Gladys, beneath the henna and many layers of make-up, appeared to be around sixty.
‘Yeah, I remember, dear,’ she said. ‘Nice old place it was. Must have been twenty-odd years ago they knocked it down. Think they had a few problems and, anyway, they needed to widen the road. Progress and all.’
‘Progress,’ Connie repeated, looking around at the check-yourself-in machine and the coffee machine and the soft-drinks dispenser, and the plastic-framed windows. ‘And they did such lovely afternoon teas!’ she added.
Gladys snorted. ‘You’ll need to go to Bettys for that, dear.’
Connie was fortunate enough to get a window table at Bettys Tea Rooms, from where she could admire the stunning flower plantings in The Stray opposite. She remembered now that it was called The Stray, the area of grassland that wrapped itself round the Old Town of Harrogate and linked the most popular landmarks. As she nibbled her smoked salmon sandwiches, Connie recalled their visit to the old Turkish Baths and Roger’s lean, toned body. She’d looked good then too, even in early pregnancy. Years of being slumped over columns of figures hadn’t done much for Roger’s, which now sported a considerable paunch. And she had also increased considerably in girth due, in part at least, to four pregnancies and too much wine.
Connie tackled the sultana scones with strawberry conserve and clotted cream next, none of which was likely to improve matters. She must try to walk some more. But, never mind, she thought, there’d be no dinner tonight after this lot, and she should get to the Lakes before it gets too late. There would be plenty of opportunity for walking there. She poured herself another cup of tea and selected a lemon macaroon.
Was it kids that held marriages together? she wondered. We adored our kids; they dominated our conversation, our everything. Lou had been the last to leave home. Was that when she realised she and Roger had so little in common?
Hunter’s Lodge had certainly provided no answers. Neither had Gladys. Nor Betty. But at least the tea was delicious.
Chapter Twelve
MERE MEMORIES
Blue sky, continuous sunshine and a warm breeze; could this incredible summer weather continue for much longer? The surface of Lake Windermere shimmered in the afternoon heat as a boatload of sightseers made its lazy way westward, and Connie stretched herself out on the hillside above. She wondered if Ben had ever been here, in this very spot. Perhaps he’d walked up this hill. She knew he’d sailed on the lake because he’d mentioned it in his postcard. She could still see the untidily scrawled words: ‘Sailing is the best – Peter fell in the water!’ He and Peter had been inseparable. The family had moved away not long after Ben was killed. The last she heard of Peter he was a naval officer, and she only knew that because he was interviewed on TV once when his ship came back to Portsmouth from the Middle East or somewhere.
Connie stared at the lake, trying to imagine her Ben at the tiller of a dinghy. She surveyed the surrounding countryside wondering if she might be seeing the place where he had stayed. She’d had his holiday address at one time, but that had been chucked away when he got home. If only she could remember…
She got out a drawing pad and some pencils she’d bought in Kendal; she’d always enjoyed sketching and this had seemed an ideal opportunity to rediscover her drawing skills. As her pencil wrestled with the lake and the hills and the boatloads of tourists, she pondered why she’d had to travel all these miles to recapture this long-forgotten urge. She examined her effort. She’d got the perspective pretty well, the trees were good, but the lake was disappointing. It needed colour and light to do justice to the sparkling water. Perhaps she should stick to people. She’d bought the pad and pencils in case she might feel like sketching people she met along the way. But where to start? Perhaps she could recall enough of Martin’s Robert De Niro looks to achieve a reasonable likeness?
But, for now, she’d concentrate on Kath. She’d start with the pink hair, although she couldn’t do justice to that without buying some pastels or crayons. But she could at least recreate the spiky hair, the broad forehead and the pale eyes that were almost the colour of silver. And that long nose with the slight bend in the middle. Had it ever been broken? Getting the contours of the double chin was a challenge too. An hour later she had a reasonable head-and-shoulders likeness of Kath.
Pleased with her work, Connie laid her sketchpad aside, leaned back and stretched her legs out in the sun. She hadn’t worn shorts for years, not since she’d first noticed the ripples and wrinkles rolling down from her thighs towards her knees. She’d bought the shorts in Kendal too, emboldened by the fact that people older and fatter than her were all exposing their lower limbs to the elements. And why not; who cared? Her own legs were in reasonable shape, but would look a great deal better if bronzed. She might even have to buy some spray-tan! Roger would be aghast at the very idea, which pleased her even more.
‘Would you just look at these orange people!’ he’d ranted while viewing a popular programme featuring some minor celebrities. For sure, some of them had overdone the spraying, but Connie didn’t think they looked that bad; a touch of orange as opposed to winter-white: no contest. And surely, with minimum finger pressure on the nozzle, plus some natural colour of her own, the effect might be quite acceptable?
Connie stretched and sighed and went back to her drawing of Kath.
It might take all afternoon to get the sketch completely right, but she didn’t care. For the first time since Manchester she’d stopped looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t be completely sure that she hadn’t been seen outside the jeweller’s, or that someone hadn’t seen Foxy getting into her car. Or that the police hadn’t seen her when she handed in the bag, although she’d left Kermit parked at least a couple of hundred yards away. Now she felt reassured by the remoteness of the B&B she’d found. No one would find her there, she hoped.
‘Will you be hill-walking? Would you like a packed lunch?’ the B&B landlady at the Retreat had asked.
‘No, no thank you.’
‘Call me Pam,’ she’d said, as she shepherded Connie upstairs to the pristine single room. It was the whitest space Connie had ever seen, with its pale dove-grey walls, cream carpeting, snow-white bedding and milky coffee-coloured armchair. Countless shades of pale. (‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harum: they’d played that at Sally’s wedding. She’d always loved that song.) Better be careful, though, with slurping red wine up here. She wondered at her wisdom in booking for three nights.
‘So, are you on holiday, Mrs McColl?’
‘Something like that,’ Connie replied, looking round in the hope of finding somewhere to lay her less-than-pristine bag.
‘I always use Farrow & Ball,’ Pam wittered on. ‘Their colours are so soothing and I like my guests to feel they’ve come somewhere relaxing and calm.’
As she tackled Pam’s full English breakfast the following morning, Connie struggled to remember something, anything, about the address where Ben had stayed on that last holiday. It was a farm and its name was somehow connected with the weather. Was it ‘storm’ or ‘rain’ or something? Wind! That was it! ‘Something Wind’? North, South, East, West – yes, West! West Wind Farm! Surely she should be able to find that, because she knew it was close to Windermere and perhaps the post office could help, or the police. No, on second thoughts, perhaps not the police; better to avoid the police, just in case. She’d ask Pam’s advice.
Pam hadn’t heard of it but she had a friend who used to work in the local council offices and she would know for sure. And she did.
And so Connie, armed with a map and some very detailed directions, set off along a network of country lanes, mostly single-track with few passing places, and prayed she’d meet nothing larger than a bicycle.
West Wind Farm, a solid grey stone construction, was perched on top of a hill, overlooking the lake. As she emerged from the car, Connie scanned the panorama before her and reckoned you could probably walk directly down to the lake in five to ten minutes, whereas it had
taken her at least fifteen minutes weaving her way up here in the car. Not for the first time did she wonder at the British propensity for twisting and turning their roads round every field and tree, whereas the French, for instance, would probably have bulldozed theirs in a nice straight line from A to B. Well, I suppose that’s what makes us quaint, she thought.
The gate was closed and Connie wondered if she dare open it. There was a yard and a cluster of outbuildings surrounding the farmhouse, where countless chickens were roaming around two tractors and an ancient Morris Minor. Somewhere a dog began to bark hysterically and Connie hesitated. Perhaps she shouldn’t investigate any further. After all, this must have been where Ben had stayed, and this was the view he’d have had, and that was the walk he and Peter would have taken down to the lake. And, let’s face it, nobody was going to remember anything now, after all these years, so she’d just enjoy the view for a minute, imagine Ben running down the slope, and be on her way.
She was about to leave when a man emerged from one of the outbuildings, two Collies leaping at his Wellington-booted heels, barking furiously.
‘Can I help you?’
He sounded friendly enough so Connie decided to come clean.
‘Oh, I do hope you don’t think I’m snooping, but I just wanted to see the farm where my son and his friend once came on holiday.’
As he leaned on the gate Connie noted he was fortyish, with a farmer’s ruddy face and a nice smile.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘we haven’t had holidaymakers staying here for a very long time. Sure you’ve got the right place?’
‘I’m pretty certain this is it,’ Connie replied, ‘but I’m talking about twenty-four years ago.’
‘That’s a long time back! Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I’ve only been here fifteen years, since I married Tilly.’
‘Oh well, never mind.’ What did I expect? Connie wondered. But, nevertheless, she experienced a little wave of disappointment.
‘Why is it so important after all this time?’
The dogs were jumping up at the gate, tails wagging, tongues lolling, desperate to meet their visitor.
Connie considered for a moment. ‘My son enjoyed his holiday here so much and…’ She hesitated. ‘He died the following year.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ The farmer looked uncomfortable.
‘I wanted to come years ago,’ Connie continued, ‘but my husband wouldn’t agree; thought it would be too upsetting.’
‘Look,’ he said, opening the gate after ordering the dogs back to where they’d come from, ‘why don’t you come in and meet Tilly? She grew up on this farm, you see, and she just might remember some of the visitors they had back then.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘Please, come in.’ He held out his hand. ‘Will Hartley’s the name.’
‘Connie McColl.’ He had a nice firm handshake.
He led her up to the door of the farmhouse and ushered her in to a large kitchen, where the mouth-watering aroma of spices was emanating from a huge pot on an ancient Aga. A large boy was stretched out on a battered old sofa, engrossed in his phone.
‘Where’s your mother?’ Will asked.
Without taking his eyes from the screen, the boy pointed mutely towards what was obviously a walk-in pantry, from which emerged a short woman with glorious red hair, bearing a tray of empty jars.
‘Tilly, this is Connie, er…’
‘McColl,’ Connie prompted.
‘Yes, Connie McColl. Her son –’ he glanced at Connie – ‘her late son had a great holiday here twenty years ago.’
‘Twenty-four years ago,’ Connie corrected.
Tilly laid the tray of jars down carefully on the table. ‘Just making some chutney,’ she explained. ‘Why don’t you sit down while I make a cup of tea?’ She didn’t speak again until she handed Connie the cup. ‘So your son died, did he?’
‘Yes,’ Connie said.
She nodded in sympathy. ‘Mam and Dad used to let this house out every summer. We had to move into the old dairy out the back there, and we’d be right fed up of it by the end of the season, I can tell you!’
Connie laughed. ‘I can well imagine! And I certainly don’t expect you to remember but Ben, my son, came here with his friend Peter, and Peter’s family, twenty-four years ago this very month.’
Tilly stared hard at her. ‘What was his name again?’
‘Ben. Ben McColl. And Peter Portman.’
‘This rings a bell,’ she said. ‘Ben and Pete. Yeah, of course, just before we all went back to school. You know why I remember? Because we’d had a whole summer of old fuddy-duddies staying here. “Keep quiet!” “Don’t make a noise!”, etc., etc. That’s all we heard all summer long. And then, right near the end of the season, here were two kids I could play with! We were all about the same age, I think.’
Connie could scarcely believe what she was hearing.
‘Oh, Tilly, I’m so glad you remembered. He’d had such a great time here and wanted to come back, but he was killed the following summer.’
Tilly nodded. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It just helps sometimes to retrace his steps,’ Connie said. ‘But I can’t believe that you actually remember him!’
Tilly removed a large black cat from the table, and headed towards the Aga. ‘And I’ll tell you why I remember him and his friend – because they were so naughty! We were forbidden to go down to the lake with other kids unless we had a grown-up with us, but we’d sneak out anyway and swim around for hours. And we used to play a kind of glorified hide-and-seek around the farm, and I thought I was very clever because I knew all kinds of places to hide that they didn’t.’ She stopped to pour more tea. ‘Anyway, on this occasion I climbed up the ladder into the hayloft, which was also forbidden because Dad said there were rats up there. But one of the boys had seen me, and the little buggers came along and took away the ladder so I couldn’t get down! And they left me to it! I yelled and yelled for ages until eventually my sister heard me and went to tell Dad. I can’t tell you the walloping I got!’
‘The naughty little devils!’ Connie laughed as she sipped her mug of tea.
‘Well, of course, I shouldn’t have been up there in the first place. But they were such fun! Great lads.’
‘Thank you so much for telling me,’ Connie said, ‘because he certainly didn’t tell me that when he got home!’
‘Now I come to think of it,’ Tilly went on, ‘I’m sure there’s a photo somewhere if I can only find it. Jason – get up, and let this lady have a seat!’
Without moving his eyes or his thumbs from the screen, Jason eased himself up and sauntered out of the door.
‘He’s glued to that bloody thing from morning to night,’ Will sighed, as Tilly went off in search of the photo. ‘He’ll forget how to talk soon.’
Connie laughed. ‘They’re all the same. But I’m just so thrilled Tilly remembered Ben. And I only hope I’m not interfering with your plans for this afternoon.’ She lowered herself into the sofa and drained her tea.
‘Plans? We’ve got no plans. It’s just nice to have a visitor.’
Then Tilly came back into the kitchen clutching a photo album. ‘I’m sure it’s in here somewhere,’ she said, laying it on the table alongside the jars, and flicking through countless pages until she was almost at the end. ‘Ah, here we are!’
There were three photos neatly glued onto the black page. There was a young Tilly riding a horse, a young Tilly with two mischievous-looking boys, and another one of just the two boys. Ben and Peter. And it was a particularly good one of Ben.
‘Oh, I love this one!’ Connie exclaimed.
‘Then you must have it,’ Tilly said, removing it from the page with difficulty.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean for you to remove it…’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Tilly said. ‘But I want you to have it. I’ve got the other one.’
‘Thank you, Tilly.’ Connie knew her voice was wobbly. ‘Thank
you so much.’
‘And any time you’re up this way, you just come in and see us,’ Will added. ‘It’s nice to have a visitor.’
‘If you hang on a bit,’ Tilly said, ‘you can have a jar of my bean chutney.’
Later, sitting in the evening sunshine in the garden of the Dog and Duck, Connie ate her crab salad and refilled her glass from the bottle of Merlot.
‘And I’ll have the cork, please,’ she’d instructed the barmaid, ‘so I can take it away with me. That’s if I don’t drink it all here.’
Perhaps she should drink it all here, because she shuddered at the prospect of spilling one drop on Pam’s pristine white bed linen or cream carpeting. All that beige, bone and buttermilk. There was definitely something to be said for some colourful curls and whirls at times. She’d certainly had no need for such concerns in Stratford-upon-Avon.
Connie considered her finances. She’d been away from home for a week now, spending money like water. Bed and breakfasts were expensive, petrol even more so. But it had been worth every penny she’d spent just to get that photograph of Ben.
There was money in her personal account, of course, but at present it was going out a great deal faster than she expected. It was vital to be independent and there was no way she was going to use their joint account because, for one thing, Roger would probably be able to trace her whereabouts each time she withdrew cash. Or, heaven forbid, he might even be able to put a block on it. She liked to think that he hadn’t got the faintest idea where she was; no landline calls that could be traced, no postage marks. She could be in France or Spain or Timbuktu. And, much as she appreciated Di’s offer, no way was she going to be subsidised by her daughter.
At some point, Connie realised, she would probably have to turn round and head back south, but not yet. It would have to be a turning point in every sense. But her wings had only just begun to unfold and, in the meantime, she needed to escape Pam’s waxen decor. This would be her last night at the Retreat.
The Runaway Wife: A laugh out loud feel good novel about second chances Page 10