Page 1 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

1

Sometimes I try really hard not to think about the summer I turned eighteen. On other occasions I allow the memories to engulf me, the pleasure and the guilt to wrap themselves around me. From time to time it comes at me unexpectedly, like a slap or a kiss. Today it’s in the form of a book and makes me smile. How could it not, because today is our birthday. Today we are both seventy years old.

I open the box of books and pull out a few dusty paperbacks. The donations have been pouring in over the last few days and I have a lot to get through. I would have thought the heatwave we’re experiencing at the moment would put people off clearing out their cupboards and shelves, but it would seem not.

I begin to flick through the pages, checking for anything left behind. It’s odd what some people use for a bookmark. A till receipt is one thing, or maybe a five-pound note, but I’ve found shoelaces, pressed flowers, important documents and once, on page seventy-eight of a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, a Curly Wurly wrapper with half the chocolate bar still inside.

So far today there is nothing more than a train ticket for the Brighton to London, dated a year ago. I stand up, feeling that pull in my lower back, reminding me I missed yoga this week, and begin to fill the space I’ve made on the shelves.

‘Sharon is coming in later, Connie. She has something she wants to discuss with us, apparently.’

My colleague, Gita, a slight and super-efficient woman, is hanging freshly steamed clothes on a rail by the door. She likes to group items into sets, everything perfectly matched, the same way she dresses herself. If you like the red skirt you may like the blouse to go with it, and the handbag, shoes and scarf. I’m not overly keen on this approach. I prefer things grouped into sizes – no point loving a garment if it’s not going to fit you. I don’t like to contradict though, and, anyway, Gita’s perfect grouping makes the shop look less like a jumble sale.

‘What does she want to discuss?’ I ask.

‘Do you remember, she mentioned a bit of a shop refit a while ago, so, I imagine she wants our input. Maybe she’ll ask us to do a few extra hours to get it done. I don’t mind; I’ve got some great ideas. The jewellery isn’t selling well and I think it’s that old cabinet; it’s off-putting. We should get a low display table with lights and a glass top, make it look more desirable.’

I think this is a good idea. The jewellery brought into our charity shop is probably not worth much. Sharon always takes out anything valuable for auction, so it’s only the beads and bangles that are left behind, and I can see that Gita’s suggestion would make them look a little more appealing.

‘Sounds like an idea worth exploring,’ I say.

I reach into the bottom of the box for the last couple of books and turn one over in my hands. It’s a copy of Katie Fforde’s Highland Fling and it makes me stop in my tracks. All these years and it still affects me. Any reminder of that summer I spent in Scotland in 1970 and I’m right back there, the years disappearing instantly. I allow myself a moment, breathe deeply and then, after checking for anything undesirable between the pages, I place it onto the shelf where it seems to stare at me, so I turn quickly away and try to squash the fluttering that has begun in my chest.

‘You all right, Connie?’ Gita asks, as she ties a silk scarf around the neck of a coat hanger to finish an outfit.

‘Yes, yes, fine,’ I reply brightly, and am saved any further probing by the arrival of a customer.

An elderly woman with a pram pushes her way through the open doorway and I rush over to help her and her wheels up the step. She’s wearing a blue summer dress with spaghetti straps and the skin on her reed-like arms looks so thin I worry it might tear with any sort of contact. She is fragile and for a moment I’m reminded that today I am seventy and then I’ll be eighty, and possibly ninety. This will be me, and it’s coming sooner than I’d like.

‘It’s sweltering out there,’ she says, as I lift the pram into the shop. Only then do I see the tiny Chihuahua curled up inside.

‘Oh, how sweet,’ I say, surprised, reaching out to stroke it, but draw my hand back when the dog’s lips lift and curl. ‘Shall I fetch a bowl of water for him?’

‘Her,’ the woman says. ‘Penelope Jones, that’s her name. Penny-pops for short. She’s such a love, I don’t know what I’d do without her. Water would be very kind, thank you.’

Penny-pops’ lips continue to curl around her little needle teeth and I take a large sidestep and retreat to the safety of the staffroom, catching Gita’s grin as I go.

With a bowl for the dog and a glass for the customer, I leave her to rummage through the bargain bin and turn my attention to the stack of donations that need sorting.

I’ve volunteered at the hospice charity shop here in Brighton for almost three years – two days in the week and Saturday mornings. My son, Simon, suggested it as a way to settle me into civilian life, as he calls it. He says it keeps me out of trouble. I think that what he means by that is he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened with the keys for my van. It really wasn’t my fault that they slipped down through the slats into the drain. It could have happened to anyone. Simon had agreed, but unfortunately, because I was in Snowdonia, he had to drive up with the spare set.

‘Maybe it’s time to slow down,’ he’d said. ‘Perhaps you’re getting too old for this lark, Mum.’

A lot of my life I’ve spent travelling and working on the go, pleasing myself. I’ve been very lucky, he reminds me. As I’m supposed to be in my retirement years it’s time to offer what I have while I still have it. I think Simon is right, and he seems happy that I’ve settled close to him – his wife, Diana, not so much.

‘Connie Fitzgerald!’ a voice booms from the front of the shop, making me jump. I put down the crockery I was beginning to sort through and see my friend Victoria with a bottle of champagne in her hands. ‘Happy birthday, old girl!’

Vic is the person I’ve known the longest in Brighton, after meeting at a yoga class and being the only two to dash off for a glass of wine straight after. She’s much taller than me and willowy, with graceful arms and long fingers. I had asked if she was a pianist when we first met and she’d laughed and said pickpocket. In truth, she looks after her elderly parents now – one with dementia, the other with Parkinson’s. I can’t even imagine how difficult that is, but then, I haven’t seen or spoken to my own parents for many years.

‘You didn’t say it was your birthday,’ Gita says. ‘I’d have brought in some cakes if I’d known.’

Not one for a fuss, I wave off Gita’s concerns, take the bottle offered to me and pop it behind the counter.

‘Thanks, Vic,’ I say, giving my friend a quick hug.

‘Can you believe that this woman is seventy today?’ Vic asks Gita, Penny-pops’ owner and the young man hovering in the doorway, unsure whether it’s safe to come in or not. They all offer murmurs of surprise.

‘Ignore us,’ I say to the young man. ‘Please, do come in and have a browse if you’d like.’