Wendy answered the phone. ‘Connie! I don’t believe it! Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Roger’s not with you? Oh, do come to see us and let us know what you’ve been up to!’ Connie breathed a sigh of relief that they obviously hadn’t seen her television appearance.
There followed detailed information as to their whereabouts, which Connie dutifully wrote down word for word, knowing she might well get lost anyway. Which, of course, she did, but she found the general area, and a friendly road-sweeper directed her, with great precision, for the final few miles.
When she arrived, she saw that Wendy and Bill had found themselves another Victorian semi, in a tree-lined road of solid, grey, stone houses.
‘Oh, Connie, it’s so good to see you!’ Wendy hugged her tightly. ‘Come in, come in! Bill’s bowling but he’ll be back shortly. And I hope you’re going to stay the night now we have some spare bedrooms?’
She led Connie into a large open-plan living area, littered with books, newspapers and countless colourful wonky pots. ‘I’ve taken up pottery,’ she explained. ‘Keeps me out of mischief while Bill’s at the bowling green.’ She removed a huge ginger cat from the settee. ‘Sit down, Connie. Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee, please, Wendy.’
Wendy looked older, of course, but she was lively as ever and she’d even acquired a trace of a Scottish accent.
Connie got scolded, as she knew she would, for not letting them know she was coming and for wasting money on B&Bs. They then exchanged all the family news while they drank their coffee. Wendy, forever the diplomat, asked nothing about Roger.
Connie grinned. ‘You’re dying to ask why Roger isn’t with me, aren’t you now?’
‘No doubt you’ll tell me in your own good time.’
At this point Bill appeared; much greyer, bespectacled, but otherwise little changed.
‘Connie McColl!’ he bellowed, enveloping her in a bear hug. ‘How great to see you, and you haven’t changed a bit! What on earth brings you up here? Is Roger with you?’
‘No, he’s not,’ Wendy cut in. ‘And we were just coming to that.’
Bill pulled a face. ‘Oops! Have I come in at a bad time?’
‘Of course not!’ Connie laughed. ‘I can tell you both my woes, such as they are.’
Bill consulted his watch. ‘Is it time, do you think, for a wee drop of the hard stuff?’
Wendy rolled her eyes. ‘It’s only half past five!’
‘Well, it’s half past six in Europe and we’re all very European these days. Don’t like to think of them opening their bottles over there while we just sit here looking at the clock.’
‘No, I’m fine with coffee,’ Connie said. ‘But perhaps later, since your wife insists I stay the night.’
‘Of course you’re staying the night! Stay as many nights as you like!’
There followed a refill of coffee, a passing round of shortbread and some general chat before Connie said, ‘Well, I just decided to up and leave, you see. Looking back now it might seem to have been a silly thing to do, without warning them. But I needed to get away for a bit and, if I’d given them advance notice, I know they’d have talked me out of it. Roger would have made his annual suggestion of a holiday in Spain, where he could play golf in the sun all day.’
Then Connie told them about Roger becoming increasingly distant, about the endless babysitting, and about the hated bungalow. She told them no one talked about Ben any more, no one remembered the anniversary of his death (‘except you, bless you, Wendy’). Or, if they did, they chose not to acknowledge it. Perhaps they thought it might upset her and probably she was being oversensitive. And she knew, only too well now, how fortunate she was to have a secure home and a family close by. They must think she was very, very silly.
‘No,’ said Wendy. ‘I don’t think you’re silly at all.’
‘It strikes me Roger’s the silly one here,’ Bill said. ‘Let’s face it, kids generally take their parents for granted. If ours lived nearer I know we’d be roped in for constant babysitting duties too. But I like to think that Wendy and I would sometimes do it together. But you have to draw the line; you have your own life to lead, Connie.’
‘That’s just the thing,’ Connie said, ‘I haven’t. Not until now. Since we’ve both retired Roger’s been at the golf club nearly all day and every day, and I’ve either been babysitting or staring at the four walls, every one of which I painted myself. I do a bit of floristry occasionally, but that’s it. I’m becoming a dull old crone.’
Wendy patted her arm. ‘You? Never! Please forgive me for saying this but, when it comes to being dull, Roger takes some beating.’
‘Wendy!’ Bill exclaimed.
‘You know it’s true!’ Wendy snapped. ‘He and Connie have always been as different as chalk and cheese. There’s nothing wrong with Roger as such, but you know that people are either classed as drains or radiators? Well, Roger’s drained you, Connie, and you’ve let him.’
‘For God’s sake, Wendy!’ Bill was looking embarrassed.
‘No, Bill, Connie needs to hear this. And it all stems from Ben’s death.’
‘Ben?’
‘Yes, Ben. Before Ben died you were assertive and self-assured.’ Wendy leaned forwards and took Connie’s hand. ‘I’m not suggesting for one moment that a tragedy like that doesn’t knock the stuffing out of you. I don’t think I could have coped at all. But it’s a long time ago now, Connie, and you’ve been a general dogsbody ever since. And it’s high time you stopped. Is it because you still feel some sort of guilt about Ben’s accident?’
There was a silence before Bill said, ‘Bugger it all. Time we had a wee Scotch and something. Drambuie perhaps?’ He got up to go in search of the bottles.
Wendy was still gripping Connie’s hand. ‘Because,’ she said, ignoring her husband, ‘you did feel guilty; I remember that. And it wasn’t your fault; there was absolutely nothing you could have done.’
She passed a box of tissues to Connie but made no other acknowledgement of the tears that had begun to trickle down Connie’s cheeks and drip from her chin. ‘That man was drunk, Connie, he should not have been driving.’
Connie blew her nose. ‘I know, I know. But I shouldn’t have sent Ben out to get me that loaf. A loaf, for God’s sake! I could have done without the bloody loaf!’
‘He’d probably have gone out on his bike anyway, like he did every day. And why did he take off his helmet the moment he was out of sight? He knew he was supposed to wear it. But it wasn’t the cool thing to do, was it? None of his mates wore helmets. That’s how kids are.’
Connie swallowed. ‘But—’
‘But nothing, Connie! You’ve been beating yourself up about it ever since, you know you have.’
Bill returned with the drinks. ‘You came on a bit heavy there, love,’ he said, giving Wendy a reproving frown before he turned to Connie. ‘This is a Rusty Nail.’ He placed the glass directly in her hand. ‘It’ll make you feel better in minutes.’
Connie took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through her veins. This was an OK way to drink Scotch. A Rusty Nail… Had she herself become like some sort of nail? She had certainly been holding everyone and everything together since the family tragedy, while her own self was being eaten away. Had her willingness to be at everyone’s beck and call really been a way of trying to pay for Ben’s death? Had she been punishing herself? And for what? Of course it hadn’t been her fault but, year after year, she had had that vague feeling that she’d failed to protect Ben. She thought again of Kath in Manchester and her boy killing himself ‘on that bleedin’ bike’. Kath didn’t feel guilty, why would she? Why would Connie? Why would anyone? Roger certainly wouldn’t.
‘Maybe there’s some truth in what you say,’ Connie conceded, taking another sip. ‘This is very nice.’
‘Can’t beat Scotch and Drambuie – Scottish nectar,’ Bill pronounced.
Wendy took a sip and made a face. ‘It’s a bit early for this, Bill. But, Connie
, it did need saying. You’re a lovely person and you’ve still lots of living to do. Just make sure you do it.’
Several hours later, after a takeaway curry and some beer, Connie entertained her hosts by recounting her escapades since leaving Sussex.
‘You see, you really started having fun when you got away from home,’ Wendy said. ‘You’re going to be able to write a book at this rate. What else do you plan to do?’
‘Well, as the saying goes, you might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. So I’m planning on continuing to head north and having a look at the Highlands before I go home.’
‘That’s if you decide you want to go home,’ Bill said, chuckling.
‘Oh, I expect I will.’ Connie was aware she didn’t sound very certain. ‘I’m missing the kids and the little ones a lot, you know.’
‘And what about Roger?’
‘Well, I think we really need to talk, Roger and I. Really talk. We need to thrash out what’s gone wrong with our marriage, and it’s probably as much my fault as Roger’s.’
‘Why?’ Wendy asked. ‘Here you go blaming yourself again. Why shouldn’t it be Roger’s fault?’
Connie shrugged. ‘I should have insisted that we sit down and talk everything through long before now. But perhaps I haven’t cared enough.’
‘And perhaps that answers your question,’ Bill said.
Connie woke early, feeling calm and more convinced than ever that she’d done the right thing in getting away. Wendy knew she was guilt-ridden and Connie remembered that, when leaving Sussex, she’d vowed to renounce all feelings of guilt. Perhaps she hadn’t even realised that, for twenty-three years, she’d been harbouring a different sort of guilt. She didn’t know. But yesterday’s conversation had been cathartic, if a little brutal. And she knew now that she’d only go back home when she was good and ready, and that finally she’d be prepared to confront Roger about their relationship.
But she still hadn’t reached her turning point yet, so today she’d head for the Highlands.
‘I tried to get her to stay another night,’ Wendy said as they watched the little green car turn the corner and out of sight.
Bill put his arm round her. ‘I think she’s finding some comfort in keeping on the move.’
‘Was I wrong to say those things to her, Bill?’
‘No, of course not. They needed saying. I never cared much for Roger. And he left her pretty well alone at the time of Ben’s death, just buried himself in work, as I remember.’
‘That was his way of dealing with it. Roger’s not a chatty, touchy-feely sort of person, but he’s good and dependable.’
‘Well, I always thought he was a little odd.’
‘Oh, you’re always saying people are odd.’
‘Only if they are, my love.’
‘Well, there’s nothing odd about Connie. I think she should have set off on this sabbatical of hers years ago. And do you know what? She insisted on buying one of my pots, the one with the wee birds on it. She loved it, and insisted on giving me a fiver for it.’
‘And you say there’s nothing odd about her? Perhaps she’s dafter than I thought,’ laughed Bill.
Chapter Twenty
ONWARDS AND UPWARDS
Connie drove across the Forth Road Bridge, thrilled with the views of the Firth and the imposing red-painted railway bridge alongside. It was so vast and she couldn’t imagine how they’d ever found enough paint to cover it the first time round. She headed up the A9, bypassing Perth, and stopped for lunch in Pitlochry, resisting the kilts, the shortbread, the diamond-patterned cashmere and the unbelievable array of Scotch whiskies on display everywhere. She was becoming seriously concerned about money and the continual depletion of her bank account. She’d need to spend many more nights under the stars to continue her travels, if she could only find somewhere suitable.
The further north she ventured the cooler it was becoming, the summer heat having waned somewhat, but it was still fine and clear and Connie drank in the superb views of the mountains, the heathery hillsides and the fast-flowing peat-brown rivers, which she imagined were literally teeming with trout and salmon. None of your farmed stuff round here. But, even in the midst of such beauty, she found herself, as usual, sandwiched between towed caravans, motorhomes, family-filled cars, cyclists and the inevitable quota of juggernauts. She had plenty of time to take in her surroundings and she found herself looking for castles, particularly searching for that red-coloured castle she felt sure she’d seen on the holiday with her parents so long ago. And the more she thought about it the more convinced she was that it was on top of a hill. There were a few greyish ones, and a white one at Blair Atholl, but nothing red. Well, she’d probably imagined it anyway. How could she possibly remember something clearly from more than sixty years ago!
She had just been cut up by one obviously-bent-on-suicide white van driver, causing her to brake sharply, when she saw a young couple walking ahead on the grass verge. She motored on until she found somewhere to pull in, and then she waited. There was something oddly familiar about the boy.
She got out of the car.
‘Harry!’
‘Connie – jeez, I don’t believe it!’ Harry dropped his rucksack and ran forward to hug the astounded Connie. ‘You still stretching those wings of yours, then?’
‘You bet I am!’ laughed Connie, ‘and you’re still walking!’
Harry’s companion, all huge blue eyes and curly dark hair, was standing to one side, staring in curiosity.
Harry finally released Connie and re-joined his companion. ‘Hey, Connie, this is Nyree! Nyree, this is Connie; you remember I told you?’
Nyree smiled broadly. Connie had never seen so many pretty, evenly shaped, pearly white teeth.
‘Great to meet you, Connie! Any chance of a lift?’
‘Jump in!’ said Connie.
Harry’s friend hadn’t shown up in Stratford-upon-Avon so he’d headed on to Coventry where Nyree, who was from New Zealand, was visiting some relatives, and where Harry overnighted in a nearby youth hostel. They’d fancied each other on sight at the local Pizza Express (who said romance was dead?), got chatting and decided to get together.
‘We’ve been to some great spots,’ said Harry. ‘Derbyshire Peaks, Liverpool, even Gretna Green…’
Connie gave a brief account of her own adventures before asking, ‘And where are you heading now?’
‘We’re looking for somewhere to camp out tonight,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve invested in a little tent.’
‘And a Primus!’ Nyree giggled.
‘Well,’ said Connie, ‘I was thinking along much the same lines myself. If I promise not to come too near your tent, do you think we could share a field or something?’
They stocked up with beer, wine and groceries at a tiny roadside petrol station.
As they stowed their purchases in the boot, Harry patted the car and said, ‘This old thing’s still going strong then?’
‘Fingers crossed,’ said Connie.
They finally decided to drive down a rough track, sheep scattering in all directions, towards a small copse, where Kermit could be hidden from the road. It was quiet and peaceful, but Connie thought fondly of her little green oasis by the river.
‘I daresay we’re trespassing,’ she remarked. ‘These sheep must belong to somebody.’
‘What the hell,’ said Harry.
‘Exactly,’ said Connie, as she unloaded the boot.
‘So, time for a cuppa?’ Nyree suggested.
‘Queen of the Primus!’ Harry held up a mug. ‘Fancy tea, Connie?’
They drank their tea before the two youngsters began to erect their little tent, and Connie found a sheltered spot to lay out her sleeping bag, which had been lurking in the depths of Kermit’s boot ever since her departure from the riverside idyll. Later they dined on cooked chicken quarters and mixed salad off paper plates, washed down by a bottle of Merlot.
‘Nicest meal I’ve had in ages.’ Connie licked her fin
gers.
‘You sure you’re going to be OK all night out in the open?’ Harry asked as he gathered up the debris into a plastic bag.
‘You bet,’ said Connie.
There were no visitors or intrusions of any kind. The sheep kept a respectful distance although some bleating during the night woke Connie from a dream in which she was aware of a presence, undefined except for blue, blue eyes, protecting her. She lay, gazing up at the stars, for a very long time, unable to get back to sleep, trying to recall how they looked. And felt.
Although Connie sometimes struggled to remember her parents clearly, she had a sensation of once being held by her mother, a soft blur of smiling blue eyes and lily-of-the-valley perfume. Scent – it was always called scent back then. And her father, more remote, in his scratchy policeman’s uniform with the silver whistle that blew such a shrill note, so different from the deep tone of his dark brown voice with its Geordie accent. Here again she felt their presence very strongly, just as she had done in her riverside idyll.
She could remember seeing her mother, in that long red dress, saying something like ‘we won’t be very late’ to the babysitter as Connie hovered at the top of the stairs in her nightie, clutching Pod, her teddy. She’d no idea how he came to be called Pod.
Her parents’ car, returning from the police ball that night, had been sliced in two when a truck, with its half-asleep, beer-sodden driver, had veered across the road and hit them full on. No one thought of drink-and-drive regulations back then. More likely he was persuaded to have ‘one for the road’ when he tried to leave the pub.
Twice Connie’s life had been shattered by irresponsible drivers.
It had taken little Connie some time to digest the fact that ‘Mummy isn’t coming back’. But of course, there was instantly the question: what to do with a sad little five-year-old orphan? Enter Uncle Bill, with those blue eyes so like her mother’s. ‘She can come to live with our brood,’ he’d said kindly, before disappearing back to Nigeria and the oil for months on end. Aunt Lorna did her best, and Connie eventually adapted to being the ‘extra’ family member.
The Runaway Wife Page 16
