Lost Luggage Page 2

  Phoebe Goodbody’s Year of Firsts.

  3

  Boxing Day morning, Dolly wriggled into a pair of jeans, the first thing she spotted in her wardrobe, and kept on the hoodie that she’d slept in. Without looking in the mirror, Dolly dragged a brush through her hair, giving up because of the knots; at least a week had passed since she’d last washed it. After sticking her feet into slip-on boots, not bothering with socks, she took down a voluminous, brown anorak from the rack in the hall. Despite being a little tighter these days, it acted like an invisibility cloak, especially with the hood that hid her face. Dolly never used to wear it due to a tear under the arm, but with peplum trim around the cuffs and bottom, it was too stylish to throw out. It was the only item she’d kept from her… yes, the 2015 lost luggage case that had been deep, and wide, and made an especially good storage box in the loft.

  Out of curiosity she’d searched for the gilet online. It was so different to anything Dolly had ever seen. By the collar, on the left, she’d found a size label with the word Zadorin on it. A site popped up and she’d scrolled until she’d found it, in dusty pink and maroon.

  ‘Good grief, Maurice,’ she’d stuttered. ‘It’s worth eight hundred pounds.’

  Maurice had stopped dead and a pea had popped out of his mouth.

  She pushed her flask into one of the deep pockets. Dolly had to get outside, had to get away from the temptation of reading the floral notebook that she’d put in the bedside drawer in Greta’s room. She hadn’t looked further than the title page and her conscience told her it must stay that way. Its contents were private and none of her business.

  Despite the big hood, she caught Leroy’s eye. They exchanged a short wave before he returned to fitting fairy lights to a crab-apple tree. She kept her head down as she reached the main road and Mr and Mrs Burns from the church approached. Briskly, she passed the mini supermarket and turned a sharp right, earbuds in despite no music playing. They’d provided an effective defence this last year, deflecting attention and upsetting questions.

  The park had transformed into a Christmas card, as if the night had sponge-painted it with frost, but its beauty couldn’t prevent her thoughts from returning to the notebook. She went to sit on one of the benches but spotted her hairdresser walking her dog, so instead, eyes to the ground, she carried on.

  ‘Dolly. How are you, chickie? I’ve seen you pass the salon a few times. I’m so sorry about—’

  Dolly needed bigger earbuds. Abruptly she turned away from the woman who was trying to intrude on her solitude.

  There’s absolutely no way I’m reading lost private musings, Dolly firmly told herself, as she opened her front door. Only the worst sort of person would delve further into the notebook, and thus earn a terrible punishment, like no Earl Grey for eternity. However, having changed back into her jogging bottoms, she walked past her sister’s room. Since losing Greta, Dolly had thought differently about the possessions that had come their way over the years, and how much they might be missed. What if some had sentimental value and were a gift from a lover or a hand-me-down from a deceased relative? Items like the vintage ring could never be replaced. Could she really hold on to the case’s personal items, whilst she’d kept all of Greta’s, even the clothes that still hung in her old wardrobe? Now and then, Dolly took out a cardigan and put it on; the smell of her sister’s perfume lingered and made her think of all the fun times they’d shared. Like eating their favourite biscuits in front of the telly – oat for Greta, chocolate for Dolly; competitive Greta’s face when Dolly secretly let her solve the last crossword clue; and enjoying one of their good-humoured political arguments – Dolly’s views leaning to the left, Greta’s to the right.

  Dolly placed a cup of tea on the little table next to the sofa and sat down. The yellow crystal bracelet from the steamer trunk dropped forward to the end of her wrist. On her lap, Monet colours flirted with sunlight streaming through the window. Like a matador waving his cape, Maurice gave a disgusted swish of his fantail and turned away his egg-shaped body as Dolly ran a hand over the notebook’s cover.

  ‘If you must know, I have an honourable motive,’ she said in an important voice. ‘To look for clues that will help me find the case’s owner. Aside from returning this notebook, I must give back the personal items: that pearl and diamond ring, this bracelet… and that expensive gilet.’

  She and Greta had once bagged a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, but they were too worn to be worth much. It was almost as if Greta had sent down lucky vibes, a reward for being brave and going to the auction. A lump rose in Dolly’s throat. If only her sister was here. She’d have insisted they lunch at a garden centre to celebrate, with a small sherry at home afterwards.

  Once before, Dolly had wanted to track down a case’s owner. The 1992 case had contained an antique teddy. It had been kept despite missing one eye; it must have meant a lot to somebody. But Greta believed people reconciled themselves to loss, said that going back in time would only bring back hurt and anger. She’d scoffed at Dolly’s suggestion to return the teddy, yet her laugh had sounded forced. Dolly shivered and picked up the notebook again, its purple and green metallic front shimmering. Maurice stared her way without breaking his gaze. Not that he could blink anyway – goldfish slept with their eyes open. Respecting each other’s privacy was one reason Dolly and Greta had lived so easily together. They’d never opened each other’s post, nor snooped in each other’s bedrooms. It was one of the reasons Dolly found it hard to clear out Greta’s things, fearful of stumbling across a secret, even though she knew that as sisters they’d shared everything important. Did she owe a stranger the same respect?

  She flicked to the title page, as far as she’d gone before, and then slowly turned on to the first full page of writing.

  I, Phoebe Goodbody, need CHANGE. The past twelve months I’ve not lived. Oh, I’ve done the essentials – breathed, drunk water, binged Bridgerton – but I’ve hardly gone out, not spoken to anyone but my grandfather, Susan and Maisie. The world has felt dark and hopeless, as if there’s been a permanent solar eclipse. However, now I’m ready to step outside again, to chat about the weather with passers-by as rain splats on my cheeks. But more than that, I need to set challenges in order to stop old habits pulling me back indoors, and into myself once more. So every month I’m going to HAVE AN ADVENTURE, do something I’ve never done before.

  Some might think the challenges in this notebook are everyday and easy. Others might agree with me that they are positively scary. With the help of a friend I’ve chosen ones that will push me to my limit. I don’t know how I’m going to do them all. But what’s the point of a year of firsts if it doesn’t mean stepping outside of your comfort zone? And several will need planning and booking in advance – that should stop me from chickening out.

  I owe it to Granddad. Even at my age I know he still worries about me, and he’s not as strong as he used to be. I owe it to those friends who aren’t lucky enough to still be around. I owe it to the woman I want to be, who’s been lurking in the shadows for too many years now, who’s hit her rock bottom, had no lower to go, and is now, finally, ready to emerge.

  A Phoebe rising from the ashes.

  So Phoebe was the author. It was her story. Dolly tapped fish flakes into Maurice’s tank before leaving the lounge. She walked down to the right and turned left past the kitchen, and into the dining room. Furnished in mahogany, it was the tidiest spot in the bungalow; she’d hardly used it this last year. Unlike her younger sister, Greta preferred the dark wood, due to its durability. Dolly headed to the end and into the much brighter conservatory. She’d decked it out by herself as a surprise for Greta, a place to uplift her when her sister’s joints hurt most. Dolly had put a three-tiered plant stand in the left corner but instead of using it for flowerpots, put on scented candles and a small stack of books, along with an ornamental duck in an anorak, holding an umbrella. Greta’s face, when she first saw it, suggested she liked the little room almost as much as Flo nex
t door did. It was just big enough for two people, with two wicker chairs upholstered in yellow. On top of a leaf-patterned rug, a polished basil green case lay sideways, a perfect table, from the 2009 auction. The case had contained nothing but dirty laundry. Pushing a couple of used plates aside, Dolly put the floral purple and green notebook on top of it, along with Greta’s white one listing lost luggage contents. The glass windows, all around, provided a clear spyhole to life in the orderly garden, or had done when Greta was alive – grime was smeared across them now. Outside, moss lay deeply entrenched in the lawn, the soil in the borders was hidden by weeds, and an aluminium suitcase from the late 1980s, upcycled into a flowerpot, belched out straggly dead plants. She studied the oak loveseat, encrusted with pigeon droppings now, where she and Greta often enjoyed sandwiches.

  Poor Phoebe. Imagine believing you’d not realised your potential. An uncomfortable twinge flicked against the inside of her stomach.

  It was difficult to guess Phoebe’s age. If some friends of hers had already passed, she could be middle-aged with a grandfather as old as Greta, who was eighty-six when the worst happened. Phoebe sounded brave and caring; perhaps the reason she’d hardly gone out in the twelve months before the notebook was written was that he needed looking after. Greta had certainly needed more help with day-to-day life after hitting her eighties, not that she’d ever admitted that she couldn’t manage. Dolly’s sister had always fought hard for her health, insisting they cook from scratch, and she didn’t like to over-indulge with alcohol. Greta had also jokingly hidden a silver cigarette lighter Dolly had used in her twenties. So Dolly gave up smoking. She still enjoyed takeout, but just as a treat, and only occasionally got a little tipsy. As the years passed, Dolly felt grateful to Greta for encouraging her to follow her sister’s lead and look after herself. However, when Greta died, Dolly found no appeal in clean living for one. She’d had to stay strong and healthy to look after her sister but all alone, now, that pressure was off.

  She picked up the white notebook and updated the list in terms of what she’d do with the contents. Greta used to be ruthless about throwing away impractical items straight away and Dolly did her best to channel that sentiment now. She could have kept everything from the trunk to hopefully return one day, but the truth was, she might never find the case’s owner.

  Leather Steamer Trunk with hidden compartment – not sure yet how to upcycle.

  Vintage ring necklace – return as a priority, sentimental value.

  Bracelet – return, might be missed too.

  Pink and maroon Zadorin gilet, the price of a week in Margate – return to owner.

  Old T-shirt – the intriguing symbol is too pretty to throw it away, keep.

  Baggy sports hoodie with peekaboo cat – feels like a second skin.

  Temperamental octopus – the perfect friend for Maurice.

  Mix of baggy casual wear – charity shop.

  Rose gold and white trainers – KEEPING.

  Underwear – bin.

  Dolly placed the white notebook back on the green case and drummed her fingers. She moved it on to the top of Phoebe’s, but the edge of that one’s metallic-effect cover still temptingly glinted. Crossing her legs, she stared through a smear of dirt and spotted a blackbird outside listening for worms. Tea tonight – she should think about that… but she never planned these days. Freezer food was her staple.

  The information in the notebook’s introduction wouldn’t be enough to trace Phoebe. She needed to read more, just a little bit. Anyone could justify that. Maurice need never know. Dolly flexed her hands.

  May.

  My Year of Firsts starts now. You know what they say, ‘Go big or go home,’ so I’m kicking off with a trip to Paris. There, I’ve said it. Me going to France is really going to happen. I’ve wanted to visit my whole life but haven’t considered myself sophisticated enough in case all French women looked like Coco Chanel. Well bugger that, as my grandfather would say. City of Lights prepare to meet one down-to-earth, born and bred Man City fan. Granddad would also say, ‘Well done, Phoebs! Fighting talk, lass.’ By the time I come home I hope to have visited all the obvious attractions – the Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Sacré-Cœur, the inside-out Pompidou Centre. I’ll have eaten croissants and snails, drunk wine and bought a beret, and sat for my caricature to be drawn in Montmartre, dreaming of Gene Kelly in the movie An American in Paris.

  All in one week.

  Only joking.

  For my first trip there, I really want to visit Père Lachaise Cemetery where so many literary greats are buried, and go into Les Deux Magots café that used to be frequented by Sartre, Hemingway and de Beauvoir.

  Makes me sound pretentious? I’m not. It’ll just help me reconcile myself with flunking my French degree. It’s a lifetime ago I dropped out after the second year. This trip might diminish that sense that I’ve wasted what I learnt. That’s one reason I’ve really got to see this challenge through, even though going to Paris, for me, feels like visiting Timbuktu. Maisie suggested this would be the perfect first challenge for an avid reader like me. She’s been to the French capital and knows first-hand how fantastic it is for literary spots and fans of independent bookshops. My grandfather’s insisting on paying for this trip. He believed me when I said I’d found a half-price room right by the Seine.

  Well, it wouldn’t be an adventure, would it, if I knew exactly where I’d be sleeping?

  A trip to Paris. The glamour, the style, the magic and romance… Dolly pushed away that rippling ache and re-read the page, relieved to think about someone else for a change. This Phoebe sounded approachable, funny, and was no youngster if she knew of Gene Kelly. The year of firsts began last May? Unless the notebook referred to an earlier year and she’d already completed it. However, that seemed unlikely, given the map of the Paris underground in the gilet pocket and how new the notebook looked. She would have met half her challenges by now, if she’d continued without these notes. Dolly shivered, a familiar chill she always felt in the days after opening a lost case, a niggling sense that something might have happened to the owner and that was why they’d never claimed their luggage. She read the page again. Manchester airport served many customers local to the North West, and being a Man City fan too, Phoebe might well live in Manchester – she did say ‘born and bred’. What a great clue! Dolly’s quest to find her might really succeed. Odd that out of all the worries a trip abroad could raise, this Phoebe had been most concerned about looking chic enough, instead of losing her passport or phone or missing a flight – or not having any accommodation booked. Dolly thought croissants and the Eiffel Tower sounded about as exciting as life got. Whereas Phoebe was clearly an intellectual and nothing like Dolly. She deserved to have the notebook back and that would mean reading just a little more. Her hand went to turn the page when a frantic knocking at the door made her jump. Dolly snapped the notebook shut and shoved it behind the ornamental duck, hiding it from herself.

  4

  No one had ever rapped on the door like that. They didn’t dare when Greta was alive, not even when the new burglar alarm had kept going off. As Dolly was about to investigate, through the lounge window a voice she recognised rang out. Dolly went into the hallway and opened the door.

  Leroy wrung his hands, as if trying to squeeze words out.

  Dolly sighed. ‘I… suppose you’d better come in.’

  He followed her into the lounge. Only six people had been allowed in this last year – Leroy, Flo and her parents, the doctor and the gasman. As Leroy did now, they always looked around for a few moments. Dolly didn’t know why. Junk mail, empty tissue boxes, squashed fizzy drink cans, used crockery; it was all so boring. Despite that, now and again, Leroy insisted on tidying. His place was vibrant, interesting – like him, his clothes always looked as if they were hoping for a night on the razz. The dark slacks fitted well around his bottom and complimented the candy-red shirt, and lemon cravat just above a patch of tantalising curls visible on his chest. Dolly never tho
ught she’d notice such things once she’d retired. Certainly not on a sixty-six-year-old pensioner, not that she’d ever call Leroy the P word out loud. After a glass of something strong, they used to laugh together, say if things had been different they might have made the perfect couple.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s the biggest spider on my kitchen wall.’ He lifted the palms of his hands in the air. ‘I won’t sleep tonight if I know it’s in the house. I thought about killing it with hairspray but I’m not sure that would have worked. You’re the only person I can ask, Dolly. Anyone else would laugh. Sorry for the ruckus but we’ll have to hurry before it disappears.’

  Laughs had been few and far between this last year, and now she finally found something funny she felt duty bound not to show it.

  ‘Please, Dolly. I’ll sign you a blank cheque, do anything. Just get rid of it!’

  Dolly hesitated, an ingrained habit, waiting for Greta to tell her what to do. Her older sister never thought twice about squashing spiders. Picturing the poor creature stuck to the wall with hairspray, Dolly hurried outside, grabbing her brown anorak from the rack on the wall. She followed Leroy to his place. It felt good to be needed. They lived in Pingate Loop, a small circle of three bungalows off Pingate Road: Dolly in the middle, Flo and her parents to the left and Leroy to the right. This last year she’d appreciated the privacy, away from the eyes of the village.

  It wasn’t like Leroy to panic and with him at six feet tall, the spider would have been far more frightened. She made it to the kitchen that seemed more spacious than hers without the lace doilies Greta loved, the collection of ceramic teapots and fruit-themed wallpaper. Yet Leroy’s had a collection of novelty corkscrews on the windowsill and photos on the walls from his birthday parties over the years. The main difference was his clean worktops, the empty washing-up bowl and a bin that didn’t overflow with used drink cans and food cartons.