There were three birthday cards. One, featuring red roses, from Connie; one funny one with two old dears reliving their youth on the front from Kath; and one proclaiming ‘You are 90 today!’ from Huw Davies.
In the middle of the struggle with the porridge Jeannie fell asleep again, waking only when the nurse arrived with her syringe. It was a different nurse from usual and Jeannie had sworn loudly at her because she thought she was Paul’s (long-suffering) wife.
‘She’s just told that nurse to go forth and multiply,’ Connie sighed as she closed the door. And, exhausted by her outburst, Jeannie was asleep again.
She woke again at four o’clock in the afternoon.
‘Are you ready for your champagne, Jeannie?’ Connie asked, as Kath heaved her from the commode back onto the bed.
‘Yes, I am. And has Petronella here got my fag?’
‘You bet,’ replied Kath.
Connie had carried a tray with three glasses, the Silk Cut and an ashtray, while Kath followed behind brandishing the bottle of Bolly. Jeannie’s eyes lit up at the small explosion as Kath pulled the cork and filled the glasses with the fizzy. They propped the old lady up, draped a towel round her neck, and pressed the glass against her lips. And Jeannie took a sip, and then another, and then another.
‘Cheers!’ they said. ‘Happy birthday!’
Kath then removed a cigarette from the packet and lit up. ‘Haven’t done this in bleedin’ years,’ she said, coughing. ‘Here you are, Jeannie.’
‘Oh, thank you, Petronella!’
Connie prayed she wouldn’t try to inhale, which of course she did, followed by a bout of violent coughing. Then she recovered sufficiently to have another sip of champagne.
‘We’re in Singapore, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, of course we are,’ Kath replied.
They were suddenly aware of Jeannie struggling to get out of bed.
‘Where are you going?’ Connie asked anxiously.
‘I have to dance tonight,’ she said crossly. ‘You know that!’
Connie would never forget what happened next. Kath put down her glass, bent over, picked up the old lady and, holding her firmly under the arms, waltzed her round the floor. And Jeannie threw back her head and laughed; a proper throaty laugh. Then Kath laid her down on the bed again, wiped her brow, took a swig of her drink and winked at Connie. ‘Anything to oblige.’
The invalid lay bright-eyed and smiling as Connie pressed the glass to her lips again. She took a tiny sip but declined another puff of the cigarette.
‘I’ve just seen Paul,’ she told them.
‘Oh, good.’
‘The Taj Mahal is so beautiful,’ she said.
‘Blimey!’ muttered Kath. ‘We were in Singapore a minute ago.’
‘Stick around,’ Connie said, ‘and it’ll save you a fortune in air fares!’
Jeannie had fallen asleep again.
They transported everything to the lounge and Kath refilled their glasses.
‘That was a lovely thing you did back there,’ Connie said, ‘Dancing, I mean. That made her really happy.’
Kath snorted. ‘If only she knew! I’ve got two left feet – never been able to dance properly in me life!’
They finished the bottle of Bollinger and, as Kath lay back and dozed, Connie decided to check on Jeannie.
The old lady was lying very still, the ghost of a smile on her face. A breeze had got up and Connie crossed the room to close the window. Then something made her glance at Jeannie again.
She knew, even as she sat down to watch the rise and fall of her chest, that there would be none. Because Jeannie had gone to join the dancers, to drink champagne and to be with her lover.
The doctor signed the death certificate, Huw Davies organised the undertaker and, that evening, Jeannie finally left her much-loved flat. It was late before Connie and Kath finally got round to finishing off the last of Jeannie’s freezer meals, washed down with a bottle of her very good red wine.
Connie had felt sad for only a short time. After all, Jeannie had got her wish. She’d reached her ninetieth, she’d died in her own flat and her passing had been relatively peaceful. Who could ask for more?
‘Shall we open another bottle?’ Kath asked.
‘God, Kath, I’ve had more than enough! But you go ahead if you want.’
Kath opened another bottle. ‘Yeah, well, I’m planning on getting hammered. I keep wondering who’s going to mourn the old girl.’
‘I certainly will,’ Connie replied.
‘Yeah, me too,’ said Kath.
‘I think we made her last days as nice as we could,’ Connie said.
‘Of course we did,’ said Kath. ‘’Cos if she’d been in a nursing home or somewhere they wouldn’t let her have a bit of fun like we did. She’d be told to stop dreaming and they’d try to make her face reality – you know, where she is and what’s happening. Cruel, I call it. Hope that, when my turn comes, I’ll have someone like us around.’
Kath waved the bottle at Connie, who shook her head, before filling up her own glass.
‘Huw Davies said he’d keep us informed,’ Connie said.
‘Don’t like funerals.’
‘No,’ Connie agreed. ‘But at least Jeannie had a good long life.’
‘Not like our boys.’
‘I always hoped there was a heaven,’ Connie said. ‘I wanted to think of Ben riding his bicycle in some sort of celestial paradise.’
Kath gave one of her snorts. ‘He’ll have Jeannie dancing around him now! You don’t really believe in all that, do you?’
‘No,’ Connie replied. ‘I don’t. But I can quite understand that people need to believe their loved ones have gone somewhere. I know I did at the time.’
‘You know what I fancy? Re—, er, re-in—’ Kath was having trouble with words and wine.
‘Reincarnation?’
‘Yeah, that’s it! Maybe Billy’s come back as a motorcycling champion somewhere in the world.’
‘Or a fly on the wall,’ Connie added.
‘Christ, Connie!’
‘Well, maybe there’s a points system. You earn enough for good behaviour in this life, you get a leg-up in the next.’
‘Load of rubbish, all of it!’ said Kath, waving the bottle at Connie. ‘Sure you won’t have a teeny drop more?’
Connie shook her head. ‘It would be nice to think there was a heaven and Jeannie’s up there dancing right now with her Paul.’
‘Wherever she’s gone to, let’s raise a glass to her.’
‘To Jeannie!’
Chapter Thirty-Three
BACKTRACKING
They left the flat at noon the following day.
‘What’ll happen to all this stuff?’ Kath asked, as she packed her bag, looking round at the pictures and the ornaments.
‘Well, I’m taking this,’ Connie said, lifting a framed poster of a young Jeannie in Paris off the wall. ‘I must have a memento.’
‘I’ll just take the gin,’ said Kath, rummaging in the cupboard.
‘And just look at this!’ Connie exclaimed as she tidied up Jeannie’s bedroom. The roses, which had still looked fresh the previous day, had withered overnight. There were dead petals everywhere.
‘Funny, that,’ Kath said.
Huw arrived at midday to lock up and collect the key. ‘I’ll let you know about the funeral just as soon as I know myself,’ he said. ‘And thank you for being here, Mrs McColl and, er—’
‘Call me Connie, please. And this is Petronella.’
The little red car was tightly packed with Kath and her suitcase, Connie’s remaining belongings and Jeannie’s poster wedged in the back seat. The idea had been that they’d leave early; Connie would drop Kath off in Manchester and get to Freddy’s before too late. But, apart from the fact that the solicitor hadn’t appeared until noon, Connie wouldn’t have left any earlier, bearing in mind the amount of wine they’d put away the previous evening.
‘So you’ll spend the nig
ht at my place,’ Kath said. And Connie set the satnav for Packingham Street. They stopped for a meal on the way, and arrived at Kath’s at seven o’clock.
Kath made a large pot of tea, which they drank thirstily, before bringing out the gin bottle.
‘No alcohol for me tonight!’ Connie said. She felt exhausted, physically and emotionally. It had been a tough time – two weeks to be exact. But she’d always be heartened that she’d made that phone call and that she’d decided to stay. Most importantly, she’d followed her own instinct. She was doing that more and more now.
‘A penny for them?’ Kath asked, as she poured orange into her gin.
‘Oh, just thinking about life,’ Connie replied. ‘And how glad I am to have known little Jeannie, and you too, Kath. And how grateful I am that you came to help me – and an old lady you’d never even set eyes on.’
‘Blimey!’ said Kath. ‘It was just nice to be useful.’
‘You were indispensable, Kath.’
They sat in silence for a while, each wrapped in their own thoughts, before Kath asked, ‘What now, Connie?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tomorrow, when you leave here, where are you going?’
‘Oh, I’m going to visit my friend Freddy. He lives down in Gloucestershire and I promised to call on the way back.’
‘Are you putting off going home, then?’
‘Not at all. I’m just seeing everyone on the way back that I saw on the way up. Backtracking, if you like. Makes it neat and tidy somehow.’
‘And then you’ll go home?’
‘Then I’ll go home.’
‘And life will go on as usual?’
‘Oh, no, Kath! Life couldn’t be the same again.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Connie said, hugging Kath the next morning. ‘And that’s a promise. Just as soon as I find out when Jeanie’s funeral’s going to be.’
‘Yeah,’ said Kath. ‘I’d like that.’
As she drove south she thought not only about Jeannie and Kath, but also about Don and everyone she’d met on her travels, all of whom had given her a better understanding of herself. Unknowingly they’d helped to release this new, more determined Connie, less guilty, less dithery. And she thought about her family too and how she longed to see them all. How lucky she really was to have them!
And how lucky she was to have a satnav which guided her, without a hitch, to Freddy’s door.
After he’d hugged her and exclaimed about how well she looked, how tanned she was, and how amazing it was that a car could change from safe-old-green to red-for-danger, he said, ‘Darling! We’ve been desperate to know what you’ve been getting up to! Tell us all!’
Connie, back on the red sofa with red wine, gave them a brief résumé of her adventures, punctuated by hoots of laughter from her hosts.
‘This Don sounds divine!’ Freddy exclaimed. ‘Why on earth did you let him go?’
‘Or, better still,’ said Baz, ‘you could have brought him here with you.’
Connie laughed. ‘It was never going to be a long-term relationship,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t have suited either of us. But we’ll probably stay in touch.’
Freddy hooted. ‘Wonder what the Roger would have to say about that?’
Then she told them about Jeannie.
‘What a lucky old girl she was to have you looking after her while she popped her clogs!’ Freddy remarked.
Connie smiled. ‘Believe it or not, I think I got just as much benefit from it as she did. It reminded me how precious life is.’
‘So, you’re going home?’ Freddy asked, twirling his glass.
‘Yes, tomorrow.’
‘And how long will you have been away altogether?’
‘Must be nearly six weeks.’
‘Do they know you’re coming back?’ Baz asked.
‘Well, they know I’ll be coming back sometime.’
‘Don’t you think you should phone?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Connie replied. ‘I have my key, so I can let myself in if Roger’s out. And I don’t think he’d go so far as to change the locks.’
Freddy raised his eyebrows. ‘And you think this little expedition of yours has changed things in some way?’
‘It’s changed me,’ said Connie. And how! she thought. In fact, it’s changed my attitude to everything. Life is for living, and that’s exactly what I plan to do from now on.
There followed another highly entertaining evening, a wonderful dinner and a few more glasses of wine, before heading for the four-poster again. But sleep eluded her this time, as she tossed and turned, her mind in turmoil. She’d made her decision. She couldn’t, wouldn’t endure this marriage any longer. But how to tell Roger? How could he possibly understand her need to be free? I’m sorry, Roger, but I only came back to tell you I’m not coming back – how ridiculous was that! Roger, I’m sorry but I think we’ve reached the end of the road… This may come as a shock to you, Roger – (would it?) – but I’ve decided I need to be on my own…
He’d probably be pleased to see her back. What if he took her in his arms and told her how much he’d missed her? Perhaps I haven’t been very attentive of late, he might say. I’m so sorry, Connie… What would she say then? Roger, we need to talk… ? Yes, it might be best to tell him gently. After all, they’d been together a very long time and he was the father of her children. She might not want to live with him any more, but she couldn’t bear to think of hurting him.
And how would the family take it? Di would probably understand, Nick would worry and Lou would be furious. Silly old people! she’d say. What does it matter at your age? But it did matter. It mattered very much because the dwindling years that were left were precious, not to be wasted. It would be an enormous wrench, but she had to do it. And somehow or other she had to tell Roger.
Finally Connie drifted off, about three o’clock, into a restless sleep and was quite relieved to get up at eight. She was then persuaded to have one of Freddy’s famous bacon butties, and they begged her to stay for lunch. But Connie wanted to be on the road. She’d stop for a meal on the way, because she wasn’t at all sure of what sort of reception she might be about to get in Sussex.
There was no sign of Doris Henderson as Roger let himself in his front door and dumped his clubs in the hallway. He’d been very tempted to stay on at the golf club to eat but he knew that would mean downing a few beers and then, of course, he wouldn’t be able to drive home afterwards. Life was inconvenient enough at the moment without losing his driving licence. Anyway, Andrea wasn’t on duty today.
He poured himself a generous measure of gin, topped it up with tonic, and then discovered there were no limes. Damnation! There was a wizened-looking lemon lurking in the back of the fridge, so he supposed a slice of that would be better than nothing. Then he opened the freezer door, stared at the rapidly diminishing collection of frozen meals and decided he didn’t fancy any of them. Perhaps he should have picked up some fish and chips again on the way home, but his waistline was continuing to expand as a result of his calorie-filled intake and he was becoming a bit bored with the rowing machine. And golf wasn’t the most energetic game when it came to losing a few pounds. No limes, no dinner! He carried his drink through to his armchair in the sitting room. Perhaps he’d boil a couple of eggs later on. Feeling extremely sorry for himself, he reached for the remote control, when the doorbell rang.
Roger groaned. Who now? Probably Lou again, come to lecture him on keeping the place tidy and watering the plants. He looked guiltily at the sad ficus benjamina exotica on the windowsill.
Drink in hand, he opened the door. He almost dropped the glass. ‘It’s you…’
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE LIBERATION OF CONNIE McCOLL
Connie pulled up outside the hated bungalow. Roger’s car was in the drive, so the inevitable moment of confrontation could be postponed no longer. Would she ever be able to remember her speech? Although she’d been practising it as she drove
along, it was likely that she’d be so nervous it would all come out back to front or she’d forget it altogether. She parked Rosy and walked up the path, noting that the windows needed a clean but at least the grass had been cut.
The door was locked. That was strange, but perhaps he hadn’t felt well and had gone for a lie down? She dug out her key and unlocked the door. The hall was tidy; no discarded shoes or bags, only an expensive-looking leather jacket hanging next to her hoodie. When had he bought that? And where was he? Connie could hear voices, so he must have a visitor. Damn, damn, damn, that was not in the plan. The confrontation might have to wait. She thumbed quickly through the pile of mail on the hall table. She’d deal with that later. And there was a package, containing what could only be a book, from a certain Martin Kerr with an address in Oxford. She realised she’d never known his surname. How lovely that he’d remembered! She would definitely be in touch.
Connie opened the lounge door. But there was nobody there. Then she realised the voices were coming from the bedroom and, as she approached the door, she distinctly heard Roger’s voice asking, ‘Did you hear a noise in the hall just then?’
One of the kids must have come round and perhaps they were decorating the bedroom, which was the only room in which she hadn’t yet dabbled with the Dulux. She’d told them she liked pale yellow, so perhaps they’d got to work while she was away? Maybe they wanted to do something nice for her after all. She wondered if they’d got the colour right; not that it mattered now of course. Hoping that there wasn’t a paint pot directly behind the door, she opened it carefully.
The scene before her eyes would be imprinted in her mind forever. And ever
Every sordid little detail: her husband, Roger McColl, standing there stark naked and regarding her with horror, an impressive erection rapidly dissipating. And, emerging from her bed, which was pushed up right next to his, was this gorgeous, young, bronzed creature, firm of body, long and slim of leg, dark-eyed and Latin-looking. Really bloody beautiful.
The Runaway Wife Page 25
