Page 64 of Lost Luggage
All these years later, the prospect of sleeping with Fred wasn’t scary, but he didn’t seem as keen. The hole in her heart regarding Fred’s disappearance had almost closed up now, almost mended. On a couple of occasions he’d stayed late, but when she’d suggested they go to her bedroom he’d tried to tell her something and ended up making excuses. It looked like he wasn’t quite over Angela yet.
‘Granddad said we must take lots of photos,’ said Phoebe, as the aeroplane descended.
‘You don’t mind that… me and Fred have been getting closer? Is that with okay with you, love? I don’t want to cause upset. I know how much you loved your gran.’
‘Gran would have been the first to tell Fred to get out dating. In fact she said as much, towards the end. Told him he wasn’t to use her death as an excuse to stay in the house in front ofOnly Fools and Horsesreruns.’ She held Dolly’s nearest hand. ‘I’m genuinely pleased to see him looking so happy. Who knows what’s around the corner? I think heshouldmake the most of every day he’s got left.’
Dolly squeezed her arm. Phoebe worried so much about her granddad not being around.
Glad it hadn’t been lost, they collected their luggage. Dolly would get to wear that fancy scarf after all. More importantly, the special item was safe. She took a moment whilst Phoebe headed to the Ladies, stood quite still, by their luggage, and listened to tourists chatting. She stared at the luxury gilt-fronted shops selling perfume and handbags, trinkets and clothes. What an eye-catching kiosk, selling macarons in every colour.
For a fleeting moment a deep sense of loss flushed through her veins, loss on behalf of Greta who’d never got to cross the English Channel.
‘I checked out the train service,’ said Phoebe when she came back. ‘It’s not much more expensive to get a taxi straight into the centre and share the fare.’
‘Great idea and my treat,’ said Dolly. ‘No arguments.’
Phoebe tucked her arm through Dolly’s and they made their way to the taxi rank. It took them to their hotel in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,on the left bank– Dolly had always thought that sounded so glam. Yet the room was affordable with a shared bathroom. The receptionist let them leave their luggage in her office as check-in wasn’t until later. How exciting to wake up within a short distance of the Louvre or Notre-Dame.
‘But the main reason I like this hotel,’ said Phoebe, as they strolled through the welcoming spring sunshine, ‘is that Les Deux Magots café is only a street away. It’s the perfect place for breakfast.’
‘According to your notebook entry, you wanted to go because of the literary greats who’d frequented it like Hemingway, Sartre and de…’
‘De Beauvoir. That’s right. Zoe’s really jealous I get to visit it. Here we are.’ She pointed to the corner of a boulevard, a sandy-coloured building with several floors, each with a black balcony outside. The café had a green canopy and shiny glass front, a contrast to the old church, opposite. The tables outside were already full, despite the fumes and hoots of passing traffic. They joined a queue at the front door. Dolly was happy to wait, observing Parisians drinking coffee out of dainty cups, in their tailored clothes and shaded frames, picking at omelettes or ham, fruit salad or pastries. Back in the 1970s she and Fred wouldn’t have wanted to go back to England.
Seated inside, layers removed, French handbook on the table, Dolly bit into a chocolate croissant, looking up at two Chinese figurines, each either side of a corner of one of the far walls. The building used to be a novelty shop and the café’s name referred to them. How disappointed Flo would be – she thoughtmagotmight mean maggot. She’d explained that over the centuries maggots had saved countless limbs from amputation, thanks to their ability to eat infected tissue.
Dolly gagged slightly as she finished her pastry, instantly restored by the burnt-caramel smell of coffee as she took a sip.
‘So we’ll go to Notre-Dame after here,’ said Phoebe, and she wiped her mouth with a white napkin.
Dolly moved the turquoise flask to one side, in her rucksack, and took out a map of Paris. They’d spent several enjoyable afternoons planning their itinerary.
‘Then after a snack lunch we’ll check in,’ continued Phoebe. ‘I can’t wait to see the Eiffel Tower later. It’s supposed to look fantastic at night.’
An evening trip to the tower fitted in well with Dolly’s own plans. Yes, she’d wanted to challenge herself to travel, and to come to Paris with a person who had turned out to be rather special. However, there was another important reason she’d needed to come here, to do with the book review notebooks Greta had filled. She’d flicked through them, most nights, since her visit to Edith.
‘Sounds great,’ Dolly said. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind me going off for an hour on my own?’
‘No. I’ve got that ticket booked to go to the tower’s summit.’
‘I would tell you why, but…’
Phoebe put down her napkin. ‘Being good friends doesn’t mean we can’t keep some stuff private. If you’re missing a panoramic night view, I know it must be important.’
42
Using the black ink of a Parisian night, Dolly wrote a goodbye wave to Phoebe in the air; her young friend was queuing outside the Eiffel Tower’s lift. At eight, its hourly light show that lasted five minutes had dazzled them. It was now just before nine. Earlier, they’d stumbled across a tiny pizzeria that had been minding its own business in a narrow backstreet. Dolly must have taken a hundred photos of her pizza topped with pansies. As long as Phoebe felt happy eating more, she’d wanted to treat them to Cointreau coffees and dessert; the sticky tarte Tatin kept winking at her, across the restaurant. However, her budget-conscious young friend wouldn’t hear of it after the expense of the taxi from the airport, but said she’d love to look for a crêpe truck later.
Amongst the chatting crowds enjoying the mild evening, Dolly stared at the illuminated tower. A cheer went up as it started to sparkle from top to bottom again, like a million fireflies. She took a video for Flo before taking out her Paris map. Pont Alexandre III was twenty minutes away on foot. Dolly hoiked up her rucksack as she made her way along the bank of the Seine, the upper promenade separated from the busy road by a row of trees. A bloodhound approached, walking its owner, a stout man wearing a fur hat with ear flaps. A flash of neon cycled past, followed by strolling lovers with their hands in the backs of each other’s denim pockets. Dolly upped her pace and looked ahead at Pont Alexandre III, magically lit up. It was a gilded, ornate bridge, with pillars at each corner bearing golden statues. Out of breath, Dolly reached one end and almost running, aimed for the bridge’s middle.
Chest heaving, she leant against the concrete, decorative railing, before turning to look down at the river’s intertwining ripples of street lamp and moonlight. Dolly reached into her rucksack and took out the turquoise tea flask. She unscrewed the lid, remnants of a silicone seal still visible on the rim. She’d had to break the seal back in England, to remove the bag of contents and mix part of them with the talcum powder in her case, a mix that she’d tipped back into the flask once unpacked, at the hotel.
‘Sorry about that, Greta,’ she said to the flask. ‘French regulations made things difficult but, on the plus side, you always did like to smell nice.’ She placed the flask on top of the bridge and held it with both hands. ‘Last year I needed you close, in the house and whenever I went out. I was lonely, you see, even though I had Maurice. I lost my confidence, lost my energy.’ She ran a finger around the black rim. The staff at the crematorium had been very good about sealing Greta in there; her mother always had enjoyed a good cup of tea. ‘When I found out about you sending Fred away, about leading a double-life as Maisie and then about being my mother, I stashed you in a cupboard, out of sight. I’m sorry if it was dark. Sorry the food tins in there were stacked messily.’ She paused as a group of young women bundled past, cameras for necklaces. ‘I went to the lost luggage auction as usual, last December, and I’ve discovered the list of firsts that was your idea. The balloon debate, speed-dating, swimming, the bake-off, and now this trip to Paris… All these have helped me find me again. They’ve given me a good friend, brought me back to Fred and have provided Maurice with a companion.’
How Greta would have rolled her eyes at that last comment.
‘Remember how you believed those cases with a colourful ribbon tied around the handle must have contained especially loved items, as the owners made that extra effort to make their cases identifiable? So every year we’d bid on those with a ribbon attached. Yellow was your favourite as it’s symbolic and represents support for absent loved ones. You suggested to Phoebe that she tie that yellow ribbon to the steamer trunk.
