The Runaway Wife

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘You can get a train from Inverness, you know, which would get you down to London.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  Don stared at her for a minute. ‘Don’t you want to go home?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ Connie retorted. Then she added, quietly, ‘I think I might have reached my turning point. Or, more accurately, I think the turning point has been made for me.’

  He continued to regard her quizzically. ‘Turning point?’

  She sighed. ‘I wondered when it was coming, when it would be time to go back.’

  He didn’t speak for a moment. ‘You don’t have to go back yet if you don’t want to. At least, not straight away. I plan to head south at a leisurely pace and you’re very welcome to join me. I’d really like your company. No funny stuff – separate rooms and all that.’

  ‘I’ll be able to think more clearly when I’ve had a sleep,’ she said eventually. ‘But I really should be getting home, I suppose.’ She clutched her head. ‘But what about all my stuff? In your car?’

  ‘Well,’ Don said, ‘I could always drop that off for you when I get back.’

  Connie stared at him, trying to imagine Roger’s face if a good-looking man in a silver Mercedes should drive up with her belongings in his boot. ‘But Sussex is a long way from Cornwall,’ she said after a minute.

  ‘Just as well I like driving then,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  COFFEE BREAK

  Roger had just finished his M&S lasagne when there was a knock on the door. Who the hell is this? he wondered, as he dabbed his mouth with a piece of kitchen towel. And there, standing on the doorstep, was Mrs Henderson in a state of high agitation.

  ‘Oh, Mr McColl, I’m really sorry to bother you but all my electricity’s gone off! I think something must have blown it. Could you possibly spare a minute to have a look?’

  Roger groaned inwardly but supposed he couldn’t very well refuse.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘I may need a torch.’ What had the silly woman done? At least he knew where the fuses would be: in the garage, like everyone else’s in the modern cul-de-sac.

  Roger followed her into the gloomy interior of the garage and shone his torch on the fuses, located the one that had blown and switched it on again.

  ‘There we are,’ he said. ‘That’s all you have to do if it happens again.’

  ‘Oh, Mr McColl, thank you so much! Since my Ed died I dread anything like this happening. He saw to everything, you see.’

  Roger wasn’t sure when her Ed had died, but it was before he and Connie had moved next door. ‘No problem,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve just made a pot of coffee,’ she said. ‘Won’t you come in and have a cup? Please?’

  Roger hesitated. He’d been about to make himself some coffee when she came to the door. He supposed it would be rather churlish to refuse.

  ‘Well, just for a minute then, Mrs Henderson,’ he said, reluctantly following her into the house. Her lounge was a replica of his own, but with lots of dark furniture and countless ornaments. He sat down on a chintz-covered sofa and looked out at her garden while she went to make the coffee. There were military rows of begonias, bordered by equally spaced clumps of alyssum and lobelia against a background of dahlias. The same as last year. Connie hated it, of course. Connie, the great flower expert, liked shrubby, messy, haphazard gardens, but he himself could see nothing much wrong with some precision in the garden, as in life.

  ‘Here we are!’ Mrs Henderson had appeared with a tray bearing two flowery mugs, a cafetière of coffee, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘I do like decent coffee, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ Roger said, surprised at how good the coffee smelled. ‘Just a little milk and one sugar please, Mrs Henderson.’

  She handed him his mug and duly stirred hers. ‘Oh, do please call me Doris. We’ve been living next door to each other for a couple of years now but have never really got to know each other, have we?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘We haven’t. I’m Roger, and my wife is Connie.’

  ‘She’s still away, then?’

  Was it his imagination or was she looking decidedly smug?

  ‘Yes.’ He took a sip. ‘This is very nice coffee, Mrs… er, Doris.’

  ‘Thank you, Roger. Now, just one minute…’ And, with that, she got up and headed back to the kitchen.

  Doris reappeared with a cake. ‘This is my coffee and walnut cake, Roger. Would you like to try a slice?’

  Roger loved coffee and walnut cake! Connie didn’t bake much, and she didn’t like walnuts, so there was little chance of such delicacies at home.

  ‘Thank you, Doris,’ he said, sinking his teeth into a hefty slice. ‘This is delicious.’

  ‘Oh, good. It’s so nice to have someone to share a cake with since my Ed passed away. I usually just make them for the church bring-and-buy sales, you know.’

  Well, this woman could certainly bake! Roger drained his coffee and licked his fingers to transport any remaining crumbs to his mouth.

  ‘Another slice, Roger?’

  ‘No, no, I mustn’t. But that was delicious.’ And I must get to the golf club before a certain person goes off duty.

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m a one-cup man.’

  ‘Aw,’ she said, ‘just like my Ed. He was a one-cup man too. Pity you never knew him; I think you’d have got on well.’

  Roger stood up. ‘I must go now, Doris. Thanks so much for the coffee and cake.’

  ‘Oh, any time, Roger.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  JUST GOOD FRIENDS

  Connie awoke to the hum of an electric razor coming from the bathroom. It took several minutes to get her bearings and check the time. It was only 7.30, but she couldn’t believe she’d been asleep for nearly nine hours. Then she remembered Kermit’s impending demise and her spirits plummeted. Perhaps the poor car could be repaired for a reasonable amount? But, even if that were possible, how confident would she now feel about driving all the way back in it? And was this indeed the sign she’d been waiting for to indicate that it was now time to turn around and go home?

  Don emerged, shaved and fully dressed, beaming. What the hell did she look like? She fought the temptation to pull the duvet over her head knowing that, newly awake and minus make-up, she must look ancient.

  ‘Good morning!’ he said. ‘You certainly needed that sleep, didn’t you?’

  Yawning, she nodded. ‘Did I snore?’

  ‘Not that I heard. Did I?’

  Connie rubbed her eyes. ‘No idea. I’d have slept through an earthquake.’

  ‘Right,’ Don said. ‘I’m going to leave you in peace to get up while I suss out where we can get some breakfast and where the nearest laundrette is. If you’re anything like me you’ve probably got a bag of dirty washing stashed away somewhere.’

  The man’s a mind-reader, she thought.

  ‘So, if you don’t mind sharing a machine with me, we could get all that out of the way this morning. Make a fresh start before we visit your friend Archie.’

  ‘I need to dump half the junk in the boot,’ said Connie, thinking of all the rubbish; empty bags, soiled sandwich wrappers, old gardening shoes (why on earth had she brought those?), and, not least, the deckchair. He must think I’m a bag lady.

  ‘We can do that too,’ he said cheerfully.

  Two hours later, having got rid of Connie’s rubbish (she’d felt particularly sad as the old flowery garden chair was chucked into a container), breakfasted and laundered, they arrived back at Archie’s Garage. To give Archie his due, he’d got the car up on the ramp and was poking around in the innards, tut-tutting.

  Archie climbed out of the inspection pit, shook his head and pulled a face.

  ‘It’s needin’ a new engine, truth be told. Ah can get the parts and patch it up, but it’s going to cost an arm and a leg. And, let me tell you, there’s a lot more that’s going to need doing very soon – the clutch, fo
r one thing. It’d be pouring good money onto bad. Ah widnae drive tae Inverness in it, far less doon tae England. Ye could buy a newer car than this for a lot less than the cost of thae repairs. I’ve a nice wee Fiat round the back that would do ye fine.’

  Connie took a deep breath and shrugged.

  ‘What happens,’ Don asked Archie, ‘if she doesn’t go ahead with the repairs and she doesn’t want your wee Fiat?’

  ‘It’ll have to go to the knacker’s yard,’ said Archie, with narrowed eyes. ‘And Ah wouldnae charge ye for taking it there if Ah could use some of thae bits and pieces for spare parts.’

  There was silence.

  Connie said, ‘I need to think about this and come back to you.’

  ‘So, let’s go and find some coffee somewhere,’ Don said, opening the door of his car.

  They found a tiny roadside cafe about half a mile away.

  Connie stirred her cappuccino thoughtfully. ‘Is he on the level, do you think? Should I get a second opinion?’

  ‘I expect he’ll make a few quid out of it one way or the other,’ Don replied. ‘But you could only use it now as a trade-in, unless you’re prepared for a big bill. Or are you ready to buy another car?’

  She was aware that he was studying her intently; she almost felt those dark eyes boring into her very soul.

  ‘You might want to have a word with your husband?’

  Connie shook her head at this suggestion.

  ‘But you can’t drive all the way back south in that car the way it is. So, you either take the train, look at the Fiat, or you come with me.’

  Connie had picked up her teaspoon and was playing with the froth on the top of her coffee. ‘Can I have a little longer to decide? But I don’t want to interfere with your plans, Don.’

  He shrugged and grinned. ‘I’m at your disposal. Take as long as you need, but we’ll have to do something about the car before too long because I don’t suppose Archie will want to have it sitting indefinitely on his forecourt.’

  After a second cup of coffee they returned to Archie’s Garage, where poor Kermit had been repositioned out of sight down a side lane. Archie had plainly been breakfasting as he emerged from the gloomy depths of his garage, grunting audibly and wiping crumbs from his mouth with oily fingers.

  ‘Ye’re back then.’

  Don was about to step forward. ‘Let me tackle Archie,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No, Don, I have to do this,’ Connie murmured. Then, more loudly, ‘It’s my car.’ I’ve let Roger make almost all of my decisions lately, and it’s high time I did my own thing, she thought.

  Connie turned towards Archie. ‘What will you give me for the car?’

  Archie regarded her with ill-concealed astonishment. ‘Where’s yer man, if we’re talking business?’

  ‘My man, as you call him, is not my man – he’s only giving me a lift. Now, can we talk about my car please, Archie?’

  Archie scratched his chin. ‘It’s only fit for the scrap heap, so it is.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s worth a lot if it’s done up, it’s got an MOT, and two new tyres, one of which I only bought a short time ago. It’s got—’

  ‘I’ll give ye a couple of hundred quid,’ Archie interrupted. ‘Because Ah’m in generous mood.’

  ‘I want five hundred pounds,’ Connie said, remembering her conversation with Nick the day he checked her tyres.

  ‘It’s twenty years old, missus, and it’s falling to bits. It’s only fit for the scrap heap.’

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  ‘If there’s one thing Ah cannae be doin’ with,’ said Archie, ‘it’s an argumentative woman.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘Ye’ll put me out of business, that’s what ye’ll do. Three hundred, and that’s it!’

  ‘Five hundred! You know you can do this car up and sell it on. It’s got low mileage too – look! And it’s a classic!’

  ‘Ah’ll give ye four hundred right now, or else ye can take that car away and dispose of it yersel’. And, let me tell you, that’s a whole lot more than the car’s worth but Ah’m a generous man. Ah’ll be on the dole next week at this rate,’ said Archie. ‘Ah don’t suppose ye have the documents?’

  ‘They’re in the glove compartment and I said you could have it for five hundred,’ said Connie, half wishing she’d never thought to bring the paperwork with her, so she’d have an excuse to delay the parting.

  Archie paid cash; a roll of dirty twenty-pound notes, but five hundred pounds nonetheless. Connie almost wept as she closed Kermit’s door for the last time. It was the end of an era. There was no question about it; she’d involuntarily reached her turning point.

  ‘You probably would’ve got more on a trade-in,’ Don said, as they drove back towards the city, ‘but it would have meant buying another car. I think you did very well there to haggle with a Scottish car dealer!’

  ‘Thanks.’ Connie sniffed. ‘Well, at least I’ve got enough cash for the train fare to London.’

  ‘And that’s what you really want to do?’ Don turned to look at her briefly.

  ‘Right at this moment I don’t know what I want to do. What’s the alternative anyway?’

  ‘The alternative is that I show you round some of Inverness and then we head down Loch Ness-side, through the Great Glen, to Fort William, through some of the finest scenery on the planet.’

  That sounded much more tempting than a twelve-hour train journey and a furious Roger at the other end. A few more days probably wouldn’t hurt. And she was in no particular hurry to face her husband.

  ‘Bring it on!’ Connie grinned.

  Don took her first to Culloden battlefield and told her about the final confrontation of the 1745 Jacobite rising. As Connie walked over the springy turf she wondered how many bodies might lie beneath her feet. War: the inevitable loss of life, the sons who never returned home, the grieving mothers and widows. Connie shuddered.

  Then, Inverness. Connie liked Inverness. She liked the river and the walks on either side of it, and the Notre Dame-style cathedral. But what really knocked her out was the castle – that huge sandstone edifice overlooking the town. The red-coloured castle! She had found it! The castle she’d seen on that camping trip with her parents all those years ago. It was real; her memory had not played tricks! Surely it was fate that had brought her here again! She took several photos hoping that, when she studied them, she might remember other events or places from the distant past. And there, in the castle grounds, was the statue of Flora MacDonald, gazing longingly across the miles from her lofty position towards Skye and her lover, Bonnie Prince Charlie. Connie gazed at her, and the castle in the background, for a long time.

  Don was more concerned about the changes to the city centre. ‘They’ve built a huge shopping precinct!’ he said as they drove round. ‘Marks and Sparks, and all the rest of them! Whatever happened to all the little local shops? And the whole place is twice the size it used to be! Is nothing sacred? My mother would hate it! But Flora there has reminded me of Skye, and the islands. You really should see the west coast.’

  They had a snack at Drumnadrochit where, amidst the ruins of Urquhart Castle on the shore of Loch Ness, they stood spellbound by the lake’s sheer size and magnificence.

  ‘Of course there’s a monster!’ Don teased. ‘You can see it any night of the week after a skinful of whisky!’

  Monster or not, Connie had the sensation that there was a certain magic about this place. She wondered if she’d still feel like that if she were alone, or had her companion got something to do with it? Of course not, she thought; Connie McColl, you’re going soft in the head!

  Then they went on to Fort Augustus with its Benedictine abbey and even more stunning views back along the loch, where the road crossed the canal via a swing bridge. Connie had a glimpse of the staircase of locks for which this part of the canal was famous, then the three smaller lochs that formed the southern part of Thomas Telford’s Caledonian Canal. It was a novelty to be driven, to relax and to be able t
o enjoy her surroundings as they headed towards Fort William.

  ‘I once came up here with wife number two,’ Don remarked. ‘And we had a Godalmighty row right about here somewhere.’

  ‘How could you possibly argue in such a beautiful place?’ Connie asked, gazing at the serene surface of Loch Lochy.

  ‘She could do battle absolutely anywhere,’ Don replied. ‘Particularly after six consecutive days of rain!’

  ‘So you could say that all this sunshine is unusual?’

  ‘You certainly could say that. They must have known you were coming, Connie.’

  Next Don took her to see the splendid and very emotive Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge. ‘Dedicated to the guys of the original British Commando Forces in World War Two,’ he informed her. So many battles, so much sadness, Connie thought.

  They managed to find a small loch-side hotel, set in stunning scenery, just a few miles from Spean Bridge, where, much to Connie’s relief, they were able to have two single rooms. What would Roger say if he could see me now, she wondered, accompanied by a good-looking younger man in a luxury car? He’d never believe they were booking separate rooms.

  ‘We don’t get asked for the singles so much,’ said the pretty young receptionist, studying them with open curiosity. ‘We serve dinner from seven to nine,’ she added, openly flirting with Don. ‘And through yonder, we have a lovely wee bar.’

  ‘I think we’ll definitely be heading for the lovely wee bar,’ said Don as he picked up the keys.

  Tartan carpets and shortbread on the tea tray! Highland Moor soap and Scottish Heather bath oil! A mini-bar with countless miniatures of Scotch and Drambuie! Connie reckoned she could spend a very satisfactory evening in here on her own. She’d developed quite a taste for Rusty Nails, thanks to Bill.

  Later she joined Don in the furthest corner of the lovely wee bar, in the bay window overlooking the loch and the mountains, out of earshot of the other customers and as far distant as they could get from the very bored-looking youth, wiping glasses desultorily, who was plainly only there to earn money during his summer university break.