The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read

by Dee MacDonald

  ‘You ’ave a cat?’

  ‘Pay no attention to her,’ Gill said. ‘We certainly don’t have a cat.’

  Raoul pulled a face to accompany the Gallic shrug. ‘I no ’ave cat either. And is very busy here. I no like to turn anyone away because in winter no one comes, so how you say, I must make the harvest when the sun is shining.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Connie agreed, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to your sunshine!’

  Raoul stayed for nearly two hours, regaling them with tales of warring couples, spurned lovers, cross-dressers and the completely mad – all on his campsite, every year, without fail. Then, when he’d got up to go, Gill, who’d been flirting with him all evening, said, ‘I’ll just walk along with you for a few minutes because I need to cool off, and it’s so hot in here.’

  Gill didn’t reappear for well over an hour, by which time the others were in bed, Connie exasperated and Maggie paranoid at not being able to lock the door. When Gill did finally return and the door was locked, Connie relaxed and mulled over the events of the evening. Was this then to be the pattern of their trip? Gill flirting with every man in sight and Maggie panicking about her money? She was the one who’d agreed to bring them along so she supposed she’d better get used to it.

  Eight

  SOUTHBOUND

  In the morning, Connie studied the least-faded photograph in The Box again. The three men sported most impressive moustaches, formal suits, high collars and tightly knotted ties. The four women all had upswept hair (no beehives), blouses with leg-of-mutton sleeves, long skirts and startled expressions. Were her great-grandparents there? She looked at the other photograph of the man in some sort of uniform. Could that be her grandfather? She didn’t recognise the uniform at all.

  She read as much as possible of the letters, translating as best as she could from her small Italian dictionary, but it was impossible to understand the grammar. And the word ‘Marigino’ kept cropping up, and there was no such word in the dictionary. Was it someone’s name, or a place, or what? Or something to do with the sea, perhaps?

  Connie didn’t know where to begin. If only she had some contact in Amalfi! She’d googled ‘Martilucci’, Maria’s maiden name, and found the clan scattered all over Italy and beyond. The only one in the entire Campania region seemed to be in Naples and, when she clicked on that, up came a different name altogether: E. L. Pozzi, Via dei Pellegrini, Napoli. Who or what was this E. L. Pozzi? Perhaps she’d send an email or phone again when they got closer to their destination. She’d tried phoning before leaving London, receiving a torrent of Italian from some woman, who’d then hung up. No, it would be better to go there in person. Otherwise, what was the alternative? Knock on every door in Amalfi and ask if anyone remembered the Martilucci family? Why had it not occurred to her to seek the help of some Italians and do more research before she left England? The friendly family at the local Italian restaurant could probably have helped her.

  * * *

  At the same time Maggie, cautiously switching on her phone again, received an email from her friend Pam to tell her that she’d had a visit from Ringer.

  You wouldn’t believe how much he’s missing you already! He was so worried that he’d lost your itinerary and he was really interested in the motorhome. He wanted to know what kind it was and everything, so I showed him the photos you sent me because there was a lovely one of you and your two friends beside it. He wanted me to forward that one on to him, so I did. He said he’d love to fly out and join up with you somewhere for a few days for a nice surprise! Isn’t that lovely, and here’s you thinking that he doesn’t love you any more! But he obviously does. Forget the blonde, it was obviously a one-off!

  Love and hugs,

  Pam

  Maggie felt sick. The photos she’d forwarded to Pam had shown Bella from several angles, a few of which clearly displayed the registration number. And good likenesses of the three of them. But, so what? There was no way he could find them in this enormous country with its labyrinth of roads and autoroutes, and millions of caravan sites. But, still…

  On her way back from the toilet Maggie popped into the shop, hoping to see Raoul. He was there, chatting to the baker who’d just arrived with a box of rolls and a box of croissants.

  ‘Ah, Maggie,’ he said, beaming with pleasure. ‘I enjoyed very much last night.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Raoul,’ Maggie said. ‘But I wonder if I might have a word in your ear?’

  ‘Oui, oui, of course.’

  Maggie cleared her throat. ‘It’s just that, if a man should call in here asking for us, please say you have never seen or heard of us.’

  Raoul looked confused. ‘You are not here?’

  ‘Correct. We are not here, and we were never here. The thing is, Raoul, that I am escaping from an unwanted lover.’ She wondered then if she’d overdone it, even allowing for him being French.

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘So you are not here, never here?’

  ‘Exactly! And, Raoul, we are leaving today.’

  ‘Today? But you have paid for another day.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We don’t want any money back. But we are leaving today.’

  Raoul shrugged. ‘I am sad. I love you ladies. I love that Geel. I would like that you stay.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m afraid that we won’t be staying. I’m really sorry, because it’s very nice here, but we must go.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘We will come to see you on the way back!’

  She could see him brightening up.

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Not too sure, Raoul. But let’s have your email, and we’ll contact you. And can I give you my phone number so if anyone does call to ask where we are, please let me know.’

  ‘Avec plaisir,’ said Raoul.

  When Maggie got back to Bella with the rolls and croissants, the other two were drinking coffee.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Maggie said, ‘but we must move on today.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’ Connie asked, putting down her mug. ‘We were going to have a bit of culture today, like the Louvre and everything. And we’ve paid for another day.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but Raoul has made a bit of a balls-up with the booking,’ Maggie lied, ‘and he shouldn’t really have booked us for three nights. He’s very sorry.’

  ‘Has he given you the money back?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Yes, no problem. And we can do the Louvre and everything on the way back, can’t we?’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ said Connie, ‘that’s probably a better idea anyway. It is rather crowded here at the moment.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to go,’ said Gill. ‘I like it here. And I like Raoul.’

  ‘We’ll see him again in a few weeks on the way back,’ Maggie said. ‘That’ll be much better because then you could stay on a bit longer if you liked, since we’d be fairly close to home.’

  Gill considered this for a moment or two. ‘Oh well, I haven’t much choice, have I?’

  They ate breakfast in comparative silence, after which Gill decided she was going to have a shower before they left.

  Gill took her towel and sponge bag and, bypassing the shower block, headed straight for Raoul in the shop.

  ‘I’m so sorry you leaving!’ he said.

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped. I believe you have another booking or something this evening?’

  Raoul looked mystified. ‘No, I have no other booking.’

  ‘But, Maggie said…’ Gill stopped. ‘What exactly did she say?’

  Raoul shrugged. ‘She say if a lover comes looking for her I am to say that no, I have never seen her, or any of you, not in my whole life. That you were never here. Never!’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Gill.

  * * *

  Although Connie hadn’t drunk as much as the other two the previous evening, she insisted they didn’t leave Raoul’s campsite until lunchtime, to give her system a decent drying-out period before tackling the drive south. They’d agreed
to take the Autoroute des Anglais to the east of Paris, eventually taking them down through the Burgundy region (‘without a doubt!’ they’d all agreed). They’d head towards Dijon, and then take the Autoroute du Soleil south. They’d divert as necessary to hopefully find unspoilt countryside, vineyards, and places for Bella to stay overnight. And thoroughly confuse the satnav lady.

  After a night’s sleep Gill’s Parisian coiffure was unrecognisable and, although she’d made some attempts at restoring the beehive, it was collapsing in sections even before they set off.

  ‘Didn’t you tell him how much that hairdo cost before he started running his fingers through it?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I’ll pay you back your bloody money,’ Gill snapped, before Maggie cut in, ‘No, you won’t. Just promise me that, before we get to Italy, you’ll let me cut some of that lot off.’

  Gill snorted. ‘Not likely!’

  Connie sighed. ‘Don’t start, you two. Now, let’s talk about today. The idea is that we head for Lyon, which is supposed to be a good halfway point between here and the Med. We could take the main autoroute, which is very busy at this time of year, or we can look for some alternative routes and enjoy the scenery.’

  ‘Let’s do that,’ said Maggie. ‘I like the idea of being off the beaten track.’

  * * *

  ‘This is hell,’ Connie stated, wondering yet again what she’d let herself in for. They hadn’t taken the main autoroute, but this one was bad enough. She remained, constant and careful, in the slowest lane, surrounded by manic drivers cutting in front of her and around her. Maggie, now her navigator, was doing her best to decipher signs and distances while, behind, Gill slept spread-eagled on Connie’s divan.

  ‘I don’t think we should try going all the way to Lyon today,’ Maggie said, noting Connie’s tension. ‘But we could perhaps find somewhere near Dijon. And why don’t you let me drive for a while?’

  Reluctantly Connie let Maggie into the driving seat. She knew that Maggie had a much stronger constitution than her frail appearance would indicate, but she still hesitated. But Connie’s back was aching and she was finding these long drives stressful and tiring. I’m sixty-nine, she thought; I’m entitled to get knackered sometimes.

  Maggie was a natural. She adjusted the seat to her own lesser dimensions and then set off as smoothly and calmly as if she’d been driving large motorhomes all her life. She never fails to amaze, Connie thought as she relaxed in the passenger seat. And it would be such a relief to share the driving. But not with Gill, she thought. Never Gill. She rooted through her CDs. Andrea Bocelli’s ‘Sogno’ would do the trick.

  ‘We’re pretty well in the Burgundy region now,’ Connie said. ‘And we are most definitely going to be boosting the local economy this evening.’

  ‘Most definitely,’ said Maggie.

  ‘How far now?’

  ‘About five hundred kilometres and six hours to Lyon, according to the map,’ Maggie continued, ‘and that’s without any hold-ups.’

  ‘We’ll head towards Dijon then. Three hours will be more than enough for this afternoon.’

  * * *

  Maggie thought a lot about Ringer as they drove along the tree-lined road, with scintillating glimpses of vineyards through the foliage. Ringer was not a bad man as criminals go; not a vicious man, just damned greedy. He might well chase after his ill-gotten gains but Maggie didn’t think he’d harm them physically, although she couldn’t be sure. It was an awful lot of cash. She wasn’t afraid of him; only of losing the money and, with it, this wonderful freedom that she hadn’t even realised she wanted. She was loving every minute of this journey. No more worrying about the relationship and the blonde bimbo; no more worrying about money because she knew there was enough there to fund some kind of future for herself.

  She could afford to be generous on this trip but she’d still be keeping most of it for herself.

  They found a signposted turning to Montbard and were finally able to look around and savour the panorama of vineyards. It was early evening when they came across Les Hirondelles: whitewashed walls, green shutters and a sign, in English, which proclaimed ‘Superior Burgundy Cuisine, Superior Burgundy Wine’.

  ‘Sounds like us,’ said Maggie as, with some relief, she drove Bella into the little car park.

  Gill had woken up and was tidying up her beehive and applying lipstick. She yawned. ‘Are we stopping already? We’re not in Dijon yet, are we?’

  ‘Yes, we are stopping,’ snapped Connie. ‘While you’ve been snoring your head off back there we’ve been contending with hellish traffic, and we’re hot and tired.’

  ‘Perhaps the owners can tell us if there’s a campsite round here somewhere,’ Maggie said. There were several cars parked at all angles, but no sign of life.

  ‘Probably still in the middle of their three-hour lunch,’ Connie remarked as she rapped on the door. Finally they heard footsteps approaching from inside and the door being unbolted and slowly opened, bringing them face to face with an Adonis. He was fortyish, tall and golden-haired with the most amazing blue eyes and a slightly lopsided smile.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ said Gill, bringing up the rear.

  ‘Bonsoir!’ said Adonis.

  Connie cleared her throat, hoping not to have to rely on her schoolgirl French. ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘I do.’ His eyes crinkled fetchingly as he smilingly surveyed the three women in front of him.

  ‘Um, well, we wondered if we could eat here? Manger, ici? And if there was somewhere to park our motorhome?’

  ‘Yes, of course, you can eat here after one hour.’ Adonis consulted his watch. ‘My wife will prepare dinner for eight o’clock. And we have a field right there, through the trees. You see? You can be there.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Connie, relief flooding through her weary veins. She turned to the other two. ‘No more driving tonight – to hell with Dijon. Who needs their mustard anyway?’

  ‘I am called Étienne,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  Étienne’s field was little more than a tract of land sandwiched between a dusty olive grove on one side, and an orchard on the other. And all around were acres and acres of vines.

  ‘We ’ave no toilets out ’ere,’ said Étienne, as he led them in. ‘No water, no electricity. This will be OK?’

  ‘This will be fine,’ Connie replied. Which was true. They’d filled up with water at Raoul’s, they’d have to use the toilet if necessary, they had candles, they had solar panels and they had bottled gas. They also had a restaurant right on their doorstep.

  ‘Ooh la la! What a dish!’ said Gill, gazing after him as he walked away.

  ‘And young enough to be your son,’ said Connie.

  ‘Your grandson, even,’ added Maggie.

  Gill sighed. ‘Why is it that it’s considered OK for an old guy to have a girlfriend young enough to be his daughter, but it’s considered weird if an older woman has a young boyfriend? Tell me that.’

  Connie was filling the kettle and thinking of the sexy Don Robertson. ‘So much for equality, Gill.’

  ‘We’ll put it to the equal opportunities board when we get home,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Anyway, I seem to remember him referring to his wife,’ Connie put in.

  Gill snorted. ‘This is France. They do that sort of thing all the time.’

  * * *

  Étienne’s equally attractive wife was called Lisanne, and she was as near to cordon bleu as you were likely to get in the middle of rural France. There were aperitifs and crudités, served outside under a rustic pergola overgrown with wisteria, then a goat’s cheese concoction with caramelised onions, coq au vin (‘from heaven,’ sighed Connie), tarte au citron and some amazing cheese, all washed down with an endless flow of superior Burgundy. Apparently Lisanne cooked a feast each evening for as many people as had booked, and in this case there were eleven, all seated round one long table in the oak-beamed dining room with its stone walls and enormous log-burner.r />
  ‘I suppose it must get a bit chilly here in the winter,’ Maggie remarked.

  They were the only Brits, along with two French couples who spoke no English, two German girls who did, and a charming Norwegian couple whose English was on a par with the Queen’s. It made for a lively evening with much arm waving and laughter. One of the Frenchmen, who was in his sixties and looked like Charles Aznavour, plainly considered himself to be a comedian and enlisted the help of Étienne to interpret his jokes, most of which were lost in translation and, the more incomprehensible the jokes became, the more everyone laughed to the point of hysteria, while the wine continued to flow.

  Apart from the Frenchman’s jokes, the German girls’ cycling tour and the Norwegians’ annual escape from the far north, much of the conversation centred on wine, and on the three mature British ladies heading all the way to Italy, accompanied by at least six different ideas on how they should get there. Advice was not in short supply. Connie mentioned that she’d prefer to avoid mountain roads and passes and head due south, and so they were advised to head for Avignon and then follow the coast. Then there was much jabbering and arguing in French on the best way to get there, avoiding traffic hot-spots, tolls and busy roads, along with several sets of scrawled instructions.

  Full of good food, good wine and mild hysterics, the three teetered their way back to Bella by moonlight.

  ‘That was one great meal,’ said Connie as they staggered inside. She fumbled for the matches and started to light some candles. ‘And God, don’t we all look beautiful by candlelight!’

  ‘We are bloody beautiful,’ Maggie said.

  * * *

  Connie woke early, aware of yet another hangover, richly deserved. She resolved to cut down on these alcohol-fuelled evenings, even if they were in France’s most famous wine-producing region. Today, she decided, they were going nowhere. She would try to send emails or, at the very least, she must text the family.