Page 47 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

She never specified what she thought I should do to get myself sorted, but I left with my suitcase and the money and hovered back at the train station contemplating returning to Scotland. I’d never felt so alone and frightened in my life. To me, Alex was a strong and independent young woman and I was pregnant and on a completely different path suddenly to the one we had planned.

‘They were fond of sending you away, weren’t they,’ she says, when I relay some of this to her.

‘Yes, always keen to cut off those not towing the family line.’

‘So where did you go?’

‘I got on the next train out of the station and ended up in Bournemouth. I didn’t have a plan; that was just where the journey took me. I stayed in a grubby B&B for a couple of nights, then got myself a job in a restaurant kitchen and found a hostel to crash in. At that point I knew I’d never go home.’

Alex takes my hand into her lap and squeezes it.

‘I’m so sorry, Con, how awful for you.’

‘It was awful not being with you, but really, that was the time I grew up. I was getting steadily more pregnant and the chance to get rid of it had long gone.’ I look to gauge her reaction, but her face is steady; she’s just listening. ‘I did look at that cash my mother had thrust at me as a means to get back to you, like it had never happened, but I just couldn’t do it. Mostly because I was too scared to. I thought it would hurt; I didn’t know where to go to do it anyway. I buried my head about it and just looked to survive. Eventually I found a house share with an older woman, Cheryl, who was wonderful. She helped me through the difficult time of having a baby. It seems like another world now. Simon was six months old when I got on another train to see you. I was so in love with my baby that I had a mad moment where I was convinced you’d have to love him too. That’s when I spoke to your family, turned around and came back again. You had gone off on an adventure and I was a single mum.’

‘Christ, Connie! Those early days must have been hard. You were eighteen with a baby. How did you cope?’

‘I took each day as it came. Did some casual jobs: cleaning offices, ironing, a fair amount of bar work, couple of factory shifts. I shared child care with the women I worked with and Cheryl helped me out too. And I saved and saved, took donations of clothes for Simon and eventually managed to rent a small, one-bed flat.’

‘That’s a tragic story, Con,’ she says.

‘It’s an everyday story for thousands of women. Not tragic, just life.’

‘Did you get any help from the father?’ she asks tentatively, but I close that line of enquiry down quickly.

‘No, I never saw him again.’

She seems to realise that I don’t want to talk about it so changes the direction of the conversation. She was always good at doing that too.

‘Can’t believe I thought you slept with Will. I was vile to him and he just took it.’

‘He thinks you were mad with him for driving me to the railway station,’ I say, as a snort of laughter erupts. ‘Christ, Alex, what were we playing at?’

She begins to chuckle, just in the back of her throat to start with and then a barking laugh comes out, making Bardo glance up from his recumbent position on my sleeping bag. He decides he’s heard it all before and goes back to sleep. I feel a weight lift from my head, my shoulders; in fact, my whole body. It’s so good to talk, to tell, to explain.

‘How wrong of your parents to blame you and send you away, push you off like it was your fault. And then the only support your mother offers you is cash.’

‘Oh, Alex, it doesn’t matter anymore. I just wanted you to know the truth finally. My mother isn’t a terrible person; I think she did what she had to do to survive in her world. Dad controlled her and she lived on pretty little eggshells, never wanting to rock the boat.

‘So, when did you first start travelling? When did you buy your first van?’

‘It was when Simon was at school. His mates were going on holiday and we’d never really had one. A friend of mine offered us the use of her camper van for a weekend away, and I was hooked. We used it a few times, until I was desperate to get my own and make our trips longer. I’d trained as a bookkeeper by then and worked for an electrical company doing payroll. I saved and bought my own really crappy van. We never took it too far in fear that it would break down, but surprisingly it never did. I loved being on the road and Simon did too. He loved making friends wherever we ended up in the school holidays. As he got older and I saved more, we got a modern van and went further afield. We made it into northern France and over to Ireland on the ferry. I’d pick him up after school on a Friday and we’d just take off. There was a bit of a dry spell in his teens when he’d rather be with his local friends, but then when he was older still and more independent, I began to go off on my own. When he left home for uni and then when he was gone permanently, I took off for weeks on end, working as I went. After all those years juggling jobs I was good at the travelling life.’

We finish the wine and then after donning our shoes, the three of us go outside for a wee. Bardo cocks his leg against a tree and then we take it in turns to do the same– well not quite the same– although Alex gives it a fair attempt while laughing uproariously.

For the first time on this trip we are going to have to sleep in the van, and I begin the process of rearranging the furniture to make the bed, move the remaining paintings and tidy up. I pull out sleeping bags and pillows. It seems funny now that I put two in with the thought that Leo and I might go away together.

Leo. I’m still not looking forward to that inevitable conversation, but it must be done. For now though, I have to navigate the tricky situation of me, Alex and one bed. She doesn’t seem fazed at all, and after cleaning her teeth out of the window, this five-star-hotel woman wriggles into one of the bags, plumps the pillow and lies down on the bed.

‘This will be cosy,’ she says.

‘I can always sleep in the front,’ I say, ‘if you’re uncomfortable.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Con, get in your bag. I need you for warmth.’

This is true. The temperature has plummeted and despite the warmth I’ve enjoyed from drinking the wine, I’m keen to get in my sleeping bag now. Alex scoots over and I lie down next to her, then she turns over and moves back against me, her body curved into mine. The potentially awkward situation is alleviated when Bardo jumps up and squeezes in by our feet.

‘Connie,’ Alex says. ‘I’m so sorry for what you went through, and I wish I could have gone through it with you.’ There’s a moment of silence and then she says, ‘night, Con,’