Page 65 of Lost Luggage
‘Somehow, I think you sensed that your list of firsts would find its way to me.’
Dolly reached into her pocket, pulled out the ribbon and for several seconds held it to her lips.
‘The weekend after next, Phoebe, Fred, Leroy, Flo and I are throwing a party, to celebrate the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee. Takes me back to the silver one in 1977. The homemade bunting, the long trestles at sunny street parties with salmon paste sandwiches and bowls of iced gems – and the Sex Pistols sailing down the River Thames playing their risqué version of ‘God Save the Queen’; you were disgusted. The Queen has now served seventy years, around as long as I’ve been living, not knowing you gave birth to me. Like her, you witnessed the Welsh mountain disaster, the first man on the moon, the creation of the internet, the Berlin Wall coming down, the Twin Towers attack.
‘All that time you held your own life-changing event close. Like the Queen, you followed a sense of duty.
‘I wish you hadn’t.’ Her voice croaked. ‘But I understand why. Phoebe, Flo and Fred, they’ve shown me that family, it’s not about labels, it’s about caring and kindness.’ She held the flask tightly to her chest. ‘Your book reviews show a particular fondness for stories set in Paris, such asMe Before You,The Hunchback of Notre-Dame,The Lollipop ShoesandThe Little Paris Bookshop. As Maisie, it was your suggestion that out of all the places in the world, Phoebe came to this capital first.’ Dolly wiped her eyes, the new Maybelline concealer smudging across her hand. ‘I reckon this is the perfect resting place.’ She leant over the bridge’s railing, tilted the flask and carefully shook it. ‘I love you, Greta.’
A gentle breeze carried away the sobbed whisper, ‘Bye, Mum,’ along with white ashes that smelt of sandalwood as they floated down on to the Seine.
43
As the sign lit up to unfasten seatbelts, a different Dolly got to her feet, one who’d been abroad. She’d eaten freshly baked baguette, visited Montmartre, the majestic Sacré-Cœur; she’d tried a Moroccan tagine and drunk Pernod. Whilst Phoebe went to the Père Lachaise Cemetery, Dolly navigated the Métro and found the Pompidou Centre. She’d done her research before leaving England and discovered one of its new art exhibitions displayed a series of insect paintings. Dolly purchased several postcards for Flo. The Gothic hawk moth one was her favourite. But most importantly,Gretahad gone abroad. Dolly pictured her mother cruising down the Seine, calm and serene, alongside gliding bateaux-mouches.
They pulled their cases into the arrivals lounge, Mancunian accents replacing French ones. It was almost lunch time. Phoebe switched on her phone. Her breath hitched.
Dolly steered her to one side, away from embarking passengers. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s from our next-door neighbour. I insisted she had my number after… in case…’ She read it again. ‘Iknewthis would happen. Granddad fell ill early this morning. He’s gone to Stepping Hill Hospital.’ She gripped the phone tighter. ‘In an ambulance.’
Why did she think Fred might become unwell? Dolly directed Phoebe over to nearby chairs. They sat down and read the text again. Heart thumping loudly in her ears, she put her arm around her young friend. Dolly stared at the tan steamer trunk.
‘Deep breaths,’ she said, briskly. ‘Fred is as tough as old boots. How about we get a taxi to mine and drop off our bags, then I’ll drive us straight to the hospital?’ Dolly led the way past hordes of passengers and security staff, cleaners with mops and stewards dressed in coordinating colours, and out of the terminal. The last time she’d been to Stepping Hill was when Greta had the heart attack. In the ambulance, on the way, she could tell from the paramedics faces it was too late. But despite Greta’s cold hand, Dolly chatted, telling her how loud the siren was and about the roast she’d make for their dinner later.
* * *
They parked up and clambered out into a chilly breeze – the temperate Parisian air hadn’t followed them over the Channel. Dolly consulted the sign with lists of the different departments, linked arms with Phoebe and headed right, to the Accident and Emergency entrance. The receptionist took their names and they found two seats, next to a man with a bandage on his hand. A toddler cried in the row behind and opposite a woman slumped against the wall, half asleep. Plastic coffee cups littered tables alongside curled magazines.
‘Do you think he could be really ill, and that’s why we have to wait?’ asked Phoebe, moving her legs out the way for a teenager on crutches. ‘He hasn’t answered any of my texts. I hope it’s not his—’ Cries of the toddler behind turned to screeches and Phoebe put her headphones on again. Dolly tried to read a magazine but could only look at the pictures. Finally, they were called and headed through automatic swing doors to the sound of machines bleeping and squeaking trolley wheels. The smell of hand sanitiser reminded Dolly of tequila. The nurse apologised for the wait. They’d been running tests. She directed them to a cubicle and swept across the medical blue curtain. Dolly focused on the tiled floor, gathered herself for a moment, then looked up at the bed. In paisley pyjamas, with his hair dishevelled, Fred sat propped up, his skin pale, wrinkles emphasised by the florescent lighting. In his hand he held a cardboard sick bowl; screwed-up tissues lay on the sheets next to him. The nurse filled up his glass of water, on the bedside unit. Phoebe almost knocked it over as she gave him a hug. Fred’s smile looked as good to Dolly as any view in Paris.
‘Sorry for all the fuss,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘I told Sheila not to tell you, she can be a right busybody.’
He was sitting up. Able to talk. Palms clammy, Dolly’s fists uncurled. She’d feared a replay of that December day, Greta lying flat in the ambulance.
Eventually Phoebe let go and sat on the bed. Dolly hovered by the curtain. ‘Granddad. It’s because Sheila cares. Now, what’s happened? It’s not—’
‘It’s a stomach upset,’ he cut in. ‘Never known cramps like it, I could hardly move. They’ve run tests. It’s nothing.’ He managed a smile. ‘Everything is as it should be.’
Fred had seemed invincible years ago, as if Mother Nature had overdosed him on youthful gusto.
‘How has this happened? Gran trained us well; the kitchen’s always pristine.’
Finally colour appeared in his cheeks as he broke eye contact with Phoebe. He reached out his hand. Dolly went over and gripped it. She didn’t let go as she sat in the chair next to the bed.
‘Wilfred decided to eat slimy chicken,’ said the nurse in a sharp voice before leaving.
‘Granddad! I told you to throw that meat out.’
‘I thought it would be okay if I cooked it a bit longer than usual. It didn’t smell that bad, Phoebs. I added lots of spices.’ He gagged and held the bowl for a second.
Dolly shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of “waste not want not”, but even Greta wouldn’t have taken things that far.’
He cracked another smile. ‘How was Paris?’
‘First, coffee,’ said Phoebe and she stood up, giving Fred a pointed look. ‘You two might want to talk.’
‘What about?’ asked Dolly as the curtain swished behind Phoebe. ‘Fred? There’s more to this than you’re letting on.’
