Oh, Dad! Connie was sure he’d be no more impressed than she was. And yet, who could deny that stylish interiors, en-suites and all, were preferable to tiny, dingy rooms with a privy at the foot of the garden. Correction: no garden – it would only have been a small yard.
Sadly she began to make her way back towards Cypress Avenue and, as she passed the little church, she hesitated. Would it be open? When she discovered it was, she entered the cool, dark interior with some trepidation, as she wasn’t a churchgoer, never had been.
She slid into a pew and looked around. Her dad had probably attended this church and Sunday school, because children did then, and perhaps he had sat in this very spot in his Sunday best, boots polished. She didn’t think she could pray but she closed her eyes anyway and tried to imagine her father; would he have been the tallest boy in his class? Everyone who knew him said that he’d been a kind man, and a polite one. From the few photographs she had, it seemed Di actually looked more like him than any of the others. And then she wondered how life would have been if her parents hadn’t been killed in that accident. Would her father, in particular, have approved of Roger? Would she have been a different kind of mother or wife if she’d been able to emulate her parents’ lives? Would she have let Ben go out on his bike that fateful day if her policeman father had constantly stressed the importance of road safety?
A dog barked somewhere and she opened her eyes to see a little printed tract lying on the floor, which had obviously dropped out of a hymn book. It featured a child’s drawing of a brightly coloured train, and beneath: ‘Life is a one-way journey – no return tickets available.’
No return to Boxwood Close, no return to Ben, no return to her old life perhaps? Or had she not yet passed that point of no return? She left the church with the distinct feeling that her dad would think she had.
As she made her way round the graves she wished she’d thought to bring some flowers. Her grandparents, who’d died around the time of her birth, were among the last to be buried in the little graveyard. Robert and Maria – resting in peace, while all around had been bulldozed into the twenty-first century.
Connie knew little about them, only that Robert, her grandfather, had had a small shop or a stall down near the docks, from where he sold groceries. An old neighbour, whom she’d met when she’d come up here so many years ago, had told her that he’d been a well-respected, hard-working man, and had been proud as punch of his policeman son ‘down south’. He was fortunate, Connie thought, that he’d not lived long enough to have to bury his beloved son. But, she thought, enough nostalgia. It was time now to look ahead, make decisions, think about the future.
Time to move on.
Chapter Fifteen
THE OASIS
Northumberland was truly beautiful and Connie had stopped several times to photograph the views. There was a vague familiarity about it all, although she couldn’t remember ever having been up here before.
Some time later, Connie felt sure she must be in Scotland. There were only a few signs, of course, because she’d stuck to B roads or smaller (did C roads exist?) but, with occasional glimpses of sea to her right, she had no need to refer to maps. Nevertheless, even on this narrow road she’d encountered a diverse assortment of traffic; tractors being a speciality, plus a police car with sirens blaring and an Ikea delivery pantechnicon. She’d had to pull in at a farm gate to let it pass. There were few signs of habitation around and she wondered idly where someone might be about to come to grips with the assembly instructions of an Ikea flat-pack. Now she was seeing signposts leading to places with distinctly Scottish names. It must be The Borders.
Connie had been following a cattle truck for some miles, with little prospect of overtaking. She pulled over to take a swig of water when she spotted a river down to her right, with a fringe of trees on each bank. It looked peaceful and unspoilt. There was even a rough track leading down, which she thought Kermit could cope with. It seemed to offer peace, solitude and tranquillity – tantalising and inviting. She was well supplied with drinks, sandwiches and wine – not to mention some remaining gooey Mars bars.
Down and down she drove, Kermit brushed on both sides by cow parsley, foxgloves and nettles. At the river the lane widened into a flat grassy area, surrounded by alders, rowans, silver birch and ash. These trees stood tall and verdant, irrigated by their nearness to the river, and screened this little utopia from the road. Having parked Kermit, Connie got out, stretched and looked around. Complete privacy. The only sound was that of birdsong and the melody of rushing, gushing water, with the occasional faint hiss of a vehicle on the road above. This was what she’d had in mind when she’d bought the sleeping bag. As it was already evening she would soon be able to stretch out on her – as yet unused – sleeping mat, snuggle into the Miracle, and doze off to the lullaby of the river. Just for a moment she wished she’d bought a Primus stove because she fancied some tea. On the other hand that would mean lugging around tea bags and milk, which would sour and curdle in the warmth. Connie considered the alternatives: lukewarm orange juice or lukewarm wine? No brainer.
She managed to wedge the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc between two stones in the river, while she soaked her feet in the cool, blissful water. They appeared white and pulpy as the water swirled over them, like looking in one of those wonky mirrors at the funfair. And there were some minnows! She wished she had a jar; she and her cousin Linda had tried to catch minnows on holiday once – Cornwall, perhaps, or Wales? When she finally squelched her way back to the bank she was relieved to see her feet looked normal again.
Half an hour later, feet and bottle suitably cooled, Connie unearthed her old, folding garden chair from the depths of the boot, dusted off its faded flowery canvas (she’d just known this would come in useful at some point), sat herself down with her plastic glass, and contemplated the river. She wondered if it had a name. It wasn’t a very big river at the moment, but she could see from the exposed rocks and boulders between the water and the banks that this could be a formidable torrent at times. Connie felt supremely happy as she breathed in the pure air deeply, watched quizzically by a male blackbird from a branch above her head. The river, shaded and dappled by overhanging branches, was catching the sun as it splashed over the boulders, rippling and glittering as it made its way to wherever it was going, presumably the North Sea.
Although the surrounding countryside was craggy and heathery, this little oasis was bright emerald green, like a newly mown and manicured lawn. Hostas and iris and aquilegia would all thrive here, Connie thought. Flowers brought Martin from MMM to mind again; hadn’t he said something about sending her a book? She’d like that but he’d probably forgotten all about it – and her, by now, particularly if he’d finally caught up with the real Dorothy.
Then Connie spotted an eglantine. The wild rose was a poor cousin of the luxuriant blooms Jeannie received each month, yet the little flower’s delicate toughness reminded her of Jeannie, and she got out her sketchpad. It would be hard to capture Jeannie’s joie de vivre, but she’d have a good try. The soothing scratch of her pencil strokes, aided by sips of wine, kindled thought and reflection. She’d carry on and head for Edinburgh, mainly to see her friend Wendy. But how much further north should she go after that? No decision about going back home needed to be made yet, which was just as well because she didn’t think she was much closer to making one. Come to think of it, what exactly was there to decide? For, delightful though this nomadic existence might be, Connie was aware that she couldn’t be on the move forever. But what were the alternatives? Going home? Not going home? Roger and his golf and his gin and his Audi? And did she still love him, did he still love her, and did it matter anyway at their late age? She had a nice enough home (albeit the hated bungalow), some great friends (if they were still talking to her) and a loving family (if a little ungrateful at times). Some women might kill to have her good fortune. She was patently experiencing some sort of late-life crisis, this last chance to change things before
she became too doddery to do so, and far more important than the mid-life version when there were still decades of opportunity ahead.
Connie wondered how far north she would need to drive before she arrived at some solution and that turning point. If she hadn’t decided by the time she got to the north of Scotland, would she just fall off the end at John o’Groats into the sea? What lay beyond – Orkney? Shetland? The North Pole? The whole thing was becoming farcical. Why hadn’t she just stayed at home and got on with it, like other women of her age? What if I turn out to be one of Jeannie’s ‘silver singles’?
Connie refilled her glass, stretched out her legs and thought about Jeannie with her memories and her red roses. She consulted the photo on her camera for which she had persuaded Jeannie to pose. ‘Why on earth would you want a photo of me?’ Jeannie had asked. ‘Because you’re lovely, and I want to remember you,’ Connie had replied. ‘I might have been once,’ said Jeannie, sounding wistful. But she was still lovely.
Connie settled down to try and depict a likeness of Jeannie, and just do some thinking. Think of red roses and forbidden love. Surely the very fact it was forbidden lent it an aura of intrigue and mystery that might soon have disintegrated with the everyday ups and downs of marriage. Let’s face it, Connie thought, anything that’s rationed or scarce becomes instantly desirable. We are a funny lot, we humans.
Then, as she glanced at her previous sketches, she thought about Kath, with the pink roses tattooed up her arm. Surely she, too, must have some passionate memories, after three husbands, or whatever they were. And she wondered yet again if she could remember Martin’s features sufficiently to do him justice on paper.
She considered for a moment if she should check for further emails. No, definitely not – so she switched off her phone, dug out one of the sandwiches she’d bought at a petrol station ten miles back, ripped open its triangular wrapper and savoured the surprisingly good hoisin duck filling, washed down with cold(ish) Sauvignon Blanc.
The light was now fading fast and Connie was becoming increasingly weary. But would she be safe here, a woman on her own in the middle of nowhere? Perhaps that axe-murderer was waiting for this very moment? Should she try to sleep in the car? No, she thought, don’t be such a wimp. And what had been the point of buying the Miracle and the mat if she was too afraid to use them? Silly woman, she thought, get on with it.
First she decided to tackle Brian’s self-inflating sleeping mat. As she removed it from its wrappings she very much hoped it would self-inflate, as she doubted she’d have enough puff to get the thing into any kind of shape. She didn’t like reading instructions; she’d never read the booklet that came with the washing machine, or the cooker or the microwave either; just found a programme that worked and stuck to it. So now she unscrewed the valve and – glory of glories – it worked! It lay there invitingly on the grass.
She unearthed an old cushion from the boot, which would have to do as a pillow, and laid the Miracle on the top. She’d sleep in her bra and pants, with a T-shirt at the ready, just in case. Just in case of what? What possible protection would a cotton T-shirt provide? No, she’d wear her nightie, that’s what she’d do. She hauled her bed close to the car and, after a quick look around, stripped off, got into the nightie and slid into the Miracle. The mat felt a little hard but surprisingly comfortable.
Connie lay staring up at the stars as clouds floated across intermittently, blocking her view. It was silent except for the swoosh of a couple of vehicles on the road far above and then the distant hoot of an owl.
Connie awoke from a deep sleep just before seven. Yawning, she saw the early sun was already dancing through the overhead branches and forming a kaleidoscope of patterns on top of the Miracle. She had never slept in the open before. Or had she? Somewhere in the depths of her subconscious lay a distant memory of waking up in the open air, just like this, on a sunny morning. But not alone… sandwiched between two warm, loving bodies… The image disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Of course! Uncle Bill had mentioned something about how her parents had loved camping. (‘All the way up to Scotland in a dodgy old Hillman and a leaking tent,’ was how he’d put it.) And she couldn’t have been more than three or four! Perhaps they’d even been here, in this very spot! And then she recalled a red-coloured castle. She’d visualised that castle before but had no recollection of where she might have seen it – probably a picture in a book somewhere.
She climbed out of the Miracle, feeling invigorated, if a little stiff. The sleeping mat was adequate but hardly luxurious, and her sixty-six-year-old bones protested as she slowly straightened them all up. At least her neck seemed to be better. She knew exactly what she wanted to do, what she’d been dreaming of for days, and the setting was now perfect with not a soul around and the sun already pleasantly warm.
Connie whipped her nightie off over her head and burrowed into her overnight bag for some soap and a towel, which she considered would be large enough to wrap around the bits she thought should be covered, but then she thought what the hell, and proceeded towards the water waving the towel in the air. Dropping it on a large boulder and clutching her soap, Connie paddled cautiously over the slippery stones towards the deeper water in the middle of the river so that she could position herself in such a way as to comfortably allow the water to flow over her body. She was surprised at the strength and speed of the current as she carefully settled herself on a large rock, emitting squeals as her bottom and midriff made contact with the icy water and then shrieking some more as she splashed the water over her top half whilst soaping herself. Once she got used to the temperature, she laughed out loud. Years ago, in that misspent youth, she remembered skinny-dipping at night in the Mediterranean. Much warmer water, though – not like this. But there was no feeling quite like the freedom from clothing and inhibitions. Perhaps as a result of this, she might one day even consider joining a nudist colony! It would only be the prohibitive British climate that would make her reconsider. She giggled at the thought of Roger’s reaction.
She lay down as much as she dared to allow the water to rinse off all the soap, then wondered about the fish in this river and how they would cope with these ripples of Palmolive. But how she loved the sensation of the cold water rushing over her skin! It was so therapeutic, as if her worries were washing away with the current. An unexpected wave of happiness flowed over her. Funny how that could happen when you least expected it. She would never forget this funny little place, although she had no idea where it might be. Finally she eased herself up and out of the water, and reached for her towel.
Then she saw it. The deer was standing stock still beside Kermit, staring in her direction. She froze, hoping it hadn’t seen her so she could watch it for a while. It wasn’t very big, so it was probably young, although Connie knew nothing about deer. She could only admire its proud and elegant stance, the monarch of her tiny glen. Beautiful, beautiful creature. It had seen her of course and turned, sprinting away with a speed that left her breathless. The deer had taken off in fear; fear for its life, fear of this unknown creature emerging from the water. Not like me, thought Connie. Fear didn’t enter into my reasons for taking off; perhaps, on the contrary, she’d felt too safe. But, what a thrill! What a place!
She dressed and sat down on the old folding chair with her bottle of water and one of her remaining sandwiches. Strange how this place had brought back such distant memories. Perhaps it was that, being close to nature, she’d felt a stronger connection with her parents and even with Ben. She’d like to spend all day here, just watching and listening to the river and the birds, and the sighing of the leaves. It was solace for the soul.
It was late morning before Connie was able to tear herself away from the idyllic spot. She wanted to get to Edinburgh and find a B&B somewhere before all the ‘No Vacancies’ signs were displayed. Perhaps she’d come back here again one day; perhaps she might even return this way. Perhaps it would be cold, or raining, and she mightn’t like it so much. Perhaps…
perhaps… perhaps…
Chapter Sixteen
SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Nick was becoming increasingly concerned about his mother, not least because Tess kept going on and on and on about his father. He had to agree there was some cause for concern the way his father was preening himself. But could he possibly be having an affair at his age? Unlikely, of course, but anyway it was high time his mother came home and life got back to some form of normality.
From: Nick McColl
To: Connie McColl
Hi Mum,
Haven’t heard from you for a bit so hope you’re well and safe. We’re all OK here, but missing you. The boys keep asking where you are and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to give them a satisfactory reply.
We hardly see Dad these days. When you first left he was here every five minutes and he doesn’t seem to be at home often either. I guess he feels lonely in the house on his own although Tess is still convinced he’s up to something and I must admit I’m beginning to wonder. I popped round the other night to borrow his electric drill (mine’s on the blink again) and he wasn’t at all keen to ask me in after we came out of the shed. Normally he’d suggest a cup of tea or a beer, so it wasn’t like him not to offer.
The Runaway Wife Page 13
