Arvon shortlisted entry- A Life in Handbags by Gillian Belchetz

By Gillian Bellchetz

Frank comes home with a brown leather suitcase: he’s bought it brand new from Russell’s. It was an extravagant act but he can’t have you going in with anything shoddy. You pack it and put it by the front door. It contains toiletries and night-wear and baby clothes: some old, some new, and some hand knitted. Nothing blue, because you’re secretly hoping for a girl. Nappies are provided and you’ve less than a month to go. 

            You wake in the middle of the night lying on a cold wet patch. You think you’ve peed and lumber out of bed. When you stand the fluid pours out and you give a little scream. My waters have gone, you tell Frank, and calm as anything he gets things sorted and drives you in.

            Nothing is too good for my girl, Frank says, and he pays six shillings a day for an amenity bed. He’s sent home by the midwife and you’re left to get on with it. It takes twenty hours until you’re rewarded with tea and toast and a nine pounder called Andrew.

            You follow the breast feeding instructions on the back of the wardrobe door and remarkably the baby thrives. For ten days you rest up and the evening before you leave you’re given a lesson on how to bath baby.

            Frank swaddles Andrew and puts the Moses basket on the back seat of the Morris Minor. He flings the case in the boot. For the first time motherhood dawns on you and Frank stops and lets you weep out all your anxiety. It’s going to be all right, he says and when you get home you take control of the baby and Frank takes the case down to the cellar, where it grows a fine layer of mould.

            Your second and third pregnancies end in miscarriage. When all hope seems to have gone, Sally is born.

You remove the Hermès alligator bag from the top of the wardrobe. Frank brought it back from a trip to London, never thinking it would have its only outing at Andrew’s funeral more than forty years later. You’ve never cared for black.

            You do your face with your usual degree of precision, tinker with your hair and lacquer it well. Sally brings up tea and shortbreads from the round tin with soldiers on it: the buttery smell sets you off again and you empty the bilious dregs from your gut into the toilet. You rinse your dentures and get dressed.

             The subdued voices of people you don’t want to see drift upstairs. None of them know what it’s like to be visited by the railway police at 11.09pm on a Saturday night.

            It’s time to go. With the Hermès bag over your arm and your head held high you go down. In the car Frank grips your hand until you think the bones are going to break, and Sally cries.

            Since the news was delivered, the dreadful-dreadful-what-a-waste-of-a-life-news, your thoughts have become vague and filmy and your sentences are often without ends. Will the church…, will the flowers…, will the food…?

            The church is bitterly cold. The new vicar does a passable job. He keeps the prayers short and sums up Andrew’s life in eight minutes. In fact, he skirts around the details quite nicely, and almost implies  that Andrew has been eaten up by cancer, rather than a train. You interpret the Vicar’s ambiguity as sensitivity and warm to the man.

            The service is over and you follow the coffin into the rain and on to the crem. Frank and Sally hang their heads and shut out the world. You peer into the gloom,  not believing it will ever lift. It’s the only time you’ve seen Frank cry and it’s heart-breaking.

You go out whilst Frank is in the back garden pruning the roses. It’s a sunny day and you wear a yellow cardigan. Yellow isn’t a colour you usually choose, but lately you’ve developed a penchant for it.

            In the shopping mall a lady stops and says Hello May. You smile at her brightly and ask How’s – how’s… but for the life of you can’t remember her husband’s name. Jack, she says helpfully, He’s fine. The encounter leaves you feeling out of sorts. You can’t remember her name either, or where she lives, and think that this not remembering thing is a blooming nuisance.

             You go into The Magpie Café. The waitress brings over the usual. No handbag today May? she asks, and you look around and realise that no, you haven’t got a bag, and now that she’s drawn it to your attention, being without one feels very strange. Have this one on the house, she says, and pats your shoulder, which you don’t care for. The thought of buying a handbag makes your armpits burn.

            Next door is the charity shop. You mooch around and for a while feel like your old self, picking out garments, feeling the texture of them. You pick up a brown handbag. It’s made of shiny plastic and is unlike any handbag you’ve ever owned. The lady behind the till says to drop the money in later. On the way home you take a wrong turn and walk for a mile until a police car pulls up and the young man offers you a lift.

            You put your shiny brown £3 handbag on the kitchen table. Frank looks at it in horror. I wish you wouldn’t go off like that on your own, he says. You feel cross. A mask sets on your face and you gather up the bag and go and sit in the lounge. You ignore Frank until the next morning when you wake up and have forgotten all about it.

A roomy green canvas bag with pink lilies woven into the fabric sits by your feet whilst you nap. Sally bought it especially for Luxor. Every now and then your limbs jump and your head slips forwards. Frank puts his hand tenderly on your forehead to hold it back so you won’t wake yourself. After twenty minutes you stir and lazily trawl the room.

            You ask Frank where you are and he says you’re on a cruiser going to visit a temple. Well, that’s news to me, you say. You spot the floral canvas bag, pick it up and rummage. You pull out a tube of hand cream and beam contentedly, and then the bag slips down your stockinged legs and spews its contents over the wooden floor with a disturbing clatter. Your lipstick, loose change, powder compact and polo mints race around the wooden deck. The rest make a little mountain by your feet. A shrill voiced lady tells you not to worry and kneels down to help. You catch hold of the handle and snatch it away from her. She looks offended, but you don’t give a fig.

            Frank tells you softly to steady on and asks if you want to go back on deck. You look puzzled, so Frank, who has developed the patience of a saint, explains again that you are in Luxor, on a cruiser, going to visit a Temple. That’s news to me, you say. Frank smiles and kisses you softly on the cheek. You hold out a hand and let yourself be led up into the sun.

You hang on to a glossy patent leather bag in babydoll blue which Frank bought to salve his conscience. He stops the car outside a building which looks familiar, but it won’t come to you. Where are we? you ask. Look at the daffodils, says Frank.

            He helps you out and you go inside and wait. You feel the tension in his hand and want to go home. We can’t love, he says, and pretty soon a lady with a round face and a big smile calls you through.

            This is Dr Langdon, says Frank. Do you remember Dr Langdon, she goes to our church?

            You don’t. Frank’s mouth is set in a fixed smile which makes your tummy flutter. The lady from church asks if she can check your memory out. You grip the patent bag and glance at Frank but he’s looking the other way. Oh, you say.

            You know you are English and live in Leeds but don’t know the year, the day, the date or the season. The church lady asks you to remember three words: fish, house and bread. You repeat them: fish, house and bread, and then she asks you to write your name on a piece of paper. You hold the pen and write the letter M. You stop. No more letters come. Can you still remember those three words I mentioned earlier? she asks. Words. Earlier.  You look confused. I’m an idiot, you say, and then Frank leans over and through watery eyes he says, You are not an idiot, and more loudly, Do you hear, you are not an idiot!

A net bag with over large holes hangs from the Zimmer frame. A big leather purse and a hanky embroidered by your sister with the letter M are caught in the net like a couple of unlikely fish. You walk into the frame, move it forwards and walk into it again. It takes six minutes to get from the bedroom to the toilet where Frank helps you twist round and sit down. You perform and he comes back and cleans you before following you slowly to the bathroom.

            The shower is the perfect temperature. Frank is careful to get you good and clean and he takes care not to wet your hair. The warm water is soothing and when Frank helps you out, you purse your lips and wait for his kiss. After last night, when you pushed him and hit him with more strength than he’d imagined possible, he’s pleased to feel your lips against his: the smallest sign of love, of recognition or gratitude, is better than none.  

            You cling on to the frame whilst Frank pats you dry and generously talcs you, leaving a ghostly white film under breasts and arms, down your back, between your legs and over your feet. Haltingly, you walk back to the bedroom draped in a towel and sit on the bed whilst he dresses you. He doesn’t bother with your bra anymore.   You flinch when he lifts your right shoulder, which is still bruised from the fall you can’t remember, and he slips on a pink non-crease blouse. He puts your cardigan on, drops your skirt over your head, rolls on your pop socks, fastens your shoes over swollen feet, and then holds your hands and helps you stand so that he can pull up the padded knickers and straighten and tuck everything in. He fastens the string of pearls he bought for your pearl wedding anniversary around your neck, and brushes your hair. From the dressing table he offers you a range of lipsticks and when you fail to point to one, he picks out his favourite, coral, and puts it in your hand. Without hesitation, which amazes Frank, you dab it on your lips and smack them together. There you are, pretty as a picture, he says, and prepares himself for the once daily palaver of getting you safely downstairs.

            Every third day Frank shaves your chin and repaints your nails, which don’t chip like they used to.

What Sally says is true: Frank cannot manage any longer. The home has a vacancy but he has to let them know by 5pm. He makes the call and an ambulance is booked for Friday.

            Downstairs in the cellar Frank finds the brown leather case. He cleans and polishes it until it looks like new, and when he weeps, tears bounce off it like a cloud burst on hard baked earth.