Page 16 of Lost Luggage
‘Oh… cheers, but we like doing all that stuff.’
‘Of course you do, and she’ll know that, but she’s a thoughtful little girl, and as she says, I need to put my clogs on more often.’ She gave him one of Greta’s pointed looks.
Mark blushed. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, really, it’s appreciated, but…’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it? It still gets dark early, and Pingate Road’s always busy. Over the last year we’ve been worried about you, Dolly, and no one would blame you at all for letting things slide, but, what I mean is—’
Dolly shrank back. Isthatwhat everyone thought?
She glanced at the overgrown lawn, suddenly very aware the clothes she wore needed washing. Well sod the lot of them. No one understood. When a sibling died people expected you to get on – it wasn’t supposed to count as much as when it was a parent or spouse – butGretahad been her significant other; they’d spent forty-five years living together, longer than many marriages lasted.
‘No problem, forget I asked. Have a good evening, Mark.’ Dolly closed the front door.
She hurried into the lounge, side-stepping an empty packet of crisps, and dropped on to the sofa. A sob rattled through her chest and lost its way; she’d hadn’t got many tears left these days. Instead, she stared vacantly at the carpet. It didn’t help, as it was covered in crumbs, missing the vacuuming Leroy used to insist on doing. Dolly had never been much of a fan of housework, but used to keep the bungalow as neat as a pin, the way Greta liked it. Without her to please there didn’t seem much point, the focus had gone, leaving life feeling blurry. This last year it was as if she’d been weighed down by a pile of bricks, and carrying that load left her little energy for even the mundane tasks like washing up dishes. The heaviness lifted now and again, like when Leroy or Flo visited, or if a beautiful blue tit or goldfinch visited the empty bird feeder. Yet sunshine had the opposite effect. It brought with it the expectation of cheerfulness. She got up, put the kettle on and reached for the remote control as the doorbell rang.
Dolly turned the television up, but the bell rang once more. With a tut, she headed into the hallway and opened the door.
Mark held out a cream cake in a paper bag. ‘Kaz popped to the baker’s before work. We’re trying to make Tuesday into a day for Flo to look forward to. I’ve just spoken to Kaz on the phone; she made me realise I’ve been a bit of a fool. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk to Guides, after all, and we’re grateful for anything that encourages Flo to go. How about this week, I walk down with you and Flo, and Kaz and you pick her up, and if that all goes well, which I’m sure it will, we’ll do that again next week? And then it’s half-term. If Flo agrees to go back after the holiday, then we’d be really appreciative if you’d take over completely in March – if you’re still offering.’
‘You’re sure? I don’t want to—’
‘Please.’ He put the palms of his hands together, the brown bag hanging down between them. ‘Our life won’t be worth living if we say no and Flo finds out.’
She met his eye. ‘Better get polishing my clogs then.’ She took the cake and shut the front door.
12
Dolly left Lymhall station. Dancing Daze was right at the foot of the high street, next to a Turkish restaurant. Unlike busy Knutsmere, which was suburban and home to many office and retail commuters, Lymhall was where Premier League footballers and CEOs lived; it was more spaced out, leafy and quiet. As one of its residents, it fitted that Phoebe would own a Zadorin gilet. Dolly hadn’t visited for many years, not since Linda, a colleague at work, had moved here after a comfortable win on the lottery and thrown a housewarming party. Linda had replaced Greta as receptionist, and Dolly used to tease that her telephone voice sounded nothing like the Linda who swore in a rich Mancunian accent if anyone messed with her filing system.
Dolly navigated the high street in her brown anorak and woolly hat. Flo had tried to get her to wear a smarter jacket, suggesting she borrow one of Greta’s, and offered her a new shampoo her mum had bought her, smelling of coconut. But Dolly’s usual clothes had protected her from change, from facing a new life without her sister; it was hard to let go of them. As a compromise she did wash her hair, but with her own shampoo, and pulled on a pair of smart pixie boots she used to wear to work. She didn’t see the point of primping; finding Phoebe was a serious business that would hopefully conclude at this event.
Having imagined disco balls and fluorescent lighting, Dolly found Dancing Daze less glam than she’d expected: a pub, not a bar, with a black-and-white sign hanging outside bearing a painting of a pair of tap shoes and a cane. A young woman appeared by her side, hair in two chestnut plaits that fell on a tailored grey coat. She gave Dolly a sideways glance and straightened her shoulders. Surely this youngster couldn’t be nervous? She looked so together with her buckled handbag and confident posture.
‘Like lambs to the slaughter,’ she muttered. ‘Come on, let’s brave it.’ She patted Dolly’s arm as if sensing her apprehension.
More like mutton, in my case,thought Dolly, as she glanced down at her shapeless anorak. She ventured into the busy reception area that was to the left of a large room where jazz music was playing. Motifs of dance shoes and canes were printed along the coving, above oak furnishings. Wooden tables lined up in six rows of five, with two chairs at each one, opposite each other. Dolly paid her fee. A sign indicated that the front two rows were for the under-thirties, the middle two for the thirty- to sixty-year-olds and the back two for anyone older. Another section was for the LGBTQ community and two men were putting the final touches to the tables, with cloths covered in red hearts. It was a much bigger event than Dolly had anticipated. One of the organisers, in a sleek trouser suit, with big eighties hair, clapped her hands and gave a welcome speech. The first half of the evening would be more formal: five minutes with each partner. With ten chairs in each section, that would take around an hour. The rest of the evening would allow everyone to mix whilst the organisers looked at the score cards and informed people if they’d got a match.
Like a nervous teenager on a blind date, yet looking for a mysterious trunk owner, not a soulmate, Dolly studied the LGBTQ section without success. There were no middle-aged women there, unlike in the straight section, where a woman in a baggy cherry-red jumper with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it caught her eye. Phoebe’s first challenge, back last May, had been a trip to Paris. Dolly went to introduce herself but a starting buzzer rang. From behind the bar the manager stared across the room at Dolly’s rucksack with the tea flask in the side. He put his hands on his hips. Dolly went up and ordered a large glass of white, deciding she’d need something stronger than a brew.
Dolly took a chair at table number two. The ladies either side of her looked immaculate, one in a twinset and pearls, with salon-curled hair and lashings of floral scent. The other boasted cat-eye glasses and a lilting foreign accent, whereas Dolly sat there in the mint-green hoodie hoping anyone called Phoebe might recognise it. She’d pulled off her woolly hat, hair now flat and lifeless. Her first date, Geoff, droned on about the estate agency business he used to run, about being president of the golf club, his voice getting louder with each mouthful of whisky. The only question he asked her was where she lived; when she said Knutsmere, he lost interest completely.
Jim was next, a bit older than Geoff, with a slick white comb-over and tweed jacket. His aftershave made him smell as if he lived in a pine forest. He seemed reluctant to sit down and took several gulps of beer before doing so. He asked Dolly what job she used to do, but didn’t listen to the answer, looking around the room. Number five was the same, even though she plucked up the courage to ask a question about his favourite telly shows and microwave meals. Number six disappeared to the toilets after one minute and never returned. He didn’t even present her with one of the red roses that he’d given to all his other dates. Dolly didn’t share any laughter with any of the men, and their tales of cruises and grandchildren filled her with a sense of detachment. She’d rather have spent the time with Pastuso and his jam sandwich.
The hour passed almost as slowly as that first evening, alone in the bungalow, after Greta’s funeral. Flo was right. She’d wished Dolly well but said no man could be more romantic than male crickets who chirped ballads to woo their partners, and a song of celebration after mating. Dolly’s tenth date finally came to an end, during which she’d learnt a lot about plumbing and that the word itself, like the chemical symbol Pb, came from the Latin word for lead,plumbum. She’d done her best to laugh at his jokes about plum being a better word to describe bottoms than peach. Hastily she got to her feet and searched for the woman with the Eiffel Tower jumper. She finally found her leaning up against the wall at the back, joking with one of Dolly’s dates. Now that she was standing, the knitted word ‘Blackpool’ was visible, so her jumper’s design represented that English town’s tower, not one in Paris. Still, no harm in asking…
‘Excuse me, my name’s Dolly,’ she said and held out her hand.
‘I’m Sheila, love, but sorry, you’re not my type,’ she said and grinned. Perspiring under her arms, Dolly about-turned. Feeling as welcome as a mocktail at a stag party, she introduced herself to two more sloshed candidates… both called Jane. With a sigh Dolly took refuge in her anorak and pulled up the hood. She grabbed her rucksack and picked her way through the crowd, past a policeman in uniform who’d turned up.
‘What did you think to number two,’ a slurred voice said.
Dolly stood rigid.
‘Jesus, if that was dressed up I’d hate to see her playing it casual.’
‘She needed a good splash of my aftershave.’
‘I’ve had more conversation with a golf ball.’
‘Bravo for staying put, I scarpered for the toilets.’
