‘I’m Connie, and I wasn’t really in the demonstration!’ Connie sniffed frantically to deal with an excess of emotion, trying to avoid wiping her nose on her new yellow sleeve.
‘Here!’ said her new friend, handing her a tissue. ‘Are ye English?’
‘Yes,’ Connie replied, wiping her eyes. ‘And I was only trying to walk through Billington Street to get back to my B&B.’
June threw back her head and snorted. ‘Just try an’ explain it all at the desk – with a bit of luck they’ll let ye go.’
‘Or else we’ll all be having a night in the cells!’ one of the others added cheerfully.
‘It was the placard that did it,’ Connie explained, ‘but I’m not sorry. I’m glad I was with you and I’d do it all again! Not that it was the policeman’s fault, of course!’
‘Ach well, ye’ve been arrested in a right good cause,’ said June. ‘Have ye never been bashed aboot yersel’?’
‘No,’ said Connie. ‘Never, ever.’
‘Well, lucky auld you!’ June sighed. ‘Mind you, it’s always the drink. Callum liked to get in a bit of boxing practice when he got home frae the pub and Ah was the handiest punchbag. It wiz gettin’ worse and worse and Ah was feart fer the bairns – Ah hae two wee girls, ye see. Then Ah heard about the Refuge and one night, when he’d fallen asleep after beatin’ me black and blue, Ah just picked up the bairns and walked out. The Refuge never turns anyone away, see. Now it’s likely to be closed down due to lack of funding or whatever and Ah don’t know where in hell we’re all goin’ tae go. If this bloody government doesn’t step in and do something to help us, we’re all in the shit.’
The other women all said ‘Aye’ and nodded in agreement.
‘That’s awful,’ said Connie. ‘I just wish that I could help in some way.’
‘Well, ye got us some publicity,’ said June, ‘and it all helps. I expect it’ll be on the telly.’
‘It’ll only be shown in Scotland though, won’t it?’
June shrugged. ‘Who knows? There’s nationwide demos going on today – probably in yer neck of the woods as well. There’s hundreds of refuges.’
A tiny Asian lady in an emerald green sari smiled across at Connie. ‘Maybe you can put a word in for us somewhere. Your local council? Write to your MP, perhaps?’
‘Oh, I’ll do anything I can,’ said Connie. She couldn’t understand how anyone could abuse this pretty little woman.
‘Shadnam here had her wrist broken,’ explained June.
‘I didn’t understand what the effect of drink could be,’ said Shadnam. ‘No one in my family drank.’ She snorted. ‘I had no idea what he was like until it was too late.’
‘Aye,’ June added. ‘Ye come to dread the sound of his key in the lock. Ye think, how many has he had tonight? How soon will it be until I start annoying him? I know he’s lookin’ for trouble and it disnae matter what the hell I do, it’s going to be wrong. And, if I got as far as the bedroom without bein’ bashed aboot, then he liked his sex with a bit of violence too. Of course he’s so pissed he can’t perform and, hey, that’s ma fault as well! And while he’s shoutin’ abuse and knockin’ me aboot, I can hear my wains cryin’ through the wall.’
Connie was speechless.
‘There’s a lot of it goes on, Connie. And it’s the women who’re that ashamed and try to cover it all up. Thae men just don’t give a damn and carry on as usual; go to work if they’ve got a job, go to the pub whether they’ve got a job or not, and spend money they havenae got. Get us all into debt.’
The sergeant at the desk shouted out, ‘Silence, please!’ He beckoned to Connie. ‘You, first, come here!’
‘I know you won’t believe me,’ said Connie as she leaned wearily against the desk. ‘But I honestly was only trying to get through to Gambon Street. The fact I’m wearing yellow is just a coincidence – I only just bought it…’ She dug in her bag and produced the receipt.
‘And pure coincidence that you bashed one of my officers on the head?’ the sergeant interrupted.
‘Yes,’ Connie replied. ‘I tripped. I’m sorry I hit the officer, I really am. But I’m not at all sorry I joined the protest. These women should be heard! And surely the police should be doing more to protect them!’
‘OK, OK, enough of the lecture.’ The sergeant sighed as he opened a large book on his desk. ‘Name and address, please.’
Connie told him.
‘And what exactly are you doing way up here in Edinburgh?’
‘Well, visiting friends mainly, but today I was doing some sightseeing.’
‘And can these friends vouch for you?’
‘Well, I haven’t got there yet. I’ll be visiting them tomorrow but I’m staying in Edinburgh tonight. You can check with my B&B landlady, Mrs Conon-MacLeod. I got off the bus at the big garage and that was the only way I knew to get back. I’m really sorry; I didn’t mean to drop the placard on the policeman’s head. I was pushed and lost my balance.’
Ten minutes later, after a phone call to her scandalised landlady, Connie was allowed to go free.
‘I’m letting you go,’ said the sergeant, looking at her over the top of his glasses. ‘And, if you ever do decide to demonstrate in future, lady, I suggest you do it in your own neighbourhood.’
Connie turned to wave goodbye to her newfound partners-in-crime. ‘I feel so guilty to be leaving you. I’m going to email everyone I can think of. I’m so worried you’ll all have to spend the night in prison.’
‘Not us,’ hollered June. ‘The cells are all full, aren’t they, Sarge?’
The sergeant looked the other way. ‘Be off with you,’ he said to Connie, ‘or I might just change my mind and keep you in.’
‘Bye, ladies, and good luck!’ Connie called back as she went out of the door.
‘Did you know you were on the six o’clock news?’ A stony-faced Mrs Conon-MacLeod was hovering in the hallway when Connie returned. ‘Eh had no idea that you’d come all the way up here just to cause trouble, Mrs McColl. Eh do not approve of that sort of behaviour, and eh certainly do not want your sort of person in may guesthouse. Eh would be most obliged if you could vacate your room tomorrow morning. Good nate.’
As Connie headed towards her bedroom she felt that she could hardly blame Mrs Conon-MacLeod for branding her a troublemaker. Some people did, after all, travel around the country purely to stir up trouble. Nevertheless, Connie was not at all sorry for her unplanned part in the demonstration. And it was extremely unlikely that Mrs Conon-MacLeod had ever been ‘bashed aboot’, as June had so vividly put it.
Chapter Eighteen
SHOCK! HORROR!
A newly shaved and showered Roger McColl studied his tanned torso in the bedroom mirror, turning this way and that, and then leaned forward to study his face at close quarters. The whites of his eyes were bright and his skin smooth and evenly tanned. He’d never realised how natural a good-quality fake tan could look. Then he spotted a couple of eyebrow hairs growing where they shouldn’t, so he helped himself to Connie’s tweezers and removed the strays. Now, what to wear? It was important to look good when eating at the club later, particularly as Andrea was on duty tonight.
He’d bought himself a new black cotton shirt and it had taken him forever to release the thing from its cardboard insert and the million pins that anchored it. But it looked so good with his crisp white trousers; a nice combination, he thought. A smooth look, quite continental really. No socks of course, just the soft leather Italian deck shoes he’d treated himself to in Eastbourne.
Roger turned back the cuffs of his shirtsleeves twice, just to expose his wrists and his watch. He took a final look in the mirror. Andrea should be impressed. ‘Cool’, the youngsters would say.
In the kitchen, Roger poured himself a double Gordon’s, added a slice of lime (the proper accompaniment to a gin and tonic), three large lumps of ice and half a can of tonic. It all tinkled and fizzed satisfactorily in his glass. He must try not to spill anything on his prist
ine white trousers, particularly if he hit the red wine later on. Care would have to be taken. Connie was good at removing red wine stains, but he wasn’t. Not yet. Where the hell was she, anyway? Her absence was costing him a fortune in taxis.
Roger carried his drink carefully through to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa, to enjoy the breeze drifting through the open French doors. He looked around. It was a charming room, and he’d finally remembered to water the house plants this week after Lou had come round and read the riot act while she prodded dusty dry compost and disposed of dropped-off leaves. They had survived his earlier neglect and were now looking remarkably perky, rather like he was.
He glanced at his watch. Nearly six o’clock and almost time for the news. As he picked up the remote control he wondered idly what disasters might have befallen the unsuspecting world today.
He sipped his gin and yawned through ten minutes of political arguing and bantering (all as bad as each other; he wouldn’t vote for any of them next time) and then refilled his glass during the seedier details of a murder trial. He was comfortably seated again when a report came on about some nationwide protest concerning the impending closure of a chain of refuges for battered women. Battered women, indeed! He’d never known of any women being battered but the ones who were probably asked for it, marrying violent drunks and druggies, getting stoned themselves.
‘Even as far north as Edinburgh,’ the announcer prattled on, ‘women were making themselves heard and, in some cases, resorting to violence.’
And there, in full view of the nation, was his wife, Constance Mary McColl, dressed in lurid yellow and being arrested while clutching a placard on the end of a pole which proclaimed, ‘Bullied and Battered! But we won’t be Beaten!’
Roger choked, coughing gin all over his white trousers.
At seven o’clock Nick McColl wearily entered the kitchen after a long, hard day at work, exhausted by a client who kept changing his mind about designs and building materials. He found his wife in a state of high excitement; in fact she was practically incoherent.
‘It’s your mother!’ Tess exclaimed. ‘On the six o’clock news!’
‘On the six o’clock news? Are you mad?’
‘No, no, honestly, it was her! She was in a demo for battered women in Edinburgh and she got arrested! It might be on one of the other channels if you scroll around.’
‘My mother!’ Nick glared at his wife in disbelief. ‘Arrested?’ He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Come on, Tess, it’ll just be someone who looks like her.’
‘No, I swear it was your mother. And she’s probably languishing in a Scottish jail as we speak!’
‘Scotland! Bloody hell! Has Dad been on the phone yet? Has he seen it?’
‘No, but Lou has, and she’s absolutely beside herself. She can’t believe your dad would have knocked Connie around.’
‘Knocked Mum around? Don’t be ridiculous – of course he hasn’t!’
‘Well, why would she be protesting then? Tell me that!’
Nick calmed down sufficiently to withdraw an uncorked bottle of Chablis from the fridge and filled the glass to a millimetre short of the rim before collapsing (carefully) onto the sofa with the remote control.
‘That must be why she left home,’ Tess went on blithely. She was obviously enjoying all this, Nick realised with irritation.
‘My dad might have faults,’ he snapped, ‘but bashing women certainly isn’t one of them. There has to be some mistake.’
‘Well, see for yourself.’ Tess busied herself at the range cooker, turning switches on and off while Nick started a news hunt. He finally found the right channel and sat impatiently watching the day’s disasters until, almost at the end, came the report he was waiting for.
‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘It is Mum!’
Just at that moment Lou rang. ‘What are we going to do?’ she wailed.
‘Looks like I’ll have to fly up to Edinburgh and sort this out,’ Nick said with a sigh.
‘There has to be a mistake. And at least now we know where she is. What is she playing at? This beggars belief!’
‘Surely Dad would never hit Mum, would he?’ Lou sounded close to tears. ‘But then why would she be demonstrating? She was dressed the same as the others in yellow, so it must have been planned.’
‘What does Andy think?’
‘Andy thinks it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. He’s nearly wet himself. I don’t know who’s infuriating me most, him or Mum.’
Diana McColl rarely cooked although every conceivable gadget was built into her state-of-the-art kitchen, mostly unused. And she didn’t often watch the six o’clock news either, preferring to catch the headlines on her tablet or on the TV later in the evening when she got home from the wine bar, or the sushi bar or the tapas bar.
Tonight was an exception because Mark was coming to dinner. And Mark was special. She’d met him on a flight returning from Dubai, where he’d been reporting for Channel 4. A nomad, like herself.
Di looked round in despair at the chaos in her normally pristine kitchen as she tried to make head or tail of the recipe.
He’d invited himself, really, after a particularly torrid lovemaking session on the ultra-smart white sofa she’d recently bought from Harrods. ‘I’m sure you’re just as capable in the kitchen.’ She’d been so busy checking the white covers for any tell-tale stains that she hadn’t taken him seriously. However, he kept on and on about it, making her wonder if this was to be some sort of domesticity test.
‘I’ll bring the plonk,’ he added.
If she hadn’t been so keen on the wretched man she’d never have agreed to it. In fact, she couldn’t quite get her head round the fact that a forty-year-old like herself could become so besotted after so many years of warding off unfancied and unwelcome suitors.
She continued to slice garlic while glancing up from time to time at the TV, which was at eye level on the opposite wall. She rather fancied George Alagiah, who was reading the news. And it was purely by chance that she looked up at the exact moment that her mother was being bundled into a police van, in Edinburgh of all places, having been protesting about violent men. Her mother! Bullied and Battered!
Di was so gobsmacked she didn’t even notice that a thin slice of her finger had dropped into the Le Creuset along with the garlic.
Sue Maloney didn’t watch the six o’clock news but her daughter, Laura, did.
‘Hey, Mum, get it on iPlayer or something. You really have to see this; it was your friend, Connie McColl, and she was protesting about abusive husbands!’
‘You must be kidding!’
‘No, I’m not, and you didn’t ever tell me that her husband knocked her about. What was his name, Robert, Reg…?’
‘Roger. His name’s Roger.’
‘Well, Roger then. And doesn’t it just prove that you never really know what goes on in a marriage, do you?’
Sue felt quite faint as she sat down. Her best friend, Connie, had been knocked about! Now that was unbelievable. It was bad enough that Connie had taken off without bothering to tell her, but to have been abused by Roger and never to have mentioned it! There had to be some mistake. Sue feverishly scrolled round the TV channels and news programmes and it took a good hour before she found the relevant item, which she then watched dumbfounded. There was Connie, sufficiently incensed to be carrying a placard and even bashing a policeman over the head with it!
Why had Connie never confided in her? Why on earth did she have to go all the way to Edinburgh to make a protest? Was she too afraid of Roger to do something about it locally? None of it made any sense.
When Dave came in looking for his supper, she realised she’d completely forgotten to turn on the oven or set the table. She was too busy emailing Connie.
Chapter Nineteen
HOME TRUTHS
Connie hadn’t slept well because her overactive mind kept returning to those poor, abused women. The Refuge was only five minutes away fr
om the stony-faced Mrs Conon-MacLeod’s B&B and, as she’d paid her bill the previous evening, she decided to skip breakfast and go straight there.
She introduced herself to the startled and suspicious woman who unlocked the door.
‘Ye’re no from the police, are ye? Are ye from the Social? Have ye an ID?’
Connie did her best to explain. ‘Is June around? Or Julie?’ Or, heaven forbid, were they in the cells?
June eventually surfaced, wrapped in a shabby blue dressing gown with two tiny saucer-eyed girls tagging on behind.
‘Connie! No, we all got away shortly after you left. Lots of lectures and all that, but the police are on our side really.’
‘Well, so am I,’ said Connie, ‘and I wondered if I could make a donation or something?’
‘Aw, Connie, ye’re an angel – isn’t she, girls?’ Two little heads nodded mutely.
So she’d made a donation and signed their petition as well, wishing she could do more to help. She must start buying lottery tickets again; how wonderful it would be to hand over a few million to such a great cause! She’d never understood those wretched people who did win the lottery and then refused to let it change their lives. Why on earth not use it to change someone else’s life then?
‘And is Julie OK?’ Connie asked anxiously.
‘Aye, she’ll be at the hospital. Her wee baby’s due to come home later today.’ June gave her a hug. ‘I’ll tell her ye came.’
Connie spent the rest of the morning parked up in a leafy layby while she sorted through the outburst of emails and texts from her scandalised family, her emotions careering from horror to anger, and to barely controllable hysteria. How could they think that she represented one of the abused women? How could they? Then again she hadn’t actually seen the news item herself. She sent placatory email after email, feeling increasingly fed up about their reactions, before finally calling the Sinclairs.
The Runaway Wife Page 15
