Charlie Winkworth was bored out of his skull. The regulation brass carriage clock was ticking away his remaining days on their teak mantelpiece and forty-odd years of life in the Police Force were settling into long-term memory. His wife Edwina - duster of clocks, polisher of teak - spent most of her time avoiding him. There would be no return to the peace and quiet she had once so relished when Chas was on nights, no more freedom to jaunt with her WI friends while he stayed in to look after the twins, no impromptu girls’ gatherings in the lounge at 49 Shrubbery Street when her policeman was on late shift. Harassed, she retreated to their fitted oak kitchen, her pride and joy, to spend whatever time was left between oven and sink duty reorganising cupboards and tackling the daily puzzle pages. On the rare occasions they walked together into the town, Charlie would stare disconsolately around at the world of other people with full and busy lives while Edwina popped in and out of shops he didn’t remember and loaded his arms with bags. People he knew walked past him without a glance. Unrecognisable in civvies.
“He really needs something to do!” said Edwina to her best friend Beverley as they arranged the church flowers for Mother’s Day. “He just sits around, moping, starting books and not finishing anything, getting under my feet trying to be helpful but he isn’t; won’t even go down the pub now he’s out of uniform in case ...”
“In case of what?”
“I don’t even know!” She stared into a daffodil.”Maybe he doesn’t want the arm round the shoulder and ‘poor old Charlie’; maybe he thinks people will take the Mick.”
“What did he used to like doing?”
“Just being a cop! He grew up with Z Cars. Couldn’t wait till he was behind the wheel going ‘Z Victor 2 to BD’ and counting collars every week. It was very competitive in that Police Office, Bev, and they weren’t above fitting people up if they thought it would look good on their record.”
“That’s disgusting,” said her friend.
“But you see what I’m saddled with? A competitive action freak with nothing to fight and no-one to crow over.”
“Making a nuisance of himself and a misery to have around.”
“Exactly. He’s driving me up the wall, Bev. What can I do?”
They made their way back through polished pews with their joyous finials of golden flowers into the March sunshine.
“Wina - hasn’t Chas got a birthday next month?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, couldn’t you get him something challenging? I’m thinking ... computer?”
Edwina had never considered anything of the sort. They had a nice semi, a neat garden, everything they needed for a comfortable, settled life. Why would they want one of those alarming machines in the house? It was bad enough having to cope with them in every shop, every bank ... even friends’ cars seemed to have them these days.
“Oh no Bev. Not for us.”
“Wina, look at you. There isn’t any ‘us’. You need to lever Chas out of his slough of despond and I reckon a nice shiny PC would do it. Think of the games he could play! Think of the friends he could make on-line! He’d be a happy Aries again and what’s more out of your hair.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Edwina.
And so she did.
* * *
“Come and look at this!”
“What is it Charlie?” Edwina put her crossword down and peered round the lounge door where her rotund husband sat in the unnatural light of his new computer screen.
“Duck to water!” she had exclaimed to Bev, who had predictably replied,”Told you.”
“Look, Wina, I’ve found two websites full of competitions! I’m going to have a crack at some of these, I tell you. Some great prizes. Even holidays.”
“What do you have to do?”
“All sorts. Just buy stuff, do a survey, write a slogan, enter a prize draw ... it’s worth a try. Eh?”
“Got to be in it to win it,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic and supportive, but wondering why her stomach suddenly gripped with apprehension.
* * *
The doorbell was going again. She had chosen a Westminster Chime because it was so English and she liked it, but Edwina was growing heartily sick of the sound. Every day now her nerves were on edge, waiting for the dingdongdingDONG that would make her jump and spill her coffee/ tea/ sherry and meant more mopping and scrubbing her normally spotless floor.
Charlie was now never away from his computer. He might have been super-glued to the luxury office chair he won on his very first day of competition. Edwina had to take him his meals on a tray and hoover round him leaving a growing mound of dust, cobweb and hair in his Lucky Corner.
This time the delivery man was nearly collapsing under a massive box bright with logos and full of expensive designer kitchenware.
“But I don’t want that!” Edwina was almost in tears.
“Are you Mr. C.K.J. Winkworth?”
“No of course not. I’m Mrs. Winkworth.”
“Then it’s not your decision I’m afraid, madam. Sign this please.”
And this was the way it went several times a day, for weeks and weeks and weeks as Edwina’s once perfectly-kept semi filled up with housewares, groceries, gadgets, music, books, TVs, games, sports gear, craft items, clothes and toys.
“We won’t be short of Christmas presents this year, eh?” said Charlie. “The twins and the grandkids’ll be well pleased! We need to get packing soon, too, Wina. New York in August, eh? Who’d have thought we’d be jetting off to the Big Apple at our time of life? And the theatre next week - can’t wait.”
Edwina could. The thought of being crammed into a raked studio next to her sweating husband for Shakespeare In The Round was appalling. And flying. They had never flown. Year after year her friends all came back over-cooked and peeling with gyppy tummies and jetlag. Even Bev who was probably the most sensible said one city was much like another these days and what about the terrorists?
Edwina left the marital bed to Charlie and curled up each night in silent misery on the enormous beanbag he won for a slogan he wrote about pillow-slips - ‘I sleep at night, ‘cos I’m on your case!’ Awful. Maybe no-one else entered.
* * *
By August and the impending flight, No.49 was choked with unwanted stuff. Charlie’s winning streak was unstoppable. Bev’s tentative explanation of a long, strong Jupiter transit was met with “I’ll give him long, strong ... I need a long strong slug of something to kick me into a different universe. I can’t - really can’t - stand this any more.”
* * *
Early one Sunday morning Edwina woke shivering from a nightmare ... their house was a plane and Chas was rolling it faster and faster behind her through an avalanche that swept the world away as she fled. The beanbag had burst. Her hair, arms, nose and everything round her were smothered in polystyrene snow. Fighting through the boxes in her nightie she discovered a half-bottle of Jack Daniels; that welcome five-minute breakfast was warm and gold like the morning. It took her to the front door - then to the gate - then to the sleeping street. She started to run. Nobody noticed the OAP barefoot in her M&S nightie until she was clear through the town and out on the Coastal Path. Two hundred middle-aged runners, up with the lark for a local charity, gasped as the fleeing Edwina suddenly appeared, collided with their leader, and took off ahead of the pack at astonishing speed. Drunk, jubilant, Edwina pulled up her nightie and flung it into the sea breeze. The air felt wonderful on her ageing skin; the sudden complete freedom was intoxicating. Bits of her wobbled and bounced and her feet burned but she didn’t care as she left the marathon, Chas and her ruined life behind.
* * *
In the August sunshine a small group of Hospice volunteers, organisers and media folk were gathered at a gold satin tape stretched glittering between trampled verges. In the distance they could see their runners approaching; in front was a single pink figure. The women giggled. The men blanched. A scarily naked female was racing toward the finishing line, grey hair tangled, cheeks rosy with joy, arms outstretched to embrace a surprised world. Edwina barely noticed the flashing of cameras, the out-thrust microphones, concerned medics rushing to fold their shiny survival blankets around her shoulders.
“I really need coffee!” she said to a familiar and deeply embarrassed TV face. “And I need to see Bev.”
* * *
“Paper’s come.”
“‘Edwina’s Winning Streak!’ How original.”
“Chas is going to see this.”
“Weren’t you on TV?”
“He’ll’ve been too busy writing slogans.”
“You look amazing! Isn’t that ...?”
“Yes. We had lunch after the interview.”
“What happens now?”
Edwina leaned back again on Bev’s sofa-bed; she chuckled.
“Chas has finally, definitively lost. Fancy starting a Sun Club?”