Page 4 of Lost Luggage
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.
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 likemoving forwardsorsorry 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 stillexactlythe 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 visitsomewhere likeJamaica, withitsrhythmicreggae 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.’
