Lost Luggage Page 3

  She craned her neck to search for the spider, but Leroy led her out of the kitchen. His bungalow was the same L-shaped layout as hers, with two bedrooms and a good-sized bathroom at the far end. She walked into the dining room. What a welcoming committee: bowls of sprouts, carrots and roast potatoes, next to a glistening turkey, along with giant Yorkshire puddings and slices of nutty stuffing. Steam rose out of the gravy jug and her stomach rumbled. Leroy had set two plates, each with a Christmas cracker. Festive pop songs played in the background.

  ‘I’ve been pulling your wheelie bins out all year, Dolly. I knew you wouldn’t cook for yourself and it’s no fun eating on my own.’

  He must have gone to so much effort, even if he had worked as a restaurant manager for over thirty years and picked up cooking tips. Leroy had a cheeky glint in his eye and, come to think of it, he’d even chase bluebottles outside rather than hurting them. It was one of the things he and Dolly had in common. Greta would have seen straight through this ruse.

  ‘But don’t you usually go to a party in town on Boxing Day?’

  ‘That’s where I met Tony, last year.’ His voice wavered. ‘I wanted to go, to see if he was there but then… he’s probably with his latest young stallion.’ He glanced sideways. ‘I know. Hypocritical. But he’s well into his forties and going by his Facebook page his latest squeeze could be my grandson.’

  Dolly eyed the sumptuous spread once more. She looked down at her worn slippers and joggers bearing a ketchup stain, but this was Leroy – he’d not seen her dressed any other way this last year. That hadn’t stopped dapper him forcing his way in, every week, to check she was still eating, even if her diet consisted of biscuits, crisps and anything the microwave could spit out in a less than five minutes. Dolly took off her anorak and held it out in the air, unable to stop staring at the mouth-watering dishes before her. Leroy took it from her, his attention wrapping her up in a hug of nostalgia from when Greta would make her chicken broth for a bad cold, or fill her a hot-water bottle at that time of the month, when she was younger.

  Dolly settled in a chair, picked up a cracker and shook it from side to side. They pulled them both at the same time and duly donned paper hats. Savouring each mouthful, Dolly cleared her plate and declared Tony would never find anyone who made such moreish Yorkshire pudding.

  Leroy topped up her wine glass and fetched himself another beer. He took off his hat and smoothed out the creases, as if the paper bore a speech. ‘I hoped this meal would whet your appetite for cooking from scratch again, gal, because… I’m not going to be around to drop meals off.’

  Dolly flinched. Perhaps he was ill. She studied his face and the eyes that had looked more tired these days.

  ‘I’m flying out to Jamaica on New Year’s Day.’

  Leroy visiting the other side of the world? Out of the blue? On his own? Suspicions confirmed – he needed to see a doctor immediately.

  ‘I’ll be gone for a while.’

  ‘But why go so far?’ Dolly had never even owned a passport, Greta was so against flying and travelling abroad. Dolly hadn’t minded, not really; she and her sister always enjoyed comprehensive coach tours around Great Britain. They’d ridden trains in the Scottish Highlands and sailed the Norfolk Broads, visited the home of Cheddar cheese and learnt about Vikings in York.

  ‘A second cousin I didn’t know about has tracked me down and reached out via Facebook.’

  Reached out. Greta used to roll her eyes at modern word usages like moving forwards or sorry not sorry.

  ‘Winston has invited me over. He lives in Negril on the far western tip of the island. I can stay there for up to ninety days without a visa.’

  ‘But you’re British through and through, born here like your mum, why would you want to—?’

  ‘It’s still family, Dolly, still part of my roots. A break. Sunshine.’

  ‘But there’s Southport or Blackpool for that, they’ve got sunny beaches.’

  ‘At this time of year? Anyway…’ Leroy placed his hand on her fingers. ‘I’m not going there to top up my tan.’

  She clamped her other hand over his, a realisation flooding her chest of just how much it had meant this last year knowing Leroy was next door. Mark and Kaz, Flo’s parents, had also been very good, bringing around baked gifts, and little Flo would stop for a while. Dolly’s young neighbour often used to come over when Greta was around and made it quite plain that there was no reason that shouldn’t continue. Her singing and school chat added a different dimension to a day stuck indoors. But Leroy was the only adult who treated her like the old Dolly, helping out in little ways, inviting her out even though she never said yes.

  Then there was the time, three months ago, when he came around, eyes swollen, voice scratchy. It was the nearest thing she’d had to a night out since Greta died, Leroy sitting in her garden, them sharing a family-sized packet of roasted peanuts, digesting the news that, after nine months together, Tony had dumped him.

  ‘But it’s so… brave,’ she whispered, ‘flying all that way to a strange country, to stay with strange people. Aren’t you a little afraid?’

  ‘Honestly? I can’t wait. My life needs a shake-up. Sometimes I ask myself where that man went who interrailed around Europe and danced on top of tables whenever Diana Ross played. I broke one in half on my fortieth birthday, you know. But now I’ve become stuck in a rut. I imagine you aren’t the same person as you were years ago, either. What’s happened to us, Dolly? Here we are trapped in the groove of suburbia as if it’s an LP stuck on repeat. I didn’t really think about it until Tony moved out.’

  The thing was… she was still exactly the same person she’d been, in her late twenties at least. Life hadn’t changed one jot since Greta had saved her from a terrible mistake and they’d moved in together almost five decades ago, when Dolly was twenty-five. What with this Phoebe challenging herself to a year of adventures, and Leroy’s imminent thousand-mile trip, a familiar sense of being left behind made Dolly feel hollow, despite the Christmas feast.

  ‘Me retiring in the summer triggered our break-up, as if Tony saw that as an end to really living.’

  ‘The problem with chasing young stallions is that you can’t ever tame them.’ She gave him a beady look.

  Leroy swigged his beer. She knew he’d always wanted to visit somewhere like Jamaica, with its rhythmic reggae vibes, often humming Eddy Grant’s ‘Living on the Frontline’, one of his favourites from the 1970s, dreaming of chilling on white sands. And, of course, there was his family connection.

  ‘Come around New Year’s Eve?’ he said, a couple of hours later, after coffee and mints and Dolly beating him at Cluedo. ‘I’ve bought a bottle of rum to get me in the mood for my trip.’

  Dolly gave a tentative nod and pulled on her anorak. Going to Jamaica would help him forget Tony.

  She waved her hand and opened the front door, calling to him without looking back. ‘That blank cheque you promised, if I dealt with the spider, make sure you write it out to Dorothy, not Dolly.’

  5

  Dolly walked past the still life oil painting in Leroy’s hallway, past a large black suitcase, and dumped two shopping bags in his kitchen, trying to guess the contents of his case and what exciting thing a bidder at the auction might find in it. Soul music boogied out of the lounge. If a place called Motown actually existed, the two of them would move there in an instant. Changing out of her joggers and fleece required too much effort but she’d half-heartedly applied a slash of lipstick. Whilst Leroy checked his flight time again, Dolly heaved one of the shopping bags on to the kitchen table and took out her flask.

  Leroy’s lips twitched upwards. ‘My tea still not good enough for you, gal?’

  ‘You know I’m very fussy when it comes to a cuppa.’ At least that’s what Greta used to say about Dolly, insisting tea tasted the same whether the milk went in first or last, but Dolly could always tell. ‘What’s happened to your metallic case with the rainbow stickers?’ she asked.

  ‘In Jamaica I just have to be a bit... careful.’

  Dolly went to protest about him going.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he added firmly.

  She pulled out a packet of sausage rolls, tipping them unceremoniously into a bowl. A ready-made, pale-looking quiche followed, and two packets of sandwiches that she opened up and broke into smaller halves using her fingers. Next, crisps and a tub of brownies, biscuits too.

  When she stopped, Leroy was watching her.

  ‘Told you I’d provide the food,’ she said and licked her fingers after turning a Swiss roll on to a plate.

  ‘You will look after yourself, won’t you Dolly?’

  ‘I’ve been out to the shop, haven’t I?’ The increasingly snug fit of her wardrobe proved she wasn’t wasting away; Leroy was just fussing. Her eyes pricked. Fussing she’d miss. But it wouldn’t do to be sad on his last night in Knutsmere. She raised her glass as he slid the rum over. Each then stacked a plate with beige and headed into the lounge, chatting about the soaps and how she’d have to message Leroy the latest plotlines. Another rum later, he took their empty plates into the kitchen and strutted back as a song about blaming the moonlight came on. The burgundy leather sofa bounced up and down as he collapsed next to her.

  ‘I blame moonlight. When I first met Tony on Canal Street, after that Boxing Day party, he stood staring at the moon’s reflection, dancing on the water, looking damn sad – and damn fit. I asked if he was all right just before he threw up on to a patch of daisies. Some of it splashed on to my shoes.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  Leroy went to the wooden drinks’ cabinet, poured two more rums and came back. Tony had insisted on swapping numbers. As an apology he’d taken Leroy out to dinner the following week and was waiting outside the
restaurant with a bunch of large daisies. Leroy swirled his tumbler and explained how he’d hoped Tony might have texted or rung him today, even dropped by, to wish him a Happy New Year.

  ‘I still miss seeing his shaver next to mine, or the funny Italian accent he’d put on if I made lasagne, how he’d put his arm around me if we watched a movie. I miss the way people stared at him, the admiring glances, the fact that he’d chosen me. It was the best birthday present ever, last April, when he moved in.’ His voice broke. ‘I hadn’t been so happy since Charlie…’

  Dolly squeezed his hand. Charlie was a chef with dual citizenship and an infectious sense of humour. Born in America but with a British mother, he’d grown up in Miami but moved over here in his twenties. Leroy had met him at work and fallen hard. They’d dated for over a year. Charlie had organised a disco-themed party for Leroy’s sixtieth and baked him a red velvet loaf cake with a jam heart running through the middle. Leroy couldn’t take enough photos. But then Charlie decided he had to move back to the States – his brother had fallen seriously ill and he wanted to be there for his family. This only made Leroy love him more.

  Tony had reignited a romantic spark in Leroy, and like him, loved fireworks. They’d let some off in his garden the night Tony brought his stuff over, and when it was the sixth-month anniversary of them meeting, in June – and for Tony’s July birthday. Leroy had stayed in for Bonfire Night last month, on the off-chance that Tony would call by. She understood. All these months later, Dolly still expected Greta to walk through the front door, calling to her to put the kettle on, as if the worst hadn’t happened after all. Leroy may have only been with Tony nine months but wounds that have got infected don’t heal – infected with phrases such as what if, if only, why me? The wound doesn’t scab over so there’s nothing to protect it.

  He gave her a sideways glance. ‘I know there was… you had… What would you blame it on?’

  Her eyebrows knotted together.

  ‘You know… that time you fell in love.’

  ‘It’s a long time ago, I was barely out of my teens,’ she said briskly. A nagging pain jabbed her stomach, no doubt due to eating too quickly. Leroy nudged her with his elbow and she exhaled. ‘I blame his silliness, I suppose. The world was a less serious place with him around. He brought out my lighter side.’ None of the other men she’d dated over the years had ever managed that. ‘But enough about that. Before you go, I… need your help.’ She disappeared into the kitchen and came back. Dolly hovered in the lounge doorway, one hand holding the tub of brownies, the other behind her back.

  Leroy looked over. ‘Now I’m intrigued.’

  She put the brownies on the coffee table, and the notebook fell to the floor. As the pages fanned open she couldn’t help catching sight of several words. Her eyes widened. Frankenstein’s monster? Eating jellyfish? Swiftly she closed the notebook and showed it to Leroy. Explained about this year’s lost luggage.

  ‘I don’t suppose it would harm, you looking at the bits I already have,’ she said. However, Greta would have called it nosiness. Once, when Dolly was little, her big sister had caught her rummaging through her bedside cabinet. Dolly had been looking for make-up to play with. How her ears had hurt after Greta shouted, saying you should never, ever, pry into people’s belongings.

  Leroy read the two pages at the beginning, allowed by Dolly. ‘This Ms Goodbody from Manchester, she’s as bright as a button and… I kind of like the sound of her. She’s had a hard year and is trying to move on.’

  Leroy and Dolly looked at each other.

  ‘Is she on Facebook?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I had a quick look once I’d unearthed my password. And I put her name into Google.’

  ‘You’re a whizz at Cluedo; this is a chance to polish up those detective skills. Her surname is quite unusual.’ Dolly would need to look on Twitter, Instagram and TikTok, then there was LinkedIn.

  ‘But if she’s not on any of them, I can’t read the whole notebook, Leroy, it wouldn’t be right. I should shred it myself. The pages are full of her most private thoughts.’

  ‘For that reason she’d want it back.’ He stared at the cover. ‘Of course, there is an obvious answer to your dilemma if social media’s no help.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do the list of firsts yourself. Go to the places she’s planning to go to. That way, you stand a good chance of finding her.’

  ‘Leroy! Please. This is serious. Anyway, I think I’m more than six months behind.’

  ‘Forget about the ones you’ve missed, then, and start with the upcoming January challenge. You might meet her in person, and be able to give the notebook back without reading the whole thing. Month by month more clues might surface, so if you haven’t found her by the end of January, then try the February “first”, and so on.’

  ‘I can’t do that!’ Dolly exclaimed, despite her insides fluttering just like they did every December when she bid on a suitcase. ‘In any case, she said the challenges might be scary. What if they are dangerous, like doing a bungee jump or skydiving?’ Or meeting a monster created by a scientist? Or eating jellyfish?

  ‘Or flying to Jamaica,’ Leroy said and took her hands. He pulled Dolly to her feet as a favourite track played. He twirled her in a circle, before slipping an arm around her waist. ‘It’s time we both moved to the beat of the drums again, baby.’

  As her body bounced up and down, as her feet followed his, an unfamiliar effervescence inside, warm and fizzing, kept her moving. The only challenge Dolly had faced this last year was crawling out of bed before the sun set. They sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and drank more rum as distant fireworks burst into glittering bouquets.

  ‘No more moping, then,’ he said, slurring a little. Dolly hoped he wouldn’t be sick on the plane. ‘We both need to get back on track.’ He cocked his head. ‘Did you get the results back from those tests the doctor ran last month?’

  Dolly had slipped on an empty pizza takeout box and sprained her ankle. Leroy had persuaded her to get it checked out. Whilst at the surgery, the doctor had suggested checking her vitals, weight, blood pressure, cholesterol levels… Dolly had a moan to Leroy about it when she came out. If only she’d kept her mouth shut.

  ‘She rang me. We discussed everything.’ Back on the sofa again, Dolly prised the lid off the tub of brownies.

  ‘And?’

  She pushed the moist dough into her mouth. Her blood pressure was high. So was her cholesterol. The doctor had worked out a ratio that said she was at risk of a heart attack. What a fuss over a bunch of statistics. She had her appetite and her mum always said that was the most important thing. Not that Dolly remembered much about her mother, who was always at work, often too tired for a hug or a natter. It was Greta who took Dolly to school, who wiped away tears, who provided her with a home when, Dolly aged ten, Greta got her first flat and their mother lost her job. Everyone said it made sense. Mum always seemed closer to Greta who, being older, had more in common with her. She’d named her after the sophisticated actress Greta Garbo, famous for playing strong-willed heroines, whereas Dorothy must have been inspired by a girl with sparkly red shoes and pigtails who got lost.

  ‘So what if I eat too much cake and pizza? I’ve got my eyes and ears and can walk from A to B.’

  ‘What exactly did the doctor say?’

  ‘Leroy, don’t ruin things. You’re the one person who doesn’t think I need fixing. You haven’t tried to jolly me along with sentences starting with at least…’ Yes, Dolly had a decent pension, a nice home and Maurice, but none of that would bring back Greta. ‘You’ve just been there for me. Please don’t change now.’

  He folded his arms.

  It spilled out, how the doctor thought she was at risk of heart problems if she didn’t change her ways; that she needed to revamp her diet, and exercise. The doctor wanted to put Dolly on tablets.

  ‘Ridiculous. I’m as fit as a fiddle.’ As for the doctor offering to visit, to discuss her situation, ‘I said no, of course, I’m sure she has far more ill patients to concern herself with. Don’t worry about me, Leroy. We’d joke Greta had scones with her butter, and not the other way around, and look how long she lived for.’