Free Away From It All by Judy Astley

She was enjoying having her life documented like this, it gave her a boost to be reminded just what an icon she’d once been – Aidan was flatteringly reverent – and it was just as well to do it now while she still could. Every single episode from her crowded past was as clear as ever, but sometimes she felt that the present days were blurring into one another in a mushy, undefined way, as if there was so little difference between them that her memory was no longer bothering to register them properly.
    Sixty-eight, she thought, was not for her a good age to be, not when she was feeling suddenly weakened like this. It was a pity that it had turned out to be true, this thing about cigarettes and alcohol causing more than a bit of wear and tear round the edges. She’d been certain she was different, that she’d got away with it and would become one of those fit, lithe centenarians who confound the medics by putting her healthylongevity down to a lifelong indulgence in wine and tobacco. Even so, even given her current frailty, she wouldn’t go back and change anything – she’d had too good a time. But all the same, sixty-eight was a sad time to find her vitality petering out. It had neither the grandeur of wise old age nor the ripe-fruit quality of the middle years.
Nineteen
sixty-eight on the other hand had been a very good year. This afternoon she would tell Aidan all about it.
    â€˜So. How’s it going? When are you coming back?’ Noel’s voice sounded very crisp and businesslike. He was in the office with a lot to do. He wasn’t going to waste time asking Alice how she was or telling her he missed her. Alice was outside the Truro Homebase loading paint cans and various bits of essential hardware into the back of the car. She quickly rechecked her list as, one-handed because of the phone, she put them in – chrome handles to brighten up the kitchen cupboards, two screwdrivers, white eggshell paint for the woodwork, soft greeny-blue matt vinyl for the kitchen walls, three brushes, a bottle of white spirit, small paint buckets, a pack of drop cloths to protect the worktops and floor. She’d assumed there’d be old sheets at Penmorrow to use but as Mo had said grouchily, ‘What do you think are on the bloody beds?’
    At the other end of the phone she could hear Noel tapping his fingers on his desk – a sure sign that he expected a fast and decisive reply.
    â€˜Back? I can’t come back just now, there’s too much to do here. Why? Are you lonely without us? Are you missing me?’
    â€˜Yes of course I am.’ Still brisk, she noted, still in time-is-money mode. ‘It’s just that usually when you go to Cornwall you leave a definite return date in thehouse diary and this time you haven’t. And what about the children? Is Theo behaving?’
    â€˜Theo is fine. I hardly see him or Grace – they’ve taken to hanging around on the beach by the surf shack.’ She laughed. ‘They’re starting to look a bit less smooth and London-ish. By the end of the summer . . .’
    â€˜
End
of the
summer
? Is that how long you’re . . .’
    â€˜I don’t know.’ Alice slammed the boot shut, quickly climbed into the driving seat and started the car. ‘I haven’t made any coming-back plans. I just thought I’d stay for a bit longer and see what I can do to try and get the house in some kind of order. You should see it Noel, it’s really got rundown and . . .’
    â€˜I think I can imagine.’
    Alice smiled to herself, feeling Noel’s shudder from almost three hundred miles away. ‘Why don’t you come down for a while? Maybe a long weekend?’ she asked.
    â€˜Er . . . well I don’t think I’d better take any more time off, not with Italy at the end of August.’
    â€˜Oh yes. Italy . . .’ Alice checked her mirror and drove fast