The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read

by Dee MacDonald

  Then she considered fuel, and tax and insurance. At sixty-nine the premiums would probably be sky-high. Well, there was no denying that it would be good to share the running costs but, while she might be able to get along with the mild-mannered Maggie, could she cope with Gill? And she could hardly now agree to let Maggie come along without extending the invitation to Gill.

  Connie went back to bed and managed to drift off for half an hour before she awoke yet again to thoughts of La Bellezza and her two unlikely passengers. It would be far more sensible to go for the smallest motorhome available and set off on her own. She needn’t even tell the other two because it wasn’t as if they were close friends. Or, more sensible still, get on an aeroplane, like any normal, sensible person would do. But, thought Connie, I damned well don’t want to be sensible! And, because I’m not getting any younger, if I’m going to have another adventure, now’s the time!

  ‘Gosh! It’s enormous!’ Connie had never seen Maggie so animated.

  ‘Easy to drive and easy to park though,’ gushed Kevin, opening the door with a flourish. ‘Every mod con you can think of, ladies!’ He stood back to let them enter. Give him his due, thought Connie, Kevin did not appear to be daunted at the prospect of three elderly ladies as customers. But, after the Spanish incident, he probably reckoned he’d soon have La Bellezza back on the forecourt yet again for resale. (‘Like new, only got as far as Nice, these three old birds!’)

  ‘Will you just look at that kitchen!’ Gill was opening and closing doors, her elaborate hairdo brushing the ceiling.

  ‘There’s probably room for a dishwasher,’ said Kevin.

  ‘We wouldn’t plan on doing much dishwashing,’ said Connie.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind; I quite like washing dishes,’ said Maggie. This woman was plainly a saint.

  ‘Or a washing machine,’ Kevin added, warming to his subject.

  ‘We’d use laundrettes,’ Connie said, sitting down on a surprisingly comfortable sofa that, at the pull of a lever, became a nice big bed. Hers, for sure.

  ‘Anyway, we could always wash our smalls in the sink,’ Maggie said.

  Gill had got as far as the shower. ‘I could just about fit in there if I don’t put on any more weight.’ She patted her enormous bosoms.

  Maggie giggled. ‘Oh, look, bunk beds!’ The beds were installed across the width of the rear of the motorhome.

  ‘Ah, yes, but they’re a good size and very comfortable.’ Kevin patted the lower mattress. ‘Go on, lie on that! Isn’t it comfy?’

  Maggie obeyed, stretching out with relish. ‘Och, it is – really, really comfy.’

  ‘And who, exactly, would be sleeping on that top bunk?’ asked Gill, turning to Connie, who was peering over her shoulder.

  ‘Not me,’ said Connie.

  ‘And not me,’ said Gill.

  Maggie sat up with care to avoid hitting her head. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m the smallest and probably the lightest. There’s even a wee ladder there, look!’

  No doubting it, this woman was definitely a saint.

  ‘Lots of cupboard space,’ Kevin enthused, sliding back a wardrobe door.

  ‘Och, we wouldn’t be needing many clothes,’ said Maggie, who was also fast becoming a salesman’s dream.

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ Gill was exploring the large space underneath the lower bunk.

  Kevin, in the meantime, was heading towards the front of the living area.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘the driver’s seat and the passenger seat both swivel right the way round. Two great armchairs!’ Click, click. ‘See?’

  ‘Lovely!’

  ‘Right, now I’ll leave you ladies to potter around a bit, and I’ll be over in the office when you’re ready.’

  ‘Is he expecting you to buy it today then?’ asked Gill when he was out of earshot.

  ‘Probably,’ Connie replied. ‘But I’m not buying it until Nick, my son, gives it the once-over. He’s got a friend who knows a thing or two about engines.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s just lovely,’ said Saint Maggie.

  * * *

  Nick McColl walked round La Bellezza, tapping at wheels and opening up the storages for gas, water and sewage. ‘You’ll have to empty this every chance you get,’ he informed his mother. ‘Otherwise it’ll stink to high heaven. Especially in the heat.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Although I believe these days the contents turn into little brickettes or something for disposal.’

  So far they hadn’t been able to prise his friend, Geoff, away from the engine.

  ‘Like new!’ he said. ‘Top-notch Italian engineering. Can’t have done many miles.’ He was eventually persuaded to sit inside to check the dashboard. ‘Only a few thousand – I thought as much! This thing’s hardly run in. How much are they asking for it? Hmm, I think we can get them down a bit on that. Not everyone round here wants a left-hand drive.’

  They crossed to the office to meet Kevin and his portly boss, who’d appeared from nowhere.

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger, perhaps? See what’s in the cupboard, Kevin.’

  There were polite refusals all round and Connie decided to let Geoff do the haggling since she had no idea how much the vehicle should cost. But she was indeed a beauty. She’d call her ‘Bella’ for short; ‘beautiful’. And she’d certainly like a thousand or two off the price.

  Not only did Geoff get the price reduced by a whole five grand but he also explained the finer points about the engine and the controls, and offered to accompany Connie for a trial run to see how she felt about driving and manoeuvring such a monster.

  Nick was less enthusiastic about the proposed excursion. ‘It’s a long way to go with two women you hardly know. And for nothing definite.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be for nothing, Nick. I love Italy, and I’d love to see where my grandmother came from. Plus, we’ll have an adventure. And enjoy ourselves. Get away from it all. Chase the sun.’

  As she spoke, Connie realised this was what she really wanted to do. What had begun as purely research into her family tree was now poised to become an adventure. Another adventure!

  Nick put his arm round his mother. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Mum, you’ll have a go at anything! But, three old birds in a camper van – you couldn’t make it up!’

  Gill’s oldest daughter, Marlene, was studying her mother with disbelief. ‘Why can’t you just go on a nice package holiday like everyone else? Who is this Connie anyway?’

  ‘She did the flower-arranging classes. Nice woman.’

  ‘Mad woman, more like.’ Marlene plonked herself down at the kitchen table and sipped her mug of tea. ‘An old woman you hardly know driving a great big caravan. Bloody bonkers.’

  ‘It’s not a caravan, it’s a motorhome, and Connie’s had a test drive and can handle it just fine.’

  ‘She probably can in some quiet backwater round here, but what about them roads in France and Italy? Have you seen the way them crazy Eye-ties drive?’

  ‘No, and neither have you, except on the telly. I’m sure she’ll cope and, anyway, we’ll just take our time.’

  ‘And what’s with Italy anyway? What’s wrong with Spain? You always go to Spain, Mum. I mean, they all speak English in Spain and you can get proper English nosh.’

  ‘Well, then, it’s time for a change. And I’ve never been to Italy.’ Gill thought fondly of Fabio in Rome with visions of them both splashing about in that fountain – whatever it was called – and walking round the Colosseum by moonlight. She wondered if she should write to inform him of her intended visit. But she hadn’t heard from him in years, so he’d probably moved. And anyway, better not, just in case they didn’t get that far.

  ‘And what about your birthday party, Mum? Bloomin’ heck, we’ve all been planning the thing for months.’

  ‘I told you I didn’t want a party. I told you time and time again, but you’ve all got this bee in your bonnets. Anyway you can forget it ’cos we should just about have
reached Italy by then. I’ll have my tablet with me, so you can all send me them e-cards, or whatever they’re called.’

  ‘And you’ll never be able to get all that clobber of yours into a caravan,’ Marlene went on.

  ‘It’s not a caravan—’

  ‘And all your make-up and hair stuff. How’ll you survive without Henri doing your roots every other week – tell me that?’

  Gill hadn’t thought this through properly at all, but she wasn’t going to admit as much to Marlene.

  ‘They’ve got great hairdressers in France and Italy. Most stylish countries in the world,’ she retorted.

  Gill had had Marlene when she was eighteen. She’d been Gilly Sykes then, a plain child from a large family of better-looking siblings. When the time came to revamp herself with the aid of make-up and bleach, she was the first girl in Basildon to wear a miniskirt; the shortest and tightest into which she could squeeze her ample bottom. That, along with her magnificent boobs, meant that she became popular with the boys for all the wrong reasons and, as the pill was not yet available, the inevitable happened. With guns in their backs, she and the reluctant father headed to the registry office. There followed three years of noisy dissension in a scruffy north London bedsit before Harold came along with his camelhair coat with the velvet collar and his second-hand cars. They had two boys before Harold took himself off to Marbella with a redheaded stripper from Shoreditch. Life was tough until Gill married Peter, a master baker, who took on these three children and put a semi-detached roof over their heads. She went from the breadline to the bun-line, her figure happily expanding to accommodate the freshly baked croissants, bagels and brioches, plus three more pregnancies. But here, at last, was a good guy. She was devastated when he died from cancer at only fifty-five but, for the first time in her life, Gill now had some money to spend on herself and to be able to pay weekly visits to the hairdresser and the nail bar.

  But she discovered that the older she became, the more these men of her own age appeared to be seeking a cook-cum-housekeeper-cum-nursemaid to see them through their dotage, and she was certainly having none of that. She’d brought up six kids and looked after three men and now it was Gill Time.

  So she did the only sensible thing: she took up bingo and flower-arranging, had ‘love never dies’ tattooed on her upper arm, and began fancying men twenty years younger.

  Maggie hadn’t felt so excited in years. As she looked through her meagre summer wardrobe she decided it would be easy to travel light; she was hardly high maintenance at the best of times. Most of all, she needed to get away from Ringer. Perhaps then he’d miss her. Oh, who was she kidding! She hardly saw him these days and she was probably about to be replaced by the blonde bimbo. After all, with one breast and faded looks, what did she have to offer? But, damn it, he owed her. She’d stood by him, even after the jail sentences and the shady deals, and the police hammering on the door at midnight. And now he seemed to be forgetting all that and Maggie was becoming angry.

  She’d tell him only that she was going on a touring holiday, but give no details. After all, what’s sauce for the goose… Anyway, she had little idea exactly where she might be going.

  As Connie had nowhere to park Bella in London, she was grateful when Nick offered to keep the motorhome in his drive until they were ready to leave. It also allowed her to make regular pilgrimages to Sussex to clean and polish, and to stock up with new bed linen, plus crockery and cutlery from the charity shops. It was already beginning to look like home.

  Next week Gill and Maggie would accompany her to start loading up their stuff and the following week would be the beginning of June and the beginning of their adventure. She was becoming more and more confident at the wheel too, having taken Bella to Brighton and back on her own. The left-hand drive felt awkward, although it would certainly come into its own across the Channel, but otherwise it was surprisingly easy to handle and the elevated position of the driving seat provided unbroken all-round views.

  Connie’s younger daughter appeared as she was cleaning the toilet. If anyone was going to cast doubts on this adventure, it would be Lou – unlike Di, who not only approved of her mother’s escapades, but actually encouraged them.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Mum?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m cleaning the toilet.’ She refrained from calling it the loo.

  Lou sighed. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean – all the way to Italy in a tin can to find non-existent relatives.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I’ll find something.’ Connie straightened up and pecked her daughter on the cheek. ‘How’s Charlotte and her new baby sister?’

  ‘They’re fine. Andy’s home today so I came over to see if I could help. Dad, of course, thinks you’ve gone bonkers.’

  ‘Dad would.’ Since Roger hadn’t understood her in forty-one years of marriage, there was little chance he’d start now. She hadn’t seen him much since the divorce. And she felt, in her bones, that Lou still believed the marriage had crumbled because her mother had taken herself off for a few weeks. Unlike her siblings, Lou flatly refused to believe what had really transpired, finding it impossible to imagine how her parents had suddenly found themselves incompatible after so many years of marriage.

  ‘Well, it was bad enough you taking off all round the country for weeks on end, but this is even crazier.’

  ‘I had a lovely time then and I intend to have a lovely time again. Would you pass me the bleach – it’s on the floor behind you.’

  ‘I must say this is all looking very nice. Very compact. But Nick says you hardly know these women. Not like they’re lifelong friends or anything.’

  Connie placed the bleach into the tiny cupboard and straightened up. ‘We’re only going to Italy. I’m not marrying them.’

  ‘What if—’

  ‘What if we don’t get on? Then I’ll send them home and carry on solo. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Five

  DEPARTURE

  Don turned up with a magnum of champagne the day after she emailed him to let him know she was going to be away for a few weeks. Connie had met Don on her ‘liberation’ trip. He was ten years younger than she was and very very sexy – a terrific lover but lousy husband material. Still, you can’t have it all, so just as well she wasn’t looking for another husband. Tall, dark and handsome; an overused cliché, Connie thought, but that’s exactly what he was. He was nearly sixty now but his hair was still dark, with interesting grey bits at the sides. She was pretty sure he didn’t dye it because, surprisingly enough for such a good-looking man, he wasn’t particularly vain.

  It wasn’t just his looks either, or his great charm. He listened! He actually seemed interested in what she had to say and then remembered it. A unique specimen of manhood. He was a retired airline pilot, and Connie reckoned he must have made many air stewardesses very happy indeed. It hadn’t made either of his two wives particularly happy though and now, twice divorced, he had no intention of being tied down again. He’d certainly enlivened the second half of her trip.

  She was surprised at the immediacy of his visit and wondered briefly if it had been wise to tell him of her plans.

  ‘Don’t tell me I’m mad,’ Connie greeted him, ‘because, for certain, most of my family think I’m nuts.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re nuts at all,’ he replied, uncorking the champagne. ‘It’s what I’ve come to expect of you. You were never likely to be sitting around with your knitting or your cocoa, or your Saga bloody holiday.’

  ‘Send all geriatrics abroad – isn’t that what Saga means? Well, I am going abroad but I still don’t think I’m really ready to be old.’

  He handed her a glass of fizz and Connie noted yet again his beautifully shaped hands and nicely manicured nails.

  ‘And I don’t think you ever will be,’ he said with a little sigh. ‘Well, at least let me drive you and your friends down to Sussex.’

  ‘No thanks, Don, really. I need today to myself to get rea
dy and then tomorrow morning we’ll get the train. It won’t do us any harm to get used to roughing it.’ It was a shame really, because the other two would be well impressed, Gill in particular.

  ‘Roughing it!’ he exclaimed, picking up the brochure. ‘I’ve lived in flats with fewer facilities than that thing!’

  Soon, she thought, I shall set off like a giant snail with my house on my back. But even the snail has the sense to travel solo, not share its precious space with two comparative strangers.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I might pop out and join you somewhere. Rome, maybe. That’s if I can push my way through a queue of Italian admirers!’

  Rome! Will we ever get that far? she wondered.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said vaguely.

  After Don had left she wondered if she shouldn’t have been more appreciative of his offer to drive, and also to meet up with her in Rome. He was a ladies’ man, but nevertheless he was a good friend. And an excellent lover. And he’d stolen a tiny bit of her heart. But she wouldn’t be holding her breath about him appearing in Rome.

  Then Di had appeared with an electric kettle and an enormous box of teabags. ‘These are Waitrose’s poshest. And you’ll be able to use the kettle whenever you plug in to some electricity, Mum. Remember, you won’t be able to get decent tea over there.’

  Of her three surviving children, Di was – as always – the most supportive and enthusiastic.

  ‘Go for it, Mum!’ she’d said when Connie informed her of the plan. ‘I hope to God I’ll be having adventures too when I’m coming up to seventy. And don’t worry, the flat will still be here for you when you get back, and don’t come back until you’re good and ready!’

  Connie had also received a card from her ex-husband. ‘I hear you’re off again,’ Roger wrote in his careful italic script. ‘Haven’t you “found” yourself yet?’ It was precisely because she had ‘found herself’ that she was free to go where she liked and do what she wanted. Connie sometimes wished that all this had happened years earlier but, never mind, she was still only sixty-nine and, thank God, relatively fit. Was the world her oyster? Silly cliché, that! The world was much more like the carrot, dangling seductively in front of her nose.