Page 22 of Lost Luggage
Yet it wasn’t about the clothes… Despite his love of fashion, Fred understood. Whenever they’d met up for a night out, he would always blow her a kiss and say, ‘You wear it well.’ She’d ask him what ‘it’ was and he’d reply, ‘Yourself’ – those twinkling eyes, he’d say, that spirited stride he found hard to keep up with, the way her hands moved up and down whilst she chatted, as if she knew sign language.
More out of curiosity, Dolly studied herself from head to toe in the mirror – the cellulite, the bingo wings. They were proof she’d got older, avoided a fatal illness or accident so far, so she wouldn’t call them flaws. However, when she turned side to side a wave of foreboding filled her chest. Her stomach bulged out as far as her breasts, unavoidable evidence of what the doctor had said about her health.
In a jealous tone, Flo had asked if Dolly would shave under her arms before going – she couldn’t wait for grown-up hairs to start showing and declared she’d never shave hers off. Dolly had found a razor in Greta’s room, guilt washing over her as she rummaged through her sister’s toiletry drawer – the hydrating bath oil, the support socks, the Tena pads, the Estée Lauder perfume that had never changed over the years, and the denture adhesive. She’d always made Dolly promise that if anything happened to her in the night the paramedics wouldn’t see her without teeth in. As it was, Greta needn’t have worried. That afternoon, the first of December, after a jaunt into town Dolly had knocked at the door and gone into Greta’s bedroom. Dolly had planned a surprise holiday for the New Year – she’d just bought the tickets, in Manchester. It was now or never, she said to Greta, to go abroad; they had plenty of time to apply for passports and the trip was a cruise so her sister didn’t need to worry about flying. All meals included, a doctor on board; Dolly would see to all the paperwork. Dolly was confident she’d addressed the concerns Greta had previously had about taking a break outside of the UK. Leaving her to digest this thrilling news, Dolly went to make a brew. But when she brought the cup of tea back into Greta’s bedroom, her sister’s heart had packed in. The excitement must have been too much, even though the doctors said the attack would have happened anyway.
Dolly stashed her belongings in a locker and pinned the key to her costume. Flip-flops on her feet, Greta’s warnings about catching verrucas ringing in her ears, she wandered out to the poolside and scanned the water for a woman who might be Phoebe, breathing in the disinfectant smell. A pool attendant blew into his whistle as if trying to revive it. A young woman swam widths; she had two long plaits. A silver-haired man with his back to Dolly did star jumps, making big splashes. Parents fussed over children in armbands shaped like unicorns and crabs. A more serious swimmer wore a cap and goggles, and tore through the water, doing lengths from one end of the pool to the other, somehow avoiding collisions with the casual bathers. There were no formal lanes for public swimming on a Sunday. A retired couple lay on their backs on the surface, holding hands like a pair of sleeping sea otters. Leaving her flip-flops under a nearby bench, Dolly went to the ladder and dipped a toe in the water. The temperature reminded her of the warm baths she ran for Greta, and how they’d dip in temperature before Greta finally clambered in and lowered herself on to her special seat.
Dolly attempted to swim a width to start with, but almost halfway across her lungs constricted and her breathing became laboured. Wet hair clung to her neck like strands of seaweed as she turned around and went back to where she’d started. Maurice wouldn’t have been impressed. Gasping, she finally arrived. So much for muscle memory. Panting, she rested against the side. The doctor’s words of warning crept into her head as the man doing star jumps came over to climb out. Dolly rubbed her wet eyes and squinted, studying him, until the friendly eyes took her back to the speed-dating evening and Dolly running away.
‘Steve?’
He stopped. He took a moment.
‘I came to the Rising Sun… you said there was a drink with my name on it.’
‘Dancing Daze, of course! How are you doing?’
‘It’s a long story, but I need to find a Phoebe Goodbody. Seeing as you are the landlord of a pub in Lymhall, where she lives, I thought there was a chance…’
‘Phoebe?’ His face broke into a grin. ‘It’s your lucky day, love. I happen to live next door to her.’
Dolly forgot her tight lungs, the pain in her chest. At last she could give back the steamer trunk’s most valuable belongings. Flo would be so excited. Thoughts raced through her head: the tales she’d tell Phoebe about the other person bidding on her luggage, about being heckled at the balloon debate and those losers at speed-dating.
‘Even luckier than that, Phoebe’s here in the pool today. But she was at that speed-dating night as well, you know.’
She was?
‘But then’ – he raised his eyebrows – ‘did you think she might be? Have you been trying to find her for a while? Is everything okay?’
‘I… I need to return a few belongings of hers.’
He studied her for a moment and then smiled. ‘Okay, although I’ve tried to catch Phoebe’s eye but she’s dead set on doing as many widths as she can without stopping. She hasn’t been swimming for a while.’ He jerked his head towards the young woman with plaits. ‘Now don’t you forget, there’s a drink in my pub with your name on it… Dotty, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, staring across the pool, not even registering that he got her name wrong. Steve said cheerio and climbed out, wearing banana-yellow swimming trunks.Thatwas Phoebe? A woman in hertwenties? Goosebumps formed on the top half of Dolly’s body. She couldn’t take her eyes off the young woman as she pushed off the other side and swam back in Dolly’s direction. Oddly, she looked like a competent swimmer. Why then was this challenge such a difficult one for her? This stranger almost felt like a friend. They’d both had a hard year; both wanted to change. Phoebe reached the side of the pool and stood up, taller than Dolly. Her eyes fell to the woman’s inside wrist. A tattoo. It was the same symbol as on the white T-shirt.
Phoebe met her gaze, looked away, and then turned back. Dolly had never seen that shade of green eyes, like the fresh, fragrant herbs that used to sit in pots on her kitchen windowsill, when Greta was alive.
‘It’s rude to stare,’ said Phoebe and those eyes sparked.
‘I’m sorry but it’s just… I’ve been hoping to meet you for so long. Phoebe Goodbody?’
‘Who’s asking?’ She frowned. ‘Haven’t I met you before?’
‘I thought you’d be older,’ Dolly said, still fixed on her face with its prominent cheekbones. ‘The year of firsts… you talked about dropping out of university a lifetime ago… and one of your friends, Susan, has grandkids. You know Gene Kelly, then there’s the way you talked about how you’d never had a long-term relationship, let alone got married, I assumed…’
Phoebe gasped and crossed her arms. ‘Whoareyou? How have you got hold of my notebook? Why would you read it? All those thoughts, they’re…private.’ Her voice stuttered.
‘Believe me, I didn’t want to, but I’ve been trying to find you,’ she replied and beamed. ‘The notebook, the stunning pearl ring, that nice gilet, the bracelet, they’re in my locker.’
‘My Gran’s ring – you’ve got it?’ Phoebe’s hand flew up to her chest.
‘I’ve been doing the challenges since January, you see, hoping to find you, to return those items. I took part in the balloon debate…’ Dolly thought back to the group of youngsters there – a couple had long chestnut hair too. ‘The speed-dating night…’ Of course, Steve was right. ‘I realise now our paths crossed.’
Phoebe stared at her. ‘Yes. Outside. I remember now.’
‘This challenge was a relief as I like swimming. In fact, I might come every Sunday, and—’
‘You’ve beenstalkingme?’ Phoebe’s nose wrinkled and she backed away, water circling around her.
