Page 2 of Lost Luggage
Dolly pulled it out of the pocket. A map of the Paris underground? A deep-rooted ache rippled through her. She closed her eyes, forcing away the memory of a trip to that city that was never to be.
The owner must have been going to France – or perhaps they’d just flown home from there, or maybe Manchester was a stopover. Dolly squinted at the names of stations, Château Rouge sounded like wine, Victor Hugo so romantic, and as for the Champs-Elysées, she’d always wanted to shop along that avenue. Perhaps a Frenchman with a silky accent would treat her to champagne; they’d wander around art galleries. The bubbles inside her produced by opening the case burst into nothing as she thought of all the countries she’d never seen. Greta said Mother Nature would have given people wings and trees that grew pound notes if she’d wanted them to travel to another country. She always spoke such sense, so the two sisters instead enjoyed getaways to all the corners of the UK, Greta happy to fall in with Dolly’s choices. Whilst other people wasted money on expensive trips abroad, Greta preferred sensible spending – like on an upgraded burglar alarm. Dolly carefully folded the map up again and slid it back into the pocket.
Legs heavy, she plodded back into the lounge and took off the gilet. She dropped it back into the trunk, on top of the other items, and tried to close it. However, the lid resisted and an urge overwhelmed her. She’d once known someone who owned a similar trunk and it had a hidden compartment. He’d stash his most loved objects in there, including her love letters. Pushing those memories back into the mental box she rarely opened, Dolly ran a finger around the edge of the felt lining and… She jerked her hand back as her finger found a small tab. She touched it again and gently tugged. It came away.
A well-worn white T-shirt was visible first. She unfolded it and held it in the air, trying to make sense of the symbol printed on the front, made up of a long curved line on the right and a shorter one on the left. The latter curled in so that, overall, both lines formed a heart that was decorated with small blue flowers and green leaves. Dolly folded it up again, and reached for a small round leather case. Hidden personal items? Dolly unzipped the case. Inside lay a yellow crystal bracelet and a silver necklace with a ring hanging from it, that had a pearl in the middle of a diamond circle. Dolly held it up in the air, mesmerised by the beautiful workmanship. She couldn’t resist taking the ring off the chain and sliding it on to her finger but it wouldn’t fit over any knuckle. Finally, right at the bottom, a rectangular item caught her eye. It shimmered as light from the tall lamp at the end of the sofa hit it.
A notebook? Greta would have clapped her hands. It was floral, with colours that could have come straight from Monet’s water lily paintings, lacquered with a metallic effect. After hesitating, Dolly put on her glasses and opened it. Handwritten in italic were the words:
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, whilstshe’dkept 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 next 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.
