Page 49 of Lost Luggage
Dolly read the Llandudno list herself and sat up straighter. She lifted the portable box file on to the table. ‘I’ll see if I can find any clues.’
‘You always did like the Pink Panther movies; a big Inspector Clouseau fan.’
‘You called me Pink Panther for a while. It was the name of a diamond. You said that’s what I was, and like that gem your love for me would last for ever.’ Dolly’s cheeks burned and she got up. ‘I need to get on, Fred. I’ll let you know if I find anything.’
‘It was because of growing up in care,’ he blurted out.
‘What?’
‘Diamonds, cars, top meals out… I thought no one would love me unless I had all that.’ He met her gaze and she sat down again. ‘That’s why I sold stolen goods, to get the extra cash. You called me shallow the other day, but it wasn’t because I wanted to look good or show off… You know how I got moved around different children’s homes. No one ever wanted to adopt me. It’s no excuse Dolly, but I thought if I had lots of… ofstuff… fancy clothes, a motor, eventually a big house… people would want to stick around. Unlike my own mum who left me by a park bench, like a scrap of litter only worthy of being incinerated.’
‘But I’d have lived in a shed if it meant us staying together, Fred,’ she said in a hurt tone. ‘Couldn’t you tell?’
‘I know that now but I was young. Stupid.’
‘I’m sorry you never found out more about your parents,’ she said, gently.
‘Too many dead ends. I gave up trying in the end.’
‘Your mum was probably young. Scared stiff. Thought you were bound to be spotted by a bench. She wouldn’t have been thinking straight; certainly wouldn’t have associated you with rubbish.’
‘I try to tell myself that. The love you showed me back in the day… and more recently Angela, Phoebe, it’s all helped.’ He took off his glasses. ‘I consider myself lucky. I’ve squeezed far more out of life than many manage. People have been kind, given me opportunities.’ He put his glasses back on again. ‘Greta may have got it wrong, Dolly, but at least she cared. Don’t be angry with her.’
‘She lied to me.’ Dolly’s voice hardened. ‘Tomorrow I’m taking her belongings to the charity shop.’
‘Take a tip from me. Don’t donate to a local shop – you might see someone walking around in Greta’s clothes. It knocked me for six when I saw a woman walk out of the Rising Sun wearing Angela’s favourite beige-and-black trimmed trench coat. Also don’t be rash and throw everything away. Save a handful of items. You might regret getting rid of the lot.’ He stared past Dolly’s shoulder. ‘You two would have got on, you know. I talked about our life in the seventies.’
Dolly gaped. ‘Angela didn’t mind?’
‘No. She talked about her husband. It was obvious to me that Reg was her true love. I think she guessed you’d been mine.’
What could Dolly say? That she’d had to block thoughts of Fred out for so long because every memory took her back to the overwhelming sense of loss of 1975? That no other man had ever come close? That often, over the years, she’d hated his guts?
‘It didn’t detract from what Angela and I had. She was a wonderful woman. But it was always you, Dolly,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t meet anyone else.’
‘How do you know?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
He promptly left and Dolly hurried into her sister’s room. Face first, she lay on the bed and punched the stripped pillows, body shuddering with the ache at what could have been. Eventually she sat up and sniffed loudly. Fred was wrong. There was no reason to keep anything of Greta’s.
32
Dolly and Phoebe headed into the Trafford Centre; it had been a forty-minute drive north from Lymhall. Dolly had picked her up on the way, nodding at Fred who looked out of the front window. The two women walked into the grand food court, made to look as if it had been built as part of a huge steam ship that even had an on-deck swimming pool. They navigated the seating area and headed into the hustle and bustle of the shops on the ground floor, the knots across Dolly’s shoulders becoming tighter. Yes, she’d been eating healthier, preparing salads, steaming vegetables, but apart from the recent sessions with Phoebe and Flo, and the apple crumble, she’d not baked for so long. A cake might sink in the middle, biscuits might fall apart, a pie’s crust might turn out rock hard. She didn’t care what others thought, she cared that she might have lost her skills. Until finding the notebook, her life was at ground zero, as if she’d lost so many other things along with her sister. Slowly she was picking up old social habits, chatting with strangers, making jokes, and doing her laundry, keeping the bungalow clean, things she’d taken for granted before Greta died, all important but dressed up as insignificant. Dolly wiped her clammy hands on her jacket.
‘Greta and I came to the Trafford Centre first in 1998, as soon as it opened,’ she said as they turned left and walked past shiny glass fronts, behind which were clothes and shoes. ‘The design bowled us over, the paintings, sculptures, the rococo and baroque interior – Greta read up on it when we got home. We agreed the marble throughout is beautiful with its shades of ivory, jade and pink. As for all the gold decor – it’s real gold leaf, you know?’
‘Gran loved it here too – the authentic artefacts, the three domes. She’d bring me for a girls’ day out; we’d see a film and eat out.’
Children scurried past carrying helium balloon animals and crowds gathered around pop-up perfume and cake stalls in the centre of the walkway. Dolly and Phoebe finally reached the far end and a glass front framed with cartoon drawings of cakes and pastries. The neon sign at the top saidBake-off, with a chef’s hat sitting on the B. After leaving their coats and bags in lockers, they walked into a spacious kitchen, wearing the navy aprons the receptionist had given them. The room smelt of cleaning fluid, was rectangular and had whitewashed walls. Phoebe bit her thumbnail and Dolly hesitated before linking arms. They’d been told to stand by workstation number five. The four other pairs of bakers were already in position. The workstation was made up of a long unit, with an oven underneath, and various utensils lined up in a regimented fashion on top, clean and impatient to start.
Dolly took her arm away to adjust her apron and Phoebe raised a hand, touching the pearl and diamond ring hanging around her neck. Two pairs at the back, young women, sported pink hen party sashes, hazy eyes and vodka breath. There was another younger woman with someone who could have been her mother. The other participants were middle-aged and looked like a couple. Phoebe wore her usual hoodie and joggers – today’s were dark marine with cream trim that showed off her green eyes. Greta always said tan and chocolate shades brought out the best in Dolly’s. Her brown eyes were the only clue she had to her father’s appearance. Greta’s were blue like their mother’s.
As a teenager Dolly had gone through a phase of wanting to know more about her father. Classmates at school had started to ask questions. Egged on by a friend she’d marched around to her mum’s flat one day after school. Dolly had been living with her sister for a number of years by then and had been saying to her sister, for days, that she was sick of being treated like a child when it came to her dad. To her surprise Greta’s car had been outside. Dolly had a key and let herself in. She heard them talking in the small lounge.
‘She can’t ever know,’ said her mum, in between sobs. ‘I’m so ashamed of what happened. That bastard ruined everything. We have to protect her, Greta, whatever it takes. I love that girl to bits and wish I found it easier to say that to her face.’
That was the only time she’d ever heard her mother say she loved her. Then and there, Dolly decided it was a waste of energy looking for a man who’d treated her mum so badly. As she got older his importance dwindled further. Boyfriends came into her life and despite her sister and mother’s reservations, these men gave her more faith in the opposite sex and a future of her own that might include getting married. She’d left school at sixteen and her sister was there to help when she opened a bank account, applied for her driving licence, filled in paperwork for her first job. You didn’t need a birth certificate for everything back then and in any case, Greta was always there handling the documents, simply pointing out where Dolly had to sign. Dolly had been grateful. The certificate might have revealed her father’s name, though perhaps that was unlikely, and after witnessing her mother’s upset that afternoon, after school, Dolly decided it didn’t matter.
However, Greta’s help could have been orchestrated, she could have acted on purpose to hide the certificate and the truth about Dolly’s dad.
