The Woman Who Upped and Left: A laugh-out-loud read that will put a spring in your step!. Fiona Gibson
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He has a kind face, I decide. He’s not looking at me as if thinking, What’s she doing here? Maybe he thinks I’m staff. I smile back, hoping to convey the message that, despite the state of my vehicle, I actually come to places like this all the time. I belong here, I hope my smile says, just like you do. Message transmitted, I reply to Morgan’s text: Saturday.
His reply pings back instantly: WHAT?? Oh, so he misses me after all. In fact, this is the longest period we’ll have ever spent apart. While Morgan’s had numerous long weekends with his dad, in recent times the livestock aspect of Vince’s smallholding has put him off (‘There’s so much crap everywhere, Mum! It bloody stinks!’) and he always seems pretty relieved to come home. I’ve never managed to fund school trips to France or Austria, and his main summer holidays were usually camping trips to Cornwall with me, then with a friend and me, because the idea of being trapped alone in a tent with his mother was clearly appalling.
Another text: Need grey T shirt washing wanna wear tonight!!
Ahh … right. So it’s the interruption in laundry services he’s concerned about. No, ‘Where are you, Mum? Is everything okay?’ I mean, if I were him – and I frequently do try to see things from his point of view – I’d be thinking, ‘It’s not like her to just bugger off. Maybe I should be concerned about her mental health?’ But then, Morgan isn’t the type to worry about anything. I could be lying dead on the kitchen floor and he’d step over my corpse to fetch a can of Coke from the fridge.
I stab out my reply – use washing machine – and climb out of my car, trying to quell the anxiety that’s rising inside me. The man from the Saab gets out too. He is tall, well-groomed and handsome; dapper, you’d call him, with his neatly clipped short dark hair and a light tan. His navy blue linen jacket and casual dark grey trousers look expensive. ‘Hi,’ he says with a smile.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
‘Lovely day.’
‘Yes, it is …’
He stands for a moment, taking in the surroundings: the sweeping lawns, the well-tended borders filled with pale pink roses, the beautiful building itself. Then he checks his watch and, with a breezy confidence that suggests he is unintimidated by poshness – because to people like him this place isn’t posh, it’s just normal – he opens the boot of his car and lifts out a brown leather bag.
I start making my way towards the hotel, dragging my wheeled case along the gravel and trying not to churn it up too much. When I glance back, the man is strolling a few metres behind. He flashes another broad smile. I smile back, briefly, and snatch my phone from my shoulder bag as it rings. ‘Hi, Morgan,’ I say distractedly.
‘What d’you mean, you’re back next Saturday? What’re you doing?’
I clear my throat, aware of the crunch of the man’s footsteps behind me. ‘I explained in my note, I’ve gone away for a bit.’
‘A bit? That’s not a bit. It’s a week! For fuck’s sake, Mum!’
‘Don’t swear at me, Morgan.’
‘All right, sorry, it’s just … I thought you’d just gone to the Spar or something …’
‘I go there,’ I correct him. ‘I don’t go away there, Morgan. It’s not a holiday destination …’
‘You’ve gone on holiday without telling me?’ he gasps. ‘Like, where?’
‘Well, it’s a sort of holiday. I’m in Buckinghamshire …’ A peacock struts haughtily across the path, its breast shimmering sapphire blue in the sunshine.
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s in the south of England.’
‘I mean, what’s there? Why’re you there?’
‘I’m doing the cookery course,’ I explain, keeping my voice low.
Morgan makes a choking noise. ‘You mean that dinner lady thing?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But I thought you were taking the money! The cash prize. That’s what you said …’
‘Well, I changed my mind.’ I’ve slowed my pace in the hope that the man will understand that I want him to march ahead so I can conduct this conversation in private.
‘You chose a baking course,’ Morgan laments, ‘over five thousand quid? What use is that gonna be?’
‘Probably none,’ I reply tersely, ‘and it’s not a baking course. It’s classic French cookery—’
‘You’ve gone mad,’ he mutters.
‘Yes, I probably have.’
He pauses. ‘So anyway, what about my T-shirt?’
‘Sorry, but I can’t operate the washing machine from here. It’s not remote controlled. Much as I’d love to keep on top of all our domestic concerns from 200 miles away, it’s not actually possible to …’ I break off as the man catches up with me and we fall into step.
‘Mum?’
‘Just a minute,’ I hiss.
‘But I don’t know how …’
‘For God’s sake, Morgan. There’s a door at the front. You know the round bit you can see through? Open it and put your T-shirt in. Then open the little drawer at the top and put in some powder …’
‘Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear—’
‘I’m not whispering …’
‘Speak up!’
‘Put-powder-in-the-little-drawer,’ I bark, at which the man raises a brow in amusement.
‘Where is it?’
‘For goodness’ sake! It’s the big white appliance, the one that’s not the freezer, the one that doesn’t have peas in it …’
‘I mean the powder—’
‘Cupboard under the sink,’ I growl. There’s some urgent rummaging, then the machine door is slammed shut. Hope he hasn’t broken it.
‘Now what?’ Morgan huffs.
‘Select the programme,’ I instruct him as, mercifully, the man seems to understand that I require privacy and strides ahead. ‘That’s the round dial with numbers on at the top,’ I add. ‘30 degrees is probably best. Nothing bad ever happens at that temperature. Okay now?’
I hear clicking noises. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘Have you turned it on?’
‘God, Mum, why does it have to be so complicated …’
‘There’s an on button,’ I snap. ‘It’s not complicated. Just press the damn thing …’
‘How am I s’posed to know …’
‘You should know,’ I retort, far too loudly for the tranquil surroundings, ‘because I gave you that washing machine tutorial, remember? I showed you the dial and the little drawer but you wouldn’t pay attention. You wandered off to get ice cream …’
‘It really wasn’t that interesting,’ Morgan mutters.
‘No, I suppose it wasn’t, but what if I’d been teaching you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and you’d wandered off then, more interested in stuffing your face full of Ben & Jerry’s than saving a life?’
He splutters. ‘All right, all right! No need to go off on one. I was only asking …’ Now he sounds genuinely upset. I stop on the path, breathing slowly, and watch a squirrel scampering up a tree.
‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean