Suitcase by Judy Mitchell

The man from the house clearance company offered a price for the lot.  I’d stayed in the kitchen, trying to shut out the sound of doors closing, drawers opening, the creak of floorboards. Perhaps his offer of a tenner for the case was a sop to soften the impact of the deal he'd suggested.     

There were two small, brown cases but that was until the holiday to Franco’s Spain in 1966 when one was lost to the Spanish baggage handlers.  I remembered my father’s anger at the thieves who, according to him, were out of the same mould of pickpockets and criminals as the nation’s leader. ‘I lost two brand new corsets and a crimplene dress in that case’ my mother had added every time the loss was raised - usually when striking baggage handlers were in the news.  They didn’t go overseas again after that.  ‘We like it at Brid’ she had replied whenever there was talk of a holiday abroad.

I opened the wardrobe door and it was still there, its sturdy leather corners neatly crafted to provide protection against careless porters and narrow luggage racks in a bygone travel era.  I pulled it towards me and could hear the scratch of sand that must have spilt out of its seams on to the teak shelf.  The handle was worn where Dad’s strong hands had rubbed against the neat stitches on the leather.

‘I don’t think I’ll need a bathing costume, will I? I took it last year and never wore it.  Well it rained didn’t it?  Every day.  Only brightened up when we got back to Huddersfield.  Did we even go on the beach? Don’t think we did.  Anyway I’ll leave the costume.  I’ll take a sun top instead.  Just in case.’

I suppose that was the last time I’d been in this wardrobe, getting the case down.  Dad had died years before then.  We used to take her to the coast every year.  Same hotel. Same rooms. Trying to keep the tradition.

‘They always did a good breakfast.  None of that cheap chipolata sausage and watery bacon.  Mrs Pickersgill used to say people always commented on her English Breakfasts.  The sauce bottles were clean, no sticky tops or empty salt pots.  Good strong tea.  They cared you see.  They had lots of regular visitors. Not one of those one-night-fling, B and B places for a bit of how’s your father.  Family hotel.  They used to do a kipper for your Dad.  He used to look forward to those kippers.  Part of his holiday.  I didn’t like them.  Too fishy.  Couldn’t do with all those bones but he loved them.  I once got him some when we came home.  Not the same he said.  I didn’t bother after that.’

I slid the locks to the left and the clasps lifted sharply. Inside was a programme for the Max Jaffa Concert at the Floral Pavilion.  We’d taken her.  Before we had the children.  Just the three of us.  I could smell her face powder and the perfume she had saved from Christmas to take on holiday in her toilet bag.  The last time we went we pushed her in a chair.  The kids took their turns.  Think she was always a bit frightened when our Peter took charge of the handles. Too fast for her. 

‘Ask our Jane to push.  She’s not as reckless as you are.  I don’t want to go so fast.  I’m enjoying seeing the sights.  With you, if I blink we’ll have rushed past and I’ll be at Scarborough freewheeling down The Marine Drive.’

I was proud of how patient they’d been with her.  Teenagers then.  I wondered if they would be as good with me and their Dad.

‘Nay, you’re not going to throw it out?  It’s perfectly good.  Locks still work.  There’s a key somewhere. Better than those plastic things you have.  That’s real leather, you know.  It’s lined.   Won’t it do for our Jane when she goes to visit her friends? Too good for her foreign jaunts.  Look what happened to me and your Dad.’

I could feel the story about the new corsets and the dress was about to resurface and I snapped down the locks on the lid and took it downstairs to clean the leather and remove the luggage label. I stared at the writing showing the address in neat capital letters.  No postcode in those days. I put the label in my handbag.  

‘Moving on,’ she said quietly.  ‘It was always good to go away but it was even nicer to come back home.’

I locked the back door behind me and got in my car. For a moment she was sitting beside me, her hand gripping the arm rest, her face powder uneven across her nose and cheek. Then, in the rear view mirror I thought I saw the front door open and there she was bending to pick up the suitcase in the hall and wave at me to show she was ready as our car drew up to collect her, the back seat full of games, balls, fishing tackle, jackets, two children and my mum, her handbag on her knee, checking she had the house key.  ‘Did I lock the door?’ she asked.