Connie nodded. ‘We’ve plenty of water.’
‘And we’ve nothing else to do,’ Maggie added.
Very, very slowly Gill raised up her hands to the brim of her hat, then gingerly lifted it off. The entire process reminded Connie of some state unveiling ceremony. Gill had tied up her hair in a topknot, having plainly given up on the beehive. Maggie got to her feet to examine it in detail.
‘God, Gill,’ she said, running her fingers over it. ‘It feels like wire.’
‘It’s only lacquer,’ Gill said with a sniff. ‘It brushes out.’
‘You must be using gallons of the stuff,’ Maggie said as she wrestled to remove several elastic bands, countless hairpins and an elaborate bejewelled hairclip.
‘Why am I letting you do this?’ Gill groaned.
‘Never mind that. We need a brush, a sodding strong one.’
‘There’s one beside my mirror. But there’s no need—’
‘Oh yes, there is,’ Maggie interrupted as she went inside. ‘Although I think I’m going to need one of these wide-toothed metal jobs they use on dogs. Long-haired dogs.’
Gill sniffed again. ‘She’s always having a go at me,’ she said to Connie. ‘I mean, just look at her – you’d think she was some kind of beauty!’
‘Gill,’ Connie said gently. ‘I think it’s because she’s genuinely fond of you and wants you to look your best.’
Gill’s reply was cut short by the reappearance of Maggie, waving a blue brush. ‘This it?’
‘Yeah,’ Gill muttered.
‘I’m not sure where to start.’ Maggie was trying to undo what remained of the topknot. ‘This thing’s starched into position. When did you brush it last?’
‘I don’t remember. Probably a couple of days ago—’
‘You don’t remember! Tell me you’re kidding!’
Smelling trouble, Connie got to her feet. ‘Calm down, you two. I’m going to put the kettle on. Tea? Coffee?’
When she returned with two mugs of coffee, Maggie was still struggling to remove the final tangles from Gill’s hair, with the accompaniment of much swearing and yelling.
‘It’s longer than I thought,’ Connie observed.
‘It was even longer than this,’ Gill informed her, ‘before they cut a couple of inches off in Paris.’
‘And half of what’s left wants chopping off,’ Maggie said, holding a long strand up in the air.
‘No,’ said Gill.
‘You can’t keep on starching that outdated tower on top of your head. Not at your age.’
‘Sixty is the new forty,’ Gill replied.
‘Come off it, Gill! If you’re sixty I’m the Queen of Sheba!’
‘Look, Gill,’ Connie interrupted before they could begin arguing again. ‘Why not just tie it back in a ponytail or something until we get to Avignon?’
‘It’s like bloody straw,’ Maggie continued. ‘Which is down to all that back-combing and spraying you’ve been doing. Look, you’re in the middle of nowhere, so why don’t you just let me cut some off and then we can wash and condition it. If you don’t like it it’ll have grown again by the time we get to Italy.’
After some sighing and lip-chewing, Gill agreed that perhaps an ever-so-tiny, teeny-weeny bit off might be acceptable, until Maggie appeared brandishing the kitchen scissors.
‘You’re not going to use those ruddy great shears!’
Connie was trying to decide whether Gill’s pink face was due to its unaccustomed exposure to the sun, or to plain fury.
‘It’s all we’ve got. Sit still.’
‘I want a mirror!’
‘You can have a mirror afterwards, not now.’ With that Maggie lifted up a length of hair and cut off what appeared to be a good six inches. Connie gasped.
‘What’s she done?’ Gill demanded, watching Connie’s face.
‘I’m cutting off your split ends,’ Maggie replied. ‘All of them, and boy, you’re going to be grateful to me!’ She continued cutting.
* * *
An hour later Gill still wasn’t talking to Maggie.
‘Honestly, Gill, you look years younger already,’ Connie said truthfully. ‘Now, come with me and we’ll wash and condition it.’
This operation involved using the shower, removed from its lofty wall connection, rinsing in cold water, because Connie was anxious to save as much gas as possible, a lot of shrieking and two very wet women.
‘It’s so much easier when you wash your hair while you’re showering,’ Connie remarked, as she sat Gill outside again and towelled her hair. She began to insert giant rollers while Gill, finally allowed a mirror, dabbed at her smudged mascara.
Maggie looked up from her paperback. ‘What that hair of yours needs now is layering.’
‘Don’t let her anywhere near me again!’ Gill yelled at Connie.
* * *
Maggie decided it was wisest to keep out of the way and had been staring, unseeing, at the same page in her book for some time. She was thinking of Alistair, her son in Australia. He’d come back with his Aussie wife and their two tall tanned teenage daughters a year ago, and had rented a flat because there wasn’t enough room in Ringer’s place for the four of them. And anyway, Alistair didn’t go too much for Ringer. Never had. This, in spite of the fact that it was Ringer who’d fed and clothed him after Dave’s untimely demise. Alistair had left the flat as soon as he got the place at Bristol and rarely came back, preferring instead to spend the holidays with university friends.
Maggie loved her son dearly but later realised, and always regretted, that she’d given less of her time and attention to him than she had to Ringer. Then she’d been heartbroken when Alistair emigrated to Australia. For a time, she nurtured the hope that she and Ringer might go out there too, but it had to be on a boat because Maggie was terrified of flying. Twenty-something hours – absolutely not! However, there was no way either that Ringer would even contemplate the idea, not even for a holiday. Weeks and weeks it would take them to get there on a bloody boat, he’d ranted, and weeks to get back again. London was where he wanted to be and London was where he was staying.
This was not the first time he’d been unfaithful, far from it. Somehow or other she’d always managed to forgive him, take him back, make excuses for him. ‘It’s just his nature,’ she’d explained to her friend, Pam. Pam said it would always be his nature and the older he got the more he’d be lusting after young flesh. She told Maggie she should get out, right now, and not wait until she got ditched. And he was a bad lot anyway, everybody knew that.
When Maggie retired from her office job and was at home for most of the day, she became aware of Ringer’s comings and goings – particularly the goings. The more she was available for him, the less he seemed to want her. After a while, her hurt turned into anger and she even began to consider moving out. She hadn’t much money of her own and hadn’t felt ready, either mentally or physically, to consider a retirement complex, complete with wardens and batty old ladies. Even battier than the ones she was with now.
* * *
They found the layby so peaceful that they camped there for a day and a half and saw no one. The only sound came from distant traffic and their sole visitor was a large black and white cat who arrived from nowhere, staying only long enough to purr with enthusiasm while they fussed and petted him. Then, turning up his nose at the proffered milk, he stalked away through the hedge and disappeared.
‘That’s cats for you,’ Maggie grumbled, pouring the milk away. ‘Full of appreciation.’
‘He must belong to somebody round here,’ Gill remarked. ‘But we haven’t seen a soul.’
‘At times that was just as well,’ said Connie, remembering their expeditions, armed with toilet roll, round nearby trees and hedges.
‘It’ll be a bumper year for crops,’ Gill observed.
‘We’ll find a proper campsite next time,’ Connie said. ‘With electricity and hot showers.’
‘And nice, flushing loos,’ Maggie adde
d.
* * *
It was agreed that no trip through Burgundy would be complete without a visit to a winery. It was also agreed that, since there would hopefully be a great deal of ‘tasting’ of the local produce, they probably shouldn’t be driving. Much to Connie’s relief, Maggie offered to be in the driving seat. She’d save her taste buds for any samples they might acquire – and only when they stopped for the night.
They set off dreaming of dark, damp underground cellars, stacked with barrels of local nectar, little pipettes at the ready. Connie had done her research and knew that they’d be given the cheapest wine to sample first before the quality would improve. They should spit them all out, of course, which Connie had no intention of doing.
Then they discovered three things. Firstly, they should have booked tours and tastings months beforehand; secondly, the well-known wineries didn’t particularly welcome visitors (why would they when they could sell more than they could produce?) and, thirdly, the very few that did have signs outside welcoming visitors only welcomed them mid-morning or late afternoon. Plainly nothing must interfere with lunch.
Just when they’d given up hope of finding anything, they came across a tiny, ancient, rustic winery with a scrawled sign outside proclaiming, ‘Bienvenue les Visiteurs!’ Maggie pulled in to what had to be the car park but seemed to contain mainly agricultural vehicles and machinery.
The tiny man inside was equally ancient and rustic, and spoke no English. He did, however, deliver a torrent of very fast French along with much tapping of his watch and shrugging of his shoulders.
‘I think he probably wants his lunch,’ Maggie said.
‘Then why’s he left that sign outside?’ asked Gill.
Maggie grinned. ‘Are you going to ask him or shall I?’
The cellar, l’homme ancien indicated, pointing at a large trapdoor in the floor, was fermé. Then he indicated a selection of bottles on the dusty shelves.
‘We want to taste!’ said Connie. ‘Goûter!’
‘Taste!’ Gill shouted, clearly of the opinion that if you spoke loud enough, foreigners would understand you.
They all made smacking noises with their lips, but he was having none of it. Did he expect them to buy a bottle without even tasting it?
‘Non!’ said Connie. ‘Non, merci!’ She turned towards the other two. ‘Time to move on, I think.’
‘There was a nice-looking restaurant in that village we passed a couple of miles back,’ Maggie remarked. ‘And it had a sign outside, in English, about sampling their incredible selection of wines.’
‘Sounds like us,’ said Connie.
* * *
‘We’ll continue heading due south,’ Connie informed Maggie later, replete with boeuf bourguignon and several glasses of wine, as she flattened out the creases on their map. ‘And I’d like the next stop to be somewhere near the Gorges du Verdon, which I’ve been reading about.’
‘What on earth is that?’ Gill asked.
‘It’s France’s answer to the Grand Canyon, I believe,’ Connie replied.
Connie had read that the Gorges du Verdon were considered to have some of the most dramatic scenery in all of France, particularly if you were kayaking, a fact she couldn’t resist mentioning to the other two. And, because it was a tourist spot, there should be lots of campsites around. Not only that; it was well on the way to the Mediterranean and the Côte d’Azur.
‘What about Avignon?’ asked Maggie. ‘I’ve always wanted to dance on that bridge.’
‘We’ll get there somehow if it’s only to see you do just that,’ Connie replied.
Maggie got into the driving seat while Gill remained behind, surveying herself in her hand mirror and running her fingers through her newly shorn locks. Although Gill wouldn’t have admitted it to Maggie, Connie was sure that she was quite taken with her new image. To emphasise the fact, Connie said, ‘I can’t get over how young that haircut makes you look, Gill.’
Maggie snorted. ‘When did you say your birthday was?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Gill, putting down the mirror. ‘But it happens to be in a fortnight’s time.’
‘We should be in Italy by then,’ said Connie.
‘And what age did you say you were going to be?’ Maggie asked as Bella’s engine roared into life.
‘I didn’t,’ Gill snapped from behind. ‘But, since you obviously want to know, I’ll be sixty.’
‘And the rest,’ Maggie murmured as they drove away. ‘Perhaps the shorter haircut will allow some fresh air to reach her befuddled brain.’
There was less traffic on the road than previously and, after agreeing the route, Maggie kept Bella at a steady fifty miles per hour in the slow lane while cars and trucks overtook at breakneck speeds. All except one.
* * *
After about thirty minutes Maggie said, ‘Connie, can you see a car behind us in the door mirror?’
Connie squinted out of the window. ‘Yes, why?’ she asked.
‘Because,’ Maggie replied, ‘it’s the only vehicle in the whole of France that hasn’t tried to overtake us.’ It was maroon coloured and it was a Lexus. She couldn’t make out the registration, but it was British, and doubtless not the registration he used to have. And it was driven by a solitary man. She began to feel her hands become sweaty on the wheel and palpitations hammering in her chest.
‘It’s probably some old Frenchman out to buy his paper or play boules.’
They drove along in silence for some miles.
Then they saw the sea of red braking lights ahead, and all the traffic filtering across into the slow lane. A green van had moved into the space between the Lexus and Bella.
It took twenty minutes to crawl to the point, about three hundred yards ahead, where a Renault and a Toyota had concertinaed into each other. The two drivers were arguing furiously with extravagant arm waving, whilst a solitary gendarme rationed the flow in both directions. As Maggie approached, the car in front was waved through before he raised his hand to them in a stop sign.
Maggie had to lose Ringer. If it was him. She took a deep breath, ignored the gendarme and accelerated past.
‘God, Maggie, he might have our number! Why on earth did you do that?’ Connie asked.
‘He hasn’t got time to make a note of it and I’d had enough of crawling along,’ Maggie replied as the traffic gathered speed. That had to be Ringer, but how could he know…?
Gill, who’d been dozing behind as usual, leaned over their seats. ‘What’s all the bloody noise about?’ she asked. ‘You woke me up.’
* * *
The scenery was becoming much more dramatic and Connie, programming the satnav and studying the map, said, ‘I reckon we’re getting pretty close to where we want to be. We’re definitely east of Avignon, near Manosque. There’s a sign ahead showing “Caravan Sites”, plural. Should we turn off, do you think?’
‘Yes, we should,’ said Maggie, who had cramp in her left foot.
They drove into a valley bordered with enormous hedges of hydrangeas, ranging from palest to deepest pink and cornflower blue.
‘Unbelievable!’ exclaimed Connie. ‘When I think of how I used to be so proud of mine when they got up to waist height! And I thought they thrived on sea air, but we’re not that close to the sea here.’
At the entrance to each caravan site there was a sign advertising yet another further on. When they reached the fourth, and the signs had run out, Maggie decided it was safe to park. The signs at the entrance, in German, French, Italian and eccentric English, informed them of ‘Good Rates per Nicht – Every Fassility’.
‘I think we’ll have a nicht or two here,’ Maggie said in her most pronounced Scottish accent.
‘Must have known you were coming,’ said Connie.
Ten
A NEW ADMIRER
Gill insisted they parked close to the toilets, showers, shop and cafe, with ample space to erect their awning and set out the table and chairs. As Maggie massaged her cramped toes, Connie wat
ched a British-registered Land Rover expertly reverse an enormous caravan into the next-door space.
‘He’s done that before a few times,’ Maggie remarked.
They’d just sat down outside on their canvas chairs with a bottle of wine when their new neighbour appeared.
‘Lawrence Portland-Smythe at your service! Just call me Larry,’ he announced. ‘Lieutenant-Colonel, retired. Haw, haw!’ He was tall and tanned, with closely cut white hair and a bristling moustache. And not a day under seventy. The three gazed at him in amazement.
‘I’m taking the old gal down to the Med. Planning to leave her there for the summer.’
‘Your wife?’ Connie asked.
‘No, no! Haw, haw! No, she passed away years ago; tripped over the cat, hit her head on the walnut chiffonier – a goner. Bit of a shock at the time.’
‘Yes, I imagine it was.’ Connie exchanged glances with the other two.
‘No,’ Larry prattled on, ‘I’m talking about Felicity – Felicity’s my mobile home.’ He indicated the monster next door. ‘I say, I seem to have mislaid my bottle opener. Wonder if I could perhaps borrow yours?’
‘Why not join us?’ Gill had suddenly come alive.
‘I say, that’s awfully decent of you. Don’t mind if I do. Let me get my bottle.’
As he bounded off to find his wine Connie said, ‘Honestly, Gill, do we want to hear him blathering on all evening?’
‘He’s probably lonely,’ said Gill.
‘Well, you’d do all right if you could snare him,’ said Connie. ‘You could stay with Felicity down at the Med all summer!’
‘And invite your friends,’ added Maggie. ‘Haw, haw.’
Larry reappeared brandishing a very expensive bottle of wine.
‘Better have our naff stuff first,’ suggested Maggie, pouring him a glass. ‘I’m Maggie, and that’s Connie, and this here is Gill.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Gill with a glint in her eye.
The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 9
