flat 2’. The first thing Connie noticed in the tiny hallway was a chandelier, and then the ornately framed posters and photographs all over the magenta-painted walls.

  ‘Come in, Connie, come in!’

  The sitting room had much more of the same. The chandelier was larger and more ornate, and the framed posters and programmes were larger too, with colourful displays of ballets, shows and revues. There were elaborate velvet curtains, silk shawls draped across the sofa and an enormous bowl of red roses positioned on an intricately carved mahogany table. This certainly bore no resemblance to any old lady’s flat Connie had ever visited.

  ‘Jeannie, this is amazing!’ Connie looked around in fascination.

  ‘Well,’ said Jeannie, ‘I know there’s rather too much stuff in here, but I love it all, you see. It’s my history and I can’t quite bring myself to part with any of it. Now, sit down, dear. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Coffee’s fine,’ Connie said absently as she took in her surroundings, particularly the posters of dancers and events from all over the globe. Paris, Athens, Cairo, Singapore, Sydney, and one name predominating: Jeannie Jarman.

  ‘Coffee’s not fine,’ Jeannie said firmly. ‘I’ve had a shock and you’ve been diverted from where you were going and so we both need a brandy.’ She was rummaging around in the base of a mahogany cabinet. ‘Or Scotch? Or gin?’

  ‘That’s most kind but I’m driving, you see—’

  ‘Tonight? Where to?’ Jeannie interrupted.

  ‘Um, well, I’m going to stay in Newcastle tonight so I can look for Boxwood Close tomorrow,’ Connie said.

  ‘But you’ve got nowhere booked?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said.

  ‘Well, in that case, you can stay here and you can tell me all about this travelling you’re doing. I’m pouring you a drink, and that’s all there is to it.’

  Connie wondered if she dared argue. ‘Jeannie, you’ve just been robbed and—’

  ‘And I have some delicious meals in my freezer which can be ready in minutes. Now, what’s it to be? Perhaps you’re a gin and tonic person, are you?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  As Connie wandered around admiring the posters, Jeannie touched her elbow.

  ‘I was a dancer, as you can probably see; all my life, from when I started ballet lessons as a tiny wee girl in Gateshead. And then I went on to dance, sometimes solo, sometimes as part of a troupe, all over the world. America, even.’

  ‘Jeannie, you’re amazing!’ Connie accepted her gin and tonic in its cut-glass tumbler, complete with ice and lemon. The ice sang as it clinked in the crystal.

  ‘No, I’m not amazing. But I was very fit. I’ve always had to keep myself fit, you see, and I still try to exercise every day in spite of the fact that I’ve got a few medical problems at the moment. If I’d seen that wretched oaf coming for me today, my dear, I’d have kneed him in the balls, but he came up from behind and caught me unawares.’

  Connie nearly dropped her drink. ‘You know what, Jeannie? I believe you.’

  Half an hour later, on her second gin, Connie had had a complete résumé of Jeannie’s amazing career and the admirers and lovers she’d amassed over the years. ‘Millionaires, my dear, and ambassadors, sheikhs – and thespians, of course.’

  ‘And did you never marry, Jeannie?’

  ‘No, my dear, I did not, although I had proposals from some very lovely men. There was only one I would have married – he was very famous but I couldn’t marry him because he was already married, you see, and his wife flatly refused to divorce him, so it was all very clandestine. I still get roses from him every month. Are you m
arried, Connie?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed I am.’

  ‘And are you happy?’

  Connie hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, Jeannie, and that’s the truth.’

  Was she happy? Did not being unhappy mean the same thing? Was she merely bored, or just plain silly?

  ‘I’m sixty-six, you know,’ Connie continued, ‘and here I am running around, trying to sort myself out like some rebellious teenager.’

  ‘You could be my daughter! You’ve plenty of time to get sorted out. At your age I had a lover called Henry who wanted to marry me, but I could see he was about to become decrepit, and I’m really not cut out to be a nurse.’

  ‘And the man who sends the roses?’

  ‘Oh, he died thirty years ago.’

  ‘But, the roses…?’

  ‘In his will he left instructions that I was to receive a bouquet of a dozen red roses on the first day of each month for the rest of my life.’ She indicated the bowl on the table. ‘And they just keep on coming. Just as well he was rich because I don’t suppose his executors expected me to live this long.’ She laughed. ‘He would have been delighted. His wife was not, but she could do nothing about it. She, too, died years ago.’

  Connie felt a totally unjustified pang of envy. To receive flowers from beyond the grave! Roger rarely sent them from this side of the grave. What romantic memories would she have to sustain her through her dotage?

  ‘Now, tell me about your husband,’ Jeannie said, as if she was reading Connie’s thoughts.

  ‘He’s a retired chartered accountant, Jeannie. He’s reliable, methodical, a pillar of society. He’s done absolutely nothing to upset me. I think my problems – my doubts, my demons – are all in my head. I seem to have lost myself somewhere along the line.’