Page 7 of Lost Luggage
She hurried into the kitchen and pulled out a handful of peas to thaw, his favourites. She brought a hard-backed chair in and positioned it as close to the tank as possible. For minutes, hours, she kept watch, until her head lolled and jerked. Just before nodding off, she caught sight of the sad, blue octopus face, on top of the record player.
6
Rubbing her back, Dolly sat up, regretting rowing on the orange carpet with Leroy last night to ‘Oops Upside Your Head’. Orange. Carpet. Maurice. He was still at the bottom of the tank.
‘“Stayin’ Alive”, that’ll help, won’t it?’ she croaked and put on the vinyl, ignoring the pull to play the Bee Gees’ hit ‘Tragedy’ instead. Dolly put the kettle on before heading to the bathroom. After splashing her face with cold water, she pulled on a limp woollen dressing gown, made a cup of tea and padded back into the lounge. ‘Happy New Year, my darling boy,’ she whispered. She tapped flakes into the tank, hoping he’d swim up to the surface. He didn’t. Dolly sat on the sofa, picked up her phone and tried to find out why he’d jumped out. Her eyes scanned the screen, and her tea went cold as she read about poor water quality. Dolly stole a look at the tank’s sides. There were only a few small patches of green. The one thing she’d managed this year was to clean out Maurice’s tank regularly, with Leroy picking up fresh weed when she asked. She maybe didn’t check the pH as often as she should, but the water looked clear and his ornamental bridge was clean.
Yet she’d left the lid off and Maurice had almost died because of her… She surveyed the lounge, the strewn newspapers, the empty, soiled mugs. Dolly took her glasses off and held her head in her hands. Over the last year her approach to life had become more scatter-brained. Slowly she opened her eyes and a metallic shimmer from the left caught her attention.
She picked up Phoebe’s notebook that she’d left on the sofa last night.
It’s time we both moved to the beat of the drums again, baby.
For a long time she stood in the conservatory, staring out at the garden. After fetching a generous chunk of Swiss roll, she sat down and checked out what Leroy called socials. Phoebe Goodbody was not to be found on any platform, which was unusual these days. Even Greta liked Instagram for following accounts that offered the essentials – local crime updates, book recommendations and dissections of royal fallouts. She picked up the notebook, skipping the entries from June to December, and turned the page like a criminal as she left behind chocolate fingerprints.
January
For this one I need to be really brave as it means standing up and speaking in front of people. My legs feel unsteady just thinking about it. I’m going to take part in a balloon debate. Maisie came up with the idea after seeing a poster; she reckons I’ll smash it. There’s one that runs every month in the New Chapter Café on Deansgate. Susan says balloon debates are popular in her granddaughter’s class. If a ten-year-old can take part, why not me? The café puts a list on their website on the first of each month, five literary characters, you choose one to represent. One of the five must be thrown out of the fictional balloon as it is too heavy and sinking. You have to give a talk, setting out the argument for why the character you’ve chosen should remain safe. Mid-month they hold the debate after closing hours, randomly picking five volunteers from the audience. This month’s takes place on Tuesday 18th. As soon as Maisie knew about the bookish theme, she insisted I had to do it. We talked about who the characters might be. Maisie laughed and suggested Frankenstein’s monster. Well, I’ve always felt sorry for him, so that would be an easier one.
I know I’ll blush harder than a Christmas cranberry but I need to put myself out there after this last year of hiding away. I might stumble over words, even freeze in the middle of my speech, but I’ve got to give it a go.
It’s time to let myself be seen.
Dolly re-read it, not once but twice, glad she wasn’t expected to meet a monster in real life. Tuesday the eighteenth fitted the dates for the upcoming January, so the firsts in the notebook were definitely not for a different year. She went on to the internet again and found the café. If picked, Dolly would have to speak to the crowd for two minutes. Over the last year she’d barely spoken more than one sentence to anyone apart from Leroy – and Flo, who didn’t ask how she was, didn’t ask about Greta. Instead she wanted to know interesting facts about Maurice such as did the water bubble when he farted. At least at the balloon debate no one would know who she was. But she wasn’t a reader like Greta. A lot of research would be required for this challenge. After another large bite of Swiss roll, Dolly found the list of characters.
Bella Swan, Sherlock Holmes, Scarlett O’Hara, Mr Darcy, Matilda.
She knew Sherlock Holmes from the telly, he seemed too smug for his own good; Scarlett O’Hara was vain and spoiled in the film ofGone with the Wind. Reader or no reader, everyone knew Mr Darcy played too hard to get. Greta had read the Twilight series and spoken about Bella Swan’s naivety. As for Matilda… wasn’t she the naughtiest girl on the planet?
Dolly might do this January ‘first’. She might not. A trip to the library would help her decide. On the morning of Tuesday the fourth, after the Monday bank holiday, she actually set her alarm – she hadn’t done that for so long, without Greta’s porridge to prepare, or her appointments to get ready for. Today marked, possibly, the beginning of a quest that might make the dawn chorus sound less like a hymn at Greta’s funeral service. Knutsmere library would be empty when its doors opened at nine. Stiff morning hands allowing, that was Greta’s preferred time to go. Same for Stockport library – Greta went there at least once a fortnight on a Wednesday as the book choice was wider, insisting she could manage alone as it was near the train station. It was her favourite place but as her arthritis had got worse she’d made do with the one in Knutsmere more often. It couldn’t compare with the grandeur of Stockport’s, though, and she often talked about the baroque building with its glazed dome, the rich green carpet and stained-glass windows.
Dolly wrestled a jumper on and dragged jeans over hips that had become wider this last year. The stain down the front looked like baked beans that were easy to eat straight out of the tin. All good intentions to have a shower disappeared at the prospect of running late and crossing paths with nosy well-wishers. Hood up, earbuds in, she walked down her short drive, past her Skoda that probably wouldn’t run well now, past her overgrown lawn and empty birdbath. She stopped at Leroy’s crab-apple tree. He’d messaged her from Jamaica last night, sending a photo of chips made out of bananas.
Despite her fear of bumping into villagers, first off Dolly called into Knutsmere’s small pet shop. New Year’s Day she’d changed Maurice’s water, even though it didn’t need it, and rinsed the gravel; she’d scrubbed the glass sides and the bridge, just to make sure she removed all germs. His dorsal fin still lay flat, a couple of scales looked discoloured, but the gasping and twitching had abated. Fresh bunches of weed and a mermaid ornament might cheer him up.
The librarian smiled when Dolly finally walked in but she ducked her head, lips firmly closed – it was a library, after all. She headed for the fiction section and M for Mitchell.Gone with the Wind, a hefty novel, was easy to spot. Greta already had the Twilight series and a copy ofPride and Prejudice. Dolly found one of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes books. That only leftMatilda, and Dolly went over to the children’s corner, with its plastic chairs and embroidered cushions. Her fingers ran across the books under D for Dahl. Cheeks sweating under the warmth of her anorak, she checked out her books. Dolly had never used her card before, having only registered at the library to please her sister.
Just as well it wasn’t raining. Her head had been so full of Maurice this morning, she’d forgotten to bring her rucksack. With the novels under one arm and the pet shop bag grasped in the other hand, Dolly hurried back along Pingate Road and into Pingate Loop. As she neared home, a sense of relief washed over her, only to evaporate when Flo came out of nowhere. Dolly lurched to one side and the books tumbled to the ground as brakes screeched.
‘Sorry, Dolly, are you all right?’
‘It’s okay. I… I didn’t see you.’
‘Look at the new bike I got for Christmas! Isn’t the basket on the front the best? It’ll be great when I go to the park and collect’ – she lowered her voice – ‘you know what.’
Dolly never had a bicycle as a child and would have loved this one, with its silver frame and shiny bell. Carefully, Flo laid it on its side and picked up the three books. Her face lit up.
‘I love Matilda.’ Sprigs of ginger hair stuck out from under her luminous cycling helmet. ‘Her dad is horrible and she glued his hat to his head. Mum prefers books about people kissing each other.’ She grimaced. ‘I try to get her to read my favourites likeThe Wonderful Life of WormsandSecrets of Our Smallest Creaturesbut she just flicks through them quickly.’
‘Greta liked romance but considered it important to read widely, to broaden the mind,’ said Dolly, cursing herself immediately for bringing up her sister.
‘Heaven is lucky to have her,’ said Flo and looked thoughtful. ‘Imagine how tidy its library will look now.’
Since she’d seen it on a blogger’s Instagram feed, Greta had colour coordinated the novels on their lounge shelves. A sudden longing almost blew Dolly over, to watch her sister on the step stool, humming to herself as she sorted through them.
‘If you likeMatildaI’ve got other books by the same author,’ said Flo. ‘I could bring them over.Charlie and the Chocolate Factoryis my favourite and—’
‘No. No, thanks. I’m not actually reading it for pleasure…’
