The Runaway Wife

by Dee MacDonald

  In spite of the endless array of Scotches available, Connie was a gin and tonic girl. She gulped down her first, aware of how apt was the cliché about it not touching the sides, and tried to slow down on the second one as she didn’t want Don to think he had landed himself an alcoholic passenger. She remembered only too well the last couple of times she’d overdone it recently.

  ‘You’re enjoying that, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t normally glug it down this quickly,’ she replied, as she drained the glass.

  ‘Are you still upset about the car, Connie?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but it wasn’t just a car, you see. It was my freedom – my ability to get up and go, if I ever felt the urge, which I did…’ Connie sighed. ‘And perhaps I owe you some sort of explanation…’

  Don regarded her with amusement. ‘You owe me nothing at all, Connie.’

  But now that the turning point had been reached, Connie felt she badly needed to talk. She told him about leaving a perfectly satisfactory husband, and a perfectly satisfactory bungalow. And she told him about Di, and Nick, and Lou. She even told him a little about Ben and the gap that his death had left in her life. She felt a couple of tears sliding down her cheek, and Don positioned yet another gin and tonic in front of her, along with a tissue.

  ‘I’m just not ready to be living in a retirement bungalow with a man who wants separate beds and who plays golf all day long. I’m just a bloody housekeeper! I’m sorry, it must be the gin,’ she said, wiping her eyes, not caring if her mascara had smudged.

  ‘No wife should feel like the housekeeper, especially not one as nice as you!’ said Don. ‘But gin on an empty stomach has a tendency to make a person maudlin. It’s high time we had some food.’

  Connie continued to pour her heart out all through dinner. When she’d first met Don she’d been wary about telling him anything. Now she couldn’t stop. She told him then about Martin and MMM, finding Harry on the road to Stratford, about Freddy and Baz, about Kath, about the puncture and the three lads, about Jeannie and her memories and then the protest march in Edinburgh.

  ‘You can’t have got up to all that mischief in the space of just a couple of weeks,’ Don said, laughing.

  ‘Oh, I did,’ said Connie.

  They ate an excellent dinner in the busy dining room, enjoying the view.

  Don leaned towards her. ‘How old are you, Connie, if it’s not a rude question?’

  She thought quickly. ‘Sixty,’ she lied. She wondered why it was so important that he didn’t think of her as old.

  ‘I’m fifty-six,’ he said. She’d guessed right. ‘And I’ve been through two divorces, so you’re doing very well.’

  ‘I’m doing very well,’ she repeated as she demolished the last few crumbs of her liqueur-laden Highland Cream dessert. Was it possible to get sloshed just on the menu? Highly probable after the gins, although she’d refused wine with dinner. ‘So, do you think it’s OK for me to have a little fun now?’

  ‘I definitely do think so. And I’m sure your husband’s a very nice man, but I fear he’s not cherishing you like he should, Connie.’

  Cherishing! Now, there was a word. I haven’t been cherished, she thought, and I need cherishing.

  ‘And tomorrow,’ Don said, ‘we’ll sit by the side of the loch there, and, because it’s so beautiful, your problems will just fade away.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE AWAKENING

  Connie knew in the years to come she would always remember that she fell in love (well, lust, anyway) with Don when she was sitting on a grassy hillock on the bank of the loch, surrounded by heather-clad hills. And the sun was still shining. The wind had risen overnight, and she loved the sound of it now as it sighed across the water; a sound quite different from any other. Or was it perhaps because this new, sensitive Connie was suddenly much more aware of everything?

  The good weather was coming to an end in a few days’ time, according to the BBC weather report, to be chased from the north by dark clouds, the rain following in their wake.

  ‘This is so beautiful,’ said Connie. ‘And I’m so glad I didn’t take that train.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t too,’ Don said quietly, plucking at a blade of grass and rolling it between his fingers. She liked his hands; strong, capable, nice square nails. She imagined him landing a jumbo jet. She’d feel confident in whatever he was landing, or flying.

  ‘Tell me about being a pilot,’ she said.

  He screwed up his eyes against a sudden ray of sunshine. ‘Not a lot to tell. A nomadic existence and not always conducive to domestic bliss.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ she agreed.

  ‘I loved flying though,’ he went on. ‘I always wanted to fly a plane, ever since I was six years old and my parents took my sister and me on a disastrous Spanish holiday.’

  ‘Disastrous?’

  ‘Against all the odds it rained nearly every day, and we all had upset tums. But the flying – wow! I just wanted to stay on that plane forever. In retrospect, that would probably have been a sensible option.’

  ‘How lovely that you always knew exactly what you wanted to do.’

  ‘Just as well I did because I was a lazy little bugger at school, but I knew I had to get good exam results to be considered for flying training. That was all that kept me from being a drop-out. What about you?’

  She told him about her escape from Aunt Lorna. ‘The local florist was advertising for an apprentice and I thought to myself, why not, I like flowers. I was just sixteen but I was desperate to be on my own and to earn money. In fact, I earned very little for a couple of years but Chrissie was a good florist and a nice woman, and she not only trained me but let me have a bedsit in her house as well for very little rent.’

  ‘So, you’re a florist?’

  ‘Well, I worked for a florist for a time. But a year or so after I got my City and Guilds I saw this advertisement for a travel company who were looking for tour guides. “Some knowledge of a foreign language an advantage”, it said. Anyway, my French was passable, so I applied.’

  ‘So, you’ve always had a taste for a getaway?’

  ‘I suppose I have.’

  ‘And where did you get away to?’

  ‘Greece. That’s the sort of daft company it was. I spoke French so I got sent to Athens. I was supposed to go out there with a girl whose parents were Greek and who did speak the lingo but, at the last minute, she didn’t show and Freddy was sent in her place. Well, neither of us spoke a word of Greek but we got by somehow and had the most hard-working but hilarious summer imaginable. We’ve been pals ever since. And I can tell you a thing or two about Greek ruins as well!’ Then Connie told him about how much she’d enjoyed her evening with Freddy and Baz.

  ‘I’d really like to see them again on the way back,’ she added wistfully.

  ‘And why not?’ he said.

  ‘I think they’d expect me to have found an answer to my restlessness, and I think I know what I’m going to do, but I’m not a hundred per cent sure yet.’

  They sat quietly for a moment or two and then he said, ‘You’ve had more than your share of life’s knocks, Connie, haven’t you?’

  Connie shrugged. ‘Compared to some people, perhaps. But I’ve been lucky in lots of ways. Gosh, when I think of what some of those women in Edinburgh have been through!’

  She stared out across the loch. ‘What’s really upset me is being ignored. I used to feel ignored by my Aunt Lorna. She had a brood of her own and didn’t particularly want me thrust upon her. I tried to imagine over the years, when my four were young, how I’d have felt if I’d been saddled with someone else’s child.’ She sighed. ‘And then lately I’ve felt ignored by my own husband although he, of course, would argue with that. He’s rarely at home and he doesn’t really listen to me when he is. Maybe lots of marriages are like that? I don’t know.’ She turned towards Don. ‘I hope I don’t sound sorry for myself, because I’m really not.’

  Don shook his
head. ‘No, I know you’re not. And now you’ve taken matters into your own hands, haven’t you, coming away like this?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I’ll probably have to go back to Roger eventually.’

  ‘Will you? Why?’

  She was aware that he was studying her intently, and she felt herself redden; she hadn’t blushed so much since she was at school.

  ‘Truthfully, I don’t know,’ she said.

  It was then that he put his arm around her, and she automatically leaned against him.

  ‘He’s a fool to take you for granted,’ Don said. ‘I took my first wife for granted while I zoomed around the world and she brought up the girls virtually on her own. I flirted with other women. I had an affair. She found out, of course – end of marriage number one. And I can’t say I blame her.’

  ‘What about marriage number two?’

  ‘Ah, well, she led me a merry dance. She started off by falling in love with local politics, and then with a local would-be politician. He never did get elected but he was loaded, and he didn’t leave her on her own for weeks on end either.’

  ‘But she must have known the nature of your job when she married you, surely?’

  Don shrugged. ‘It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Anyway, I decided after that that I definitely wasn’t good husband material and I’d be better off single.’

  ‘Do you have a lady friend now?’ asked Connie, and then immediately regretted it; such a damn silly question and a damn silly expression! Lady friend indeed!

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not just at the moment.’

  She laughed, not daring to meet his eye. Not just at the moment! He couldn’t possibly be considering her, could he? Ten years his senior! Of course, she’d told him she was sixty but, in any case, she was far too old for such goings-on. And she was a married woman to boot. She’d never, ever considered having an affair, even if someone had fancied her, which they hadn’t. But would it be so wrong? Everyone seemed to be at it these days, according to the media. Nobody batted an eyelid any more. No, no, no, Connie McColl, she told herself, that’s not what this pilgrimage is all about. You’re trying to find yourself, not someone else. And then, all at once, against her reasoned thoughts, she was very aware of stirrings in places that hadn’t been stirred in years.

  Connie turned involuntarily to face Don, knowing by instinct that his eyes and his lips would find hers, which they did, and she surprised herself as she clung to him.

  ‘I would very much like to make love to you, Connie,’ Don whispered. He was disarmingly polite as well!

  ‘Oh yes,’ Connie heard herself say. ‘I think I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Well, we might get arrested here, so why don’t we head for Fort William, and the Road to the Isles?’

  Connie McColl, she thought, what have you done now? Ask him to take you to the nearest station and get straight onto a train back south. Or maybe just one night? No. She’d insist he take her to the station. Insist upon it.

  As they headed towards Fort William, all she could think was: can I still remember how to do it? Have I dried up completely? Will I be able to climax? (She could count her climaxes on one hand – and they were ancient history anyway.) Will he think me old and wrinkly? What the hell, Connie thought, I want this man, so I’ll take a chance! Just this once I’m going to follow my heart…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SUCH INCONVENIENCE

  Nobody had ever told Roger that toilet rolls didn’t reproduce themselves, that towels didn’t wash themselves or that sheets had to be changed regularly. He sighed; things certainly couldn’t go on like this. He could just about cope with basic groceries – or the lack of them – because Lou and Tess occasionally remembered that it was advisable for him not to starve to death. And there was the golf club, but eating there so often was mighty expensive. Not only that; people were beginning to talk. ‘Haven’t you got a home to go to?’ they’d quipped at first, but not now, not after seeing the thunderous expression on Roger’s face. They obviously knew things were amiss. They may even have noticed his budding friendship with Andrea. At least no one appeared to have seen Connie on the television, so that was something.

  ‘Isn’t your lovely wife back from her hols yet?’ the obnoxious Nigel Babbington-Smith asked, treating them both to large gin and tonics after he’d thrashed Roger that afternoon on the golf course.

  Roger wanted to kill him. He ignored Nigel. ‘Lime!’ he snapped at Phil, the barman on duty. ‘You know I always have lime – not bloody lemon.’ He fished the offending slice out of his glass and dropped it into a discarded crisp packet lying on the bar. Andrea would have known about the lime.

  ‘Does it make much difference?’ Nigel asked, taking a large gulp of his own, a smug, self-satisfied smirk all over his face.

  ‘Yes, it bloody well does!’ Roger snapped.

  He picked up fish and chips on his way home and wondered when exactly his lovely wife did intend to return from her so-called ‘hols’. Nearly three weeks had passed and he was none the wiser. Mrs Henderson next door had waylaid him yet again yesterday while he was mowing his section – and hers – of the communal grass at the front.

  ‘Mrs McColl still away?’ she’d asked pointedly.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d murmured, through gritted teeth. With a bit of luck she hadn’t seen Connie’s appearance on the news either.

  ‘Well, never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve just made another little coffee and walnut cake, which I know you like. So you just wait there a minute…’ And she dashed into the house and out again with a polythene box. ‘Here we are!’

  Inside the box was half a cake and Roger would stick pins in his eyes before he’d ever admit it, but he’d eaten the whole lot at a single sitting in front of The One Show.

  Now he set his fish and chips down carefully on the kitchen table. His diet was becoming increasingly unhealthy and he’d gained three pounds during the past week. At least Connie always had a balanced meal on the table and made sure he got his five-a-day. But he didn’t have time for all that palaver, and he was none too sure if mushy peas counted as a vegetable or not, although he was pretty sure that chips didn’t. And what about the pickled onion?

  This was doing his self-improvement scheme no good whatsoever. But, when a man’s been deserted and left to fend for himself, what else would you expect? What about cruelty to husbands, eh? Well, as of tomorrow he would get back on some sort of diet again. Perhaps the Atkins this time. In the meantime, he’d work this lot off on his rowing machine. But was she ever coming back? Connie could walk through the door at any minute. The uncertainty was driving him mad.

  Diana McColl was in a quandary. Mark had asked her to move in with him, which she really wanted to do, and she also desperately wanted a chat with her mum. Connie had always been a good listener and was very open-minded. Since she’d taken herself off on this sabbatical or whatever it was, Di had realised just how much she missed her mother and their weekly chats on the phone. She’d thought a couple of times of calling her on her mobile but then decided against it. Some sixth sense warned her that this was not a good idea, that her mother needed a break from all the family pressures. Dad wouldn’t understand that, of course. He was a good man but incurably conventional. She supposed that’s what came of having been an accountant; even in retirement everything had to add up and be correct. But Mum had a quirky side to her and a good sense of humour.

  Di was sure she would move in with Mark, into the Dockside apartment with its river view (if you hung over the balcony and looked sharp left). After all, they were two of a kind in the same crazy sort of business, reporting for the media and living out of suitcases for half of the year. They both loved their jobs; they didn’t want conventional ties, kids or animals. They just wanted to be in the same bed, in the same flat, whenever they both landed back in the UK. Dodging around from her flat to his was driving her nuts; whatever she wanted to wear always seemed to be in the wrong place, and the flats were mile
s apart, involving six stops on two different Underground lines.

  But Di was realistic. She was well aware that the most supposedly idyllic relationships could go awry and it would be reassuring to keep a bolt-hole. The obvious thing to do would be to rent her flat out, but that might stop her from heading back if – heaven forbid – she should ever need to. Decisions, decisions. Where are you, Mum?

  ‘I’ve taken on two days’ work,’ said Tess McColl.

  Nick lowered his Daily Telegraph. ‘Doing what? Nursing?’

  ‘What else would I be doing? Nursing of course, home nursing.’ Tess slammed the door of the fridge. ‘But now it’s a problem because your mother normally looks after the boys on Wednesdays and Thursdays. And I thought she wouldn’t mind Fridays as well.’

  ‘Did you ever tell Mum that you were planning to go back to work part-time? And that she’d be looking after the boys three days a week?’

  ‘How was I supposed to know she’d do a runner? And what am I supposed to do now? I had no reason to expect her to change her routine. After all, she’s only got to take one to school and one to nursery and collect them again afterwards.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Nick sighed, ‘she’d prefer to be doing other things three days a week. Perhaps, having brought up four kids of her own, she doesn’t necessarily want to start all over again.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tess. ‘That’s typical of you. Mummy can do no wrong.’

  ‘I rather hope she can, Tess. I’d like to think of her living a little before she gets too old.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with her life as it is?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Tracey Bragg in the village to look after the boys? They say she’s great with kids.’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ Tess said drily, ‘nurses do not get paid an exorbitant hourly rate and, by the time I paid Tracey or anyone else, I’d probably be working for a couple of quid an hour.’