The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read

by Dee MacDonald

They felt marginally less inebriated after large plates of pasta.

  After they’d settled the bill, they strolled back towards the harbour to await the next boat back to Santa Margherita. As they had some time to kill, they ambled around a couple of waterside boutiques.

  ‘Beautiful!’ sighed Connie as she gazed at a display of very simple, beautifully cut linen dresses.

  ‘Two hundred quid!’ Gill spluttered after finally finding a price tag.

  ‘I’ve told you both before,’ Maggie said patiently, ‘that if either of you want one, you can have it. And I’ve already bought those two in Nice, so I’ve set the ball rolling.’

  ‘And it’ll soon be your birthday, Gill,’ Connie added, winking at Maggie; but then she remembered she was determined not to buy anything else with Maggie’s ill-gotten gains.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t—’

  Whatever Gill couldn’t do was interrupted by a voice shrieking, ‘CONNIE!’

  Connie swivelled round to find herself face to face with Carol. Oh God! Connie was horror-struck; was the boyfriend around too? And what if it was Ringer? But there was no escape.

  ‘Oh, Carol,’ she said limply.

  ‘Well, what a coincidence!’ Carol exclaimed. ‘So you got here after all?’

  ‘Oh, we did.’ Connie gulped and looked uncertainly at the other two, who were gaping open-mouthed at the new arrival. ‘Where’s, er, the boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not much interested in shopping. He’s having a beer up the road there. Say, why don’t you all come and join us? You are all together, aren’t you?’ She looked questioningly at Maggie and Gill.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Maggie got in quickly. ‘I’m Edna, and this here is Violet.’

  ‘Well, great to meet you, ladies!’

  ‘And we’re just about to leave,’ Connie added, as she saw the boat approaching.

  ‘Oh, what a shame! Never mind, perhaps we’ll bump into you again somewhere,’ Carol said cheerfully. ‘Are you staying nearby?’

  Before Connie could dream up a reply, Maggie said, ‘Connie, Violet and I are heading for Venice.’

  ‘Venice!’ Carol exclaimed. ‘Oh, wow! But that’s right across the other side of the country, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Maggie confirmed. ‘It’s a long drive, but we have a nice big Volvo.’

  ‘Well, enjoy!’

  ‘Oh, we will,’ Connie said. ‘But we must go now. Come on Edna, Vi!’

  ‘That was a near-miss,’ Maggie said later, as the boat departed for Santa Margherita.

  ‘If it was him, or them,’ Connie said.

  Gill sniffed. ‘After all, like Connie said, there must be no end of British blondes chasing around here with older blokes…’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Maggie said impatiently. ‘But I have a feeling about this one.’ She tapped her nose.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gill continued. ‘Even if it was Ringer with her, we’ve certainly put him off the scent. Edna, Violet, ha, ha! Venice! And a Volvo! That was quick thinking, Mags. I have to hand it to you!’

  ‘If it was Ringer,’ Maggie said sadly, ‘he probably won’t believe any of that.’

  * * *

  As the train headed towards Genoa, Maggie, deep in thought, was only dimly aware of Connie phoning Bruno to ask for transport from the station. She was mulling over how she’d certainly underestimated Ringer’s charms if a stunning-looking woman like Carol had found him attractive. If it was Ringer, he must have spun her some sort of tale about being a business magnate, perhaps. Money always helped. And he must still have plenty of it if he was able to swan around France and Italy, and probably pay the bimbo’s fare to come out to join him. She could just hear him. ‘I’m bored down here on my own, babe! All business, no pleasure. Why don’t you fly down and join me for a few days?’ He’d be missing his nookie. And, if it was him, he was probably becoming bored, having lost sight of his prey since Avignon. And it might be difficult for Connie to think of Carol as the bimbo, but that was what she damned well was.

  Unfaithful bastard! Maggie’s feelings, originally of sadness, then anger and, lately, indifference, now rotated to her own inadequacy. Carol was thirty years younger, and a looker. With two breasts and great hair. What’s not to love, and how could I compete? It was a no-brainer; of course he would choose the bimbo. Thirty-eight years of Maggie’s support, devotion and covering up for him meant absolutely nothing. She was old and dull and needed to be replaced.

  She scorned self-pity, but nevertheless she felt a tear rolling down her cheek. She dabbed at it and blinked furiously. She was not going to cry for that bastard, only for her lost youth. What she couldn’t understand was why the police hadn’t yet caught up with him. She listened to the BBC news daily and surely the authorities would have checked ports and airports. He was probably even driving his own car! How the hell had he got away with it?

  * * *

  Bruno and the red Alfa were at the station in Genoa to collect them. ‘Is not far,’ he informed them, ‘but no bus.’ As he drove along he told them that he and Stefano had been together for nearly ten years. They used to have a little bar in the centre of the city but they’d saved, and then Stefano’s father had died and left some money just at the time that La Gioia had come on the market. It was surely meant to be! But it had been a dreary place, off the beaten track, with a terrible chef. There was a great deal of eye-rolling to illustrate this fact.

  Now Bruno’s brother was the chef and the place was full nearly every single night! And they were expanding; there was the little caravan park, and four bedrooms for letting also. And soon there would be showers, and the shop, and a swimming pool. Next year! And did they know that here in Liguria grew the best basil in all of Italy, and their pesto was the best in the world? They must try Stefano’s pesto pasta speciality that very evening!

  ‘I’m glad we’re here for another day,’ Connie said, glancing at Maggie as she kicked off her sandals.

  ‘Great place,’ Maggie agreed. She was doing what she always did whenever they returned to Bella: checking her stacks of bank notes. This involved lifting pieces of carpet, removing panels in the walls and poking around inside mattress covers. Sometimes she forgot, herself, where she’d hidden some of it and, even if Ringer did ever catch up with them, chances are he’d be unlikely to find it all, particularly the wad she kept in her bra.

  Connie was still recovering from the shock of the encounter with Carol, and regretting that she hadn’t had time to at least try on one of the beautiful linen dresses; she’d have used her own money, since her bank account had remained virtually intact since they’d left home. She’d come to accept that Maggie wanted to pay for everything but, now that she knew its source, she drew the line at accepting payment for anything unnecessary with stolen money. Who am I kidding? she thought. I’m enjoying every mouthful of food and every glass of wine, and it’s all paid for with stolen money! But still.

  The site was a perfect hideaway. They’d made friends with Stefano and Bruno, they had a great restaurant on their doorstep once again and, besides, Connie still wanted to visit the Cinque Terre, those colourful villages clinging perilously to the steep hillsides further down the coast. They could only be reached by train, or by boat from Santa Margherita and Rapallo.

  And so, their final day in Liguria was spent on the Cinque Terre boat trip, with stopovers at two of the villages, where Gill flatly refused to even contemplate the flights of near vertical steps rising from the harbours to the houses above. Connie, with some relief, decided to keep her company at the lower level, while Maggie gamely headed upwards with the more agile passengers.

  Eighteen

  VIAREGGIO

  They were now on their way to Tuscany; Connie driving with Gill in the passenger seat, while Maggie opted to keep her feet up, still recovering from blisters acquired during the previous day’s mountaineering. They passed the seaside resorts of Rapallo and Sestri Levante, before heading inland towards Massa, admiring the terracotta-topped villages, with their ine
vitable bell towers, which dotted the hillsides. Or perched perilously on top.

  ‘That’s where the marble comes from,’ Connie said, when she saw the sign for Carrara. ‘Up there in the hills.’

  They re-joined the coast at Forte dei Marmi.

  ‘Where exactly are we going?’ Gill asked.

  ‘Viareggio. We’re giving you a beach for your birthday,’ Connie replied.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Gill muttered.

  ‘Do you like swimming in the sea then?’

  ‘Well,’ Gill replied. ‘The truth is I’m not a very good swimmer, but I like the buoyancy of the sea.’

  Viareggio was a popular resort, and close to Pisa and Lucca. Connie liked swimming in the sea too but not so much in Italian resorts, with their endless beach clubs and military rows of sunbeds and sunshades. No chance of a nice secluded cove round here, she mused. We Brits again, she thought, always seeking isolation!

  But tomorrow was Gill’s birthday and she was going to have her precious beach. After all, Gill had escaped England and the threatened birthday party – which was probably her main reason for coming on this trip in the first place – and so the day had to be hers, and hers alone.

  And Connie could see just how much Gill was enjoying the whole experience, and how good she was looking now. The awful beehive long gone, Gill’s hair was stylishly layered and subtly coloured. She’d also lost a stone or so, wore far less make-up and, since she’d ditched the sunhat, even her face was now tanned. And she’d finally admitted to being seventy, although she looked younger now than when they’d left London. ‘Better to be a youthful seventy than a knackered-looking old sixty,’ Maggie had said bluntly.

  But even Maggie, already seventy and the most agile of the three, had her limits. This insistence of hers on climbing to the top of the Cinque Terre villages had taken its toll with a puffy ankle and a selection of blisters. We still think we’re young deep down inside, Connie thought. While a youthful mind is undoubtedly an asset, the body keeps reminding us otherwise.

  ‘Looks nice here,’ Gill remarked as they approached the resort.

  Il Paradiso caravan park was well screened from the road by a row of cypresses interspersed with enormous hoardings advertising, among other things, the merits of various restaurants, car-hire companies, laxatives and suntan lotions. It wasn’t the most picturesque location but it had a ‘vacancy’ sign and it was just across the road from the beach.

  ‘I have space for two nights only,’ the woman said.

  Well, that would cover Gill’s birthday and then we can move on, Connie thought, dreaming of a nice quiet layby. Gill seemed delighted.

  ‘This looks ever so slightly naff,’ Maggie remarked from the back, as she looked out of the side window.

  ‘Well, I like it!’ Gill yelled back. ‘And it’s my birthday!’

  Il Paradiso, whilst not exactly heavenly, was clean and tidy with ample showers and toilets. It was also full of noisy families, wet swimsuits drying on makeshift washing lines, excited children running around everywhere, and a pervading aroma of onion and garlic signalling preparation for the evening meal.

  ‘This had better be just for a couple of nights,’ Maggie muttered as Connie reversed Bella into the allocated parking spot.

  ‘But look, the beach is just across the road,’ Gill said, ‘and there were loads of restaurants and bars around.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll go to bed early,’ Maggie said, watching four infants chasing each other round the caravan next door while shouting at the tops of their little voices.

  Connie decided not to shatter her hopes. Italian children did not go to bed early. They could be found out and about at all hours, some in pushchairs, some running alongside, as their parents socialised and strolled around. These little ones had plainly just woken up from their siestas and were now bursting with excited energy.

  * * *

  It was, they all agreed later, a very different type of evening, not exactly what they’d planned. It began when Connie, having showered and clad only in bra and pants, was trying to decide what to wear.

  ‘Ciao!’ said a little voice. And there, standing by the cooker, was a tiny, tousle-haired boy in a red T-shirt and nothing else.

  ‘Well, ciao!’ Connie replied, hastily pulling on a cotton shift. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Posso nuotare,’ he said, climbing onto the divan.

  ‘I can swim,’ Connie remembered. Perhaps he’s only just learned.

  ‘Bravo!’ she said as he regarded her solemnly with enormous brown eyes. She remembered a little more Italian. ‘Come ti chiami?’

  ‘Marcello.’

  ‘Buonasera, Marcello!’ She tried to remember a few more stock phrases.

  Suddenly there was some frantic yelling outside. ‘Marcello! Marcello! Dove sei?’

  ‘He’s here!’ Connie called out, shepherding Marcello out through the door, just as Maggie and Gill emerged from the rear to see what all the commotion was about. ‘Is he yours?’ she asked the anxious-looking young woman.

  ‘Ah, grazie a Dio!’ She smacked him soundly on his bare bottom and he started to howl. ‘Mi dispiace…’ she began, gazing at them all in turn.

  ‘Non c’e’ problema,’ said Connie.

  ‘You no Italian?’

  ‘We no Italian,’ Connie confirmed.

  The woman tapped Bella’s exterior. ‘She Italian.’

  ‘Yes, she is Italian,’ Connie agreed, ‘but we are British.’

  ‘Ah, Inglesi! Fantastico! My daughter’ – she pointed at the caravan next door – ‘she five years and she learn English. You must speak with her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Connie said, staring in amazement at the large cloth-covered table, complete with cutlery, glasses and a carafe of wine, which had suddenly materialised between their two vehicles.

  ‘We eat later,’ their new neighbour explained. ‘You like eat with us? How many you?’

  ‘No, no,’ Connie said hastily. ‘There are three of us, and we’re going out to find a nice restaurant.’

  ‘I Silvia. Who you?’

  ‘Well, I’m Connie, and—’

  ‘You like Italian food? My husband he cooks il pollo.’ She made clucking noises.

  ‘Yes, chicken, very nice,’ Connie agreed.

  ‘Pasta too. We have too much, so, you eat with us!’

  ‘This,’ said Connie as the other two appeared, ‘is Maggie, and Gill. Gill has a birthday tomorrow, so that’s why we’re going to find a nice restaurant.’

  Gill beamed at Silvia, now joined by Marcello, who had recovered from his smack, and a little girl with a mass of dark brown curls who looked a couple of years older.

  ‘Franco!’ Silvia yelled. Franco dutifully appeared from the interior of their caravan, bare-chested and wearing a towel tucked into his shorts.

  ‘They English,’ she informed her husband. ‘And that one’ – pointing at Gill – ‘have birthday. You cook for birthday, eh, Franco?’

  ‘Certo! We have too much,’ Franco replied in near perfect English. ‘We like to share. Nadia likes to try English, non è vero?’ He nudged his little daughter, who was gazing at them with saucer eyes.

  Connie blinked as an exact replica of Marcello appeared at the door, stark naked and sucking his thumb.

  ‘This Carlo,’ Silvia explained. ‘He been sleep.’ She saw the women looking from one child to another. ‘Si, they twins! They have three years.’

  The new, naked one headed towards Gill and said, ‘Nonna!’

  ‘He thinks you are grandmother,’ Franco explained. ‘She look like you. She has, er, the big…’

  At this point Silvia took over. ‘These!’ She waved her hands in enormous semi-circles over her front.

  Gill looked pleased. ‘I’d pick him up,’ she said, ‘if he was wearing a nappy.’

  ‘I do nappies,’ Silvia said. ‘You do wine.’ She indicated the large carafe on the table. ‘Sit!’

  ‘We might as well,’ said Gill, obviously flattered. ‘Just
for one drink?’

  Maggie sighed.

  ‘Look,’ said Connie, ‘we can’t go drinking their wine. Let’s put a bottle of our stuff on the table too.’

  ‘Yes, let’s!’ agreed Gill. ‘Come on, Mags, it’s nearly my birthday! And they’re nice people.’

  ‘Just one glass then,’ Maggie replied, looking resigned.

  * * *

  Coming up to midnight, Marcello was fast asleep on Gill’s knee, Carlo was fast asleep on Connie’s knee, and Nadia was wide awake and keen to practise her English with anyone who would listen. Everyone had eaten pasta and chicken and strawberries, washed down by copious amounts of wine, and they were now on the Grappa.

  The family came from Barga, up in the Tuscan hills, and liked to come down to Viareggio for a few days so the children could play in the sand and learn to swim in the sea. When Franco discovered Maggie was Scottish, there was instant rapport. Everyone in Barga had Scottish connections, he said. Their fathers and grandfathers had all gone to Scotland to find work; even his very own Uncle Angelo in Glasgow, and he had lots of Scottish cousins who came to visit every year. In fact he, Franco, had spent a year in Glasgow too with the family there before he married Silvia. Maggie could recall so many Italian families from her youth in Glasgow. They all had great restaurants, fish and chip shops, and made the best ice cream in the world, she told him.

  Three elderly British ladies, well fed and tipsy, had attracted some curious neighbours. They’d driven all the way from England! And that lady would be seventy at midnight! More gasps! More wine!

  The children finally in bed, Franco found a Rod Stewart CD, ‘Sailing’. Connie found herself jigging with a tiny ancient man, sadly lacking teeth and English, but light on his feet. She’d no idea where he came from. Maggie was dancing with some lanky teenage boy, and Silvia was doing a little dance all by herself. Gill had, in her usual fashion, overindulged, and had latched onto Franco who, also having overindulged, didn’t seem to mind too much.