The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read

by Dee MacDonald

  With a great deal of bowing, he shook hands with them all in turn before settling down on the grass.

  ‘Why do you call it Felicity?’ Connie asked.

  ‘After Felicity Kendal, you know, lovely gal. Always fancied her rotten. Still see her in those wellies, hmm! Haw, haw. The Good Life, you know?’

  ‘Well, this one’s called Bella,’ Connie said. ‘Short for La Bellezza. Italian.’

  ‘Bellissima! Speak a bit of the old lingo when necessary! Now, tell me where you’re all going. It’s not every day I come across three such charming and beautiful ladies in an Italian motor-thingy in the middle of France.’

  ‘We’re going to Italy,’ Gill informed him, edging her chair a little closer to where Larry had camped himself.

  ‘Italy, eh? Golly! On your hols? Lovely country, Italy. Are you interested in art and sculpture? First rate, all of it. You can get tickets for the Uffizi on the internet, do you know? And opera? You’ll have to see Aida in Verona, an absolute must! And…’

  The thing about Larry was that he required few answers to his questions, but just kept wittering on. Connie noted Gill’s eyes sparkle with adoration. He’s a little out of your class, Gill, she thought as she and Maggie exchanged amused looks.

  ‘Haven’t you ladies got any husbands?’ He plainly expected an answer to that one.

  ‘Not one!’ Gill said cheerfully. ‘Although we’ve had a few in our time, haven’t we, girls?’

  ‘Just the one,’ Connie said, conscious of the fact that Larry’s eyes kept returning to her.

  ‘One’s normally enough,’ said Larry. ‘Haw, haw. I say, this isn’t bad wine!’ He took a large gulp. ‘Italy, eh? Well, you’re about halfway there I suppose, to Ventimiglia anyway. But you’ve a fair way to go after that down to Florence and Rome. Do you like this area? I do; first came here forty years ago. No, I tell a lie, must be forty-five years ago! Still enjoy the gorge though, quite spectacular. Love all of France, so civilised, amazing food, if you know where to go. There’s a terrific restaurant just a mile or two up the road. You must try it. We must try it. I say, your glasses are empty, do try some of mine!’ He stood up and poured four generous measures.

  ‘We’d love to try your restaurant,’ Gill enthused, studying the tanned, skinny legs emerging from his khaki knee-length shorts. ‘And perhaps you could tell us where we could get a tour of the gorge? Connie and Maggie need a rest from all the driving.’

  Larry’s gaze turned to Connie again. ‘Is it yours? And you’re driving all the way? Incredible! Well now, as we’ve become chums, I know exactly how you can get a tour of the gorge. Be at the Land Rover there at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, and we’ll have a wonderful day. It’s a bit of a drive, but worth it. Wonderful! And I know another terrific place to eat—’

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ Connie interrupted, ‘but we really—’

  ‘No, no, I insist! Absolutely! Such fun! I know every twist on the road, and there’s lots of them, haw, haw.’

  As stereotypes go, Connie thought, he’s perfect. Straight from the casting department. ‘Golly’, ‘chums’ – did anyone speak like that any more? And who, in God’s name, had walnut chiffoniers?

  * * *

  ‘This is the best bit!’ Larry roared, as he navigated another hairpin bend somewhere near Castellane. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’

  Maggie was beginning to feel nauseous.

  He’d insisted Connie sat in the front, while a sleepy, disgruntled Gill and a paler than usual Maggie got slung from side to side in the back at every bend. There was no denying the views were spectacular; the early morning sun warming the rocky sides of the gorge to pink and gold, and throwing little diamonds into the sparkling turquoise-green river below. There were viewing points on the edge of the cliff road from which to look down on the river and take the obligatory photographs.

  ‘Sheer drop!’ Larry announced, peering over the edge of a precipice.

  Connie, who admitted she wasn’t keen on heights, stood well back while Gill inched tentatively forwards and Maggie stayed close to the Land Rover.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Connie asked.

  ‘I’m not feeling a hundred per cent today,’ Maggie muttered. ‘And he’s going round these bends like a bloody maniac.’

  ‘You are sitting in the front from now on,’ Connie insisted.

  Maggie grinned. ‘I’d rather take a chance on being sick!’

  ‘Best time of day!’ Larry pronounced as they got back into the Land Rover.

  Maggie had repositioned herself in the back. ‘Do you think you could drive a wee bit more slowly, Larry?’ she asked.

  He gathered up speed. ‘Feeling a bit Tom and Dick?’

  ‘She’d be better in the front,’ Connie muttered.

  ‘Not at all!’ Maggie noted Larry placing a restraining hand on Connie’s knee. ‘I’ll slow down a tad. Keep the window open, Maggie. Fresh air’s all you need.’

  As they passed the next viewpoint, Maggie let out a scream.

  Connie swivelled round. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Connie. It’s just me being silly.’

  Gill leaned across to her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Maggie?’

  Maggie dropped her voice so that Connie couldn’t hear her over the roar of the Land Rover. ‘I think I just saw Ringer!’ Maggie placed her hand over her mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ringer! In that layby, back there! A maroon Lexus like his and I’m sure it was him standing beside it.’

  ‘Come on, Mags! It could’ve been anyone,’ Gill said. ‘You couldn’t have seen his face clearly.’

  ‘Well, no, because he had his back to us, thank God, looking at the view. But I know his shape.’

  ‘Must be millions of men that shape,’ Gill retorted. ‘And what on earth would he be doing out here?’

  Larry was surveying Maggie in the rear-view mirror. ‘I say, what exactly are we talking about?’

  ‘It’s just that Maggie’s not feeling too good,’ Gill shouted as the Land Rover swerved to the left. ‘Please, just look where you’re going, Larry.’ She dropped her voice again. ‘It wasn’t him, Maggie! Maggie—’

  Maggie had stuck her head out of the window to disgorge the contents of her stomach.

  ‘Slow down! Stop!’ Gill was tapping on Larry’s shoulder. ‘Maggie’s being sick!’

  ‘Not in the car, I hope,’ shouted Larry, braking suddenly.

  ‘I told you she should be sitting in the front,’ Connie said.

  ‘I’m OK now.’ Maggie had settled back in her seat. ‘I just need you to stop somewhere so I can walk around outside for a bit. Get some air.’

  ‘I know,’ said Larry, pulling into another observation point. ‘We’ll go down and have a swim, shall we!’

  Maggie had clambered out and was inhaling great gulps of air, Gill at her side.

  As Connie got out to join them she said, ‘It’s a lovely idea, Larry, apart from the fact that we haven’t brought bathing costumes and Maggie’s feeling ill. Do you think we could just have a slow, steady ride back?’

  * * *

  On the way back to the campsite, Larry did drive more slowly. However, Connie didn’t have much chance to enjoy the spectacular scenery due to being distracted by Larry’s hand snaking onto her knee at every opportunity. Gill looked fed up, presumably because it was Connie’s knee and not hers. Although Maggie appeared to have recovered from her travel sickness she still seemed distracted, constantly looking over her shoulder. Perhaps she’d been spooked by the dramatic drops and precipices of the gorge, Connie thought. And so it was with some relief that they returned to where Bella was reposing in the afternoon sun and Maggie, having checked that no one had broken into the motorhome, took herself off to her bunk for an hour.

  ‘I say, would you like to see inside Felicity?’ Larry asked Connie.

  ‘Oh yes, please,’ replied Connie. ‘We would, wouldn’t we, Gill?’ She nudged Gill.

  ‘Oh, definitely,
’ said Gill.

  Connie was almost as impressed with Felicity as she was with the gorge when Larry showed off the luxurious interior of his caravan. The lounge even had a built-in quadrophonic sound system, the almost full-sized kitchen-diner was equipped with every conceivable gadget, and the separate bedroom had a double bed and a wall of wardrobes.

  ‘Very comfy,’ Larry said, patting the bed. ‘Wonderful, comfortable mattress.’ He nudged Connie. ‘Anytime you get tired of that little bed next door – haw, haw!’

  ‘My little bed’s perfectly fine,’ said Connie, retreating backwards and colliding with Gill.

  ‘More than I can say for mine,’ said Gill hopefully.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Larry, ‘never mind.’ Then, indicating his well-stocked bar: ‘Still don’t know where the hell I put that bottle opener though.’

  Gill looked as if she was about to say something, but thought better of it.

  ‘You could live in there full time,’ said Connie as she stepped outside.

  ‘I fully intend to, every summer,’ said Larry. ‘I’m heading for a site near Nice. Can’t rely on sunshine back in Blighty, can we? Haw, haw.’

  * * *

  They turned down Larry’s offer of dinner, citing Maggie’s ‘indisposition’. Yes, they’d had a lovely day, thank you, but they were having an early night. The man was exhausting.

  ‘Never mind, I’ll give you a lift into Avignon tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’m lunching with my ex-sister-in-law, would you believe? She lives down here. If you can amuse yourselves for a few hours I could pick you up again late afternoon, what?’

  ‘That would be great, Larry,’ Connie agreed.

  A couple of hours later all three sat in their nighties drinking iced coffee and trying to keep cool. They’d pulled the blinds down in case Larry decided to do some ‘window shopping’.

  ‘It can’t have been Ringer you saw in the gorge, Maggie,’ Gill whispered to Maggie when they got into their bunks. ‘How could he possibly know where we’d be going? Just as well we were in Larry’s car though. But, if it was him, how come he was there, and parked, even before we came along?’

  ‘Well,’ said Maggie, ‘he’s probably been following us and watching us for days.’

  ‘If it’s bothering you that much,’ Gill continued, ‘perhaps you should look out for him and hand over that bloody cash, so we can all be shot of him.’

  ‘No,’ Maggie said very firmly. ‘He’s not getting a penny of it back.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He’s never done an honest day’s work in his life and he’s always rationed my allowance so I’ve had to go out to work every damned day while he lives like a king. In nearly forty years he’s never once offered me the security of marriage, and now he’s dumping me for a newer model. This is my pay-off – my pension, if you like. Sorry, Gill, but he owes me.’

  * * *

  Maggie lay sleepless and thought about Ringer. Had he not chosen a life of crime he might well have been a business tycoon, making millions, operating just inside the law and living in the Bahamas or somewhere. With an endless supply of blondes hanging on his arm.

  In the early days, he’d told her about his apprenticeship in relieving the public of their money. He was Wee Willie Bell from Foundry Street who’d been selected by the gang of seven-year-olds to lure unsuspecting housewives to their doors with the order: ‘Go on! Ring her bell!’ They chose posh areas; big detached houses and – hopefully – husbands at work.

  The woman would smile down at this angelic-looking scamp, who’d then engage her in a long conversation, punctuated by the odd tear and sniffle, about his missing cat/dog/mother, while the others tried to get in through the back door to root around for her purse, or pocket anything they could find. They weren’t particularly good at it and often came away with nothing. Or else the woman would cotton on and phone the police, by which time, of course, they’d be miles away. You had to be able to run fast and be adept at hopping onto moving buses – and hopping off again – before the ‘clippie’ got to you to take your fare.

  Like a slippery little eel, Willie Bell dodged the law. His good looks were undoubtedly an advantage and why he was chosen to be the decoy. ‘Go on!’ they said. ‘Ring ’er bell!’ This stock phrase defined his identity.

  And he’d always been successful with the ladies, who gladly assisted him to spend his ill-gotten gains. Maggie knew he was anti-marriage, having come from a broken home himself, and he’d insisted, ‘You wouldn’t be wanting any more kids anyway, would you? One’s enough for anyone.’

  On reflection, it was probably better not to have had Ringer’s child.

  Now she might no longer have Ringer, but she did have his money, and he plainly wasn’t going to let that go. That was the reason he was following them, but how had he managed to track them down? She thought it might be a good idea to ring Pam.

  ‘Pam?’

  ‘Yeah, is that you, Maggie? Where are you?’

  ‘We’re well down in France, near Avignon. I just keep wondering if you’d given Ringer any other details of our route?’

  ‘Mags, I didn’t know your route.’

  ‘So there’s no way he could have known where we stayed a few days ago?’

  ‘Of course not! And anyway, you didn’t know yourself where you were going! But he did say he was going to pay you a surprise visit somewhere so perhaps he’s guessing where you might go. But listen, did you know the police were after him?’

  ‘Already?’ Maggie said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pam, ‘something to do with that Bluett’s Bank robbery. They’ve caught a couple of them and now they’ve got all the names, but I can’t believe Ringer would be involved with that… I mean, I know he’s a bit of a villain at times, but not with big jobs like that.’

  ‘This is a long story, Pam, and I won’t go into it now.’

  ‘Why don’t you give him a ring? Give yourself peace of mind?’

  ‘Yeah, good idea, Pam.’

  Maggie switched off her phone and waited outside until Connie went to the loo so she could chat to Gill.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Gill, ‘is how he knew where we’d been. I mean, we didn’t know ourselves where we were going and there’s loads of routes down through France. However did he find Raoul’s place?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Maggie. ‘None at all.’

  ‘Let’s just call it a coincidence,’ Gill said. ‘He probably spent days checking every caravan site in the Paris area before he got to Raoul’s.’

  ‘That’ll be it,’ said Maggie, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

  Eleven

  SUR LE PONT

  Connie had read that Avignon, on the left bank of the Rhône, was the seat of the Catholic popes for most of the fourteenth century, and that the Palais des Papes was still there. It also had a cathedral – and a very famous bridge.

  Larry, true to his word, had transported them right into the centre. He hadn’t stopped talking all the way from the campsite. ‘Hope you gals will behave yourselves! Watch out for those old Froggies, haw, haw.’

  They headed first for the beautiful old bridge.

  ‘I’ve got to see this thing after all the times we had to sing that bloody song in school,’ Maggie said, insisting they walked out to the end of the bridge and back again.

  ‘After all that it’s only half a bridge,’ said Gill.

  ‘But it’s so beautiful,’ Connie said.

  ‘We don’t make people pay to walk across our bridges,’ Gill grumbled, fanning herself with the English Guide to Avignon.

  Connie was taking photos on her phone. ‘I wonder why this bridge is so famous in the UK?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose the French do much singing about our bridges. “Sur le Pont de Humber”, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps they go more for “London Bridge is Falling Down”,’ suggested Connie.

  ‘The French would enjoy that, since they’ve never liked us much anyway,’ Gill sn
orted.

  ‘Now, we must all do a wee dance,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Why?’ asked Gill.

  ‘It’s what you do, “Sur le Pont d’Avignon”. Now, will we dance separately or all together?’

  ‘I’ll do my “mum-dancing”,’ Connie said, wiggling her hips.

  ‘I’ll do the Highland Fling,’ Maggie said. ‘Haven’t done it in years. Here we go!’

  ‘Nuts, both of you!’ sighed Gill, giving her hips an experimental sway.

  People had now begun to stop, raising their phones and cameras to catch for posterity this vision of three mature ladies doing some appalling dancing.

  ‘Is Craig Revel Horwood here?’ shouted one very British voice as the three collapsed in laughter.

  ‘Haven’t done anything so daft in years,’ Gill remarked as they left the bridge.

  ‘Then we should be dafter more often,’ said Maggie.

  * * *

  It was when they were heading towards the Palais des Papes that they noticed Zizi. And Zizi was able to offer Gill an immediate hair appointment.

  Both Connie and Maggie were constantly telling Gill that she looked younger and prettier without the ‘awful beehive’, but Gill was still having difficulty in coming to terms with her shorter cut. But Maggie, wielding those kitchen scissors, had left Gill’s blonde locks looking noticeably uneven.

  Monsieur René was free, said the receptionist as she consulted her watch, because the lady who should be here at this very minute had to cancel, due to her baby arriving unexpectedly early. ‘It arrive thees morning!’ she said.

  As Gill was about to say ‘how lovely’ or something apt, the receptionist sighed. ‘So ’orrible to be in ze ’ospital with ze bad ’air, no?’

  ‘Oh, quite,’ Gill murmured.

  ‘Right then,’ said Connie, as Maggie shoved a fistful of euros into Gill’s bag. ‘We will meet up outside the Popes’ Palace in two hours’ time – OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ said Gill, heading towards a very dapper Monsieur René.