Lost property, p.1
Lost Property, page 1
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
EPILOGUE
SONG CREDITS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen Paris worked in the performing arts for two decades, touring internationally with her London-based theatre company, Curious. After several years living in San Francisco and working as a theatre professor at Stanford University, she returned to the UK to focus on writing fiction.
As part of her research for a performance called Lost & Found, Paris shadowed employees in the Baker Street Lost Property Office for a week – an experience that sparked her imagination and inspired this novel.
For darling Leslie, with all my love
PROLOGUE
It’s church-like down here, shadowy with unlikely congregations: wine bottles, prams, a funeral urn. As the overhead fluorescents hum into life, the colours glow like light through a stained-glass window – yellow, amber, taupe, turquoise, more fuchsia than you might imagine. It’s the yellow that hits you first. Mustard yellow. Dijon, rather than Colman’s powdered. You have to be precise in Lost Property. You have to find the exact right words and fit them on to the modestly sized Dijon-coloured labels tied to every single lost item stored here. If you write ‘Woman’s Handbag, dappled burgundy’ rather than ‘Woman’s Handbag, red’, it can make all the difference as to whether that bag is reunited with its owner or languishes in Lost Property for ever. Leather handle, you say? What kind? I ask. Looped? Stitched? Buckled? Chewed? Admittedly, it’s a challenge to make one black collapsible umbrella stand out from another, but I do my best. I pay attention to the details.
Amidst the aisles of the mislaid, forgotten and walked-away-from is me, Dot. You’ll hear me before you see me, mind; I have my father’s feet (flat) attached to my mother’s ankles (slim). I’m generally down here, shelving and tagging, and sometimes, when the other staff have gone home, you’ll find me rooted on my family-tree feet, staring at the rows and rows of loss.
1
It’s seasonal, loss. Outside, autumn rain buckets down full force; inside, a deluge of brollies all need logging and labelling. We’re jam-packed in Customer Service. A damp line of people queue the length of the counter, steam gently rising off woollen coats, seeking temporary sanctuary in Lost Property, in search of what they have lost, or delivering what they have found.
I’m sitting at the far end of the counter tagging the lost umbrellas while Anita deals with customers, though when I look over she’s rootling through her bag as per.
‘Bugger, where’s my pen?’ she says. Staff possessions are strictly prohibited from the public area. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’ She digs deeper into the vast recesses of her handbag. A large flank of matted brown-and-white suede, it is permanently attached to her, clanking her bits and bobs around like Marley’s ghost. Whenever I look at Anita she is elbow-deep in that bag, as if birthing a cow, forever groping for one of her slimmer’s bars or a squirt of perfume. I have considered suggesting she might be better off with something smaller – a buckled satchel, perhaps? I am always picking up after her – scarf left in the Ladies, hairbrush abandoned on the counter. ‘Ta, Dots! Lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’
Indeed.
I unclip my second-best Sheaffer from my jacket pocket and hand it to her.
‘You’re a doll,’ she says, and returns to her customer.
I am no such thing and hold little hope of the Sheaffer returning to roost, which is disappointing as it’s new, a present to myself for my birthday.
When she first started working at Lost Property, I asked Anita what had drawn her here – seeing as it’s clearly a challenge to keep hold of her own things, let alone other people’s. ‘I told the job centre all my skills,’ she confessed over a frothy coffee at the Italian next door, firing two white pellets into her mug from a small tube retrieved from her commodious bag. ‘Showed them my cosmetics certificate and business plans and they sent me here! What about “Level 3 Diploma in Nail Services” makes them think I’d be good at dealing with people’s crap every day?’
She’s been here almost as long as I have now. Unlike the others who come and go, Anita stayed. Perhaps the nails never worked out. She didn’t say and it’s not my place to ask – we’ve all had our dreams. When I was young I longed to be a librarian. I often sought sanctuary in the quiet order of the public library, delighting in the assured way the librarian splayed my book open, the crinkle of the cellophane jacket. Most of all I loved the confident stamp of the date and the soft slither of the pink ticket leaving the cardboard pocket, knowing the librarian would keep it safe in her file for me till I returned.
They’ve closed most of them now, the libraries, and Lost Property was the right place for me after all. We are the repository for all the items left on London’s buses, black cabs, tubes and trains; we get hundreds of items a day. Loss never stops; it’s reliable like that. And the hours are good. Occasionally we have to go on Transport for London ‘Awaydays’ to stare at flip charts and listen to Lynx-doused lads in their machine-washable suits say ‘not a problem’ ad infinitum. What do they know of the intricacies of Lost Property? Of loss and its myriad problems? With them, it’s all staff development and recruitment. Mind you, we do rather well in recruitment. Recruitment is ‘not a problem’. Ha. It’s an endless procession of temps – students mostly – passing through, wanting a pay packet and a job in the city. Whatever the employment agency finds them will suffice.
I applied.
You see, I know about loss. I know its shape, its weak spots, its corners and sharp edges. I have felt its coordinates. I have sewn its name into the back of its collar.
When I’ve finished labelling the brollies, I start on a crate of items that came in yesterday from the depot at Victoria coach station. Beyond Customer Service is the back office, and as I sort I am lulled by the comforting thrum that drifts through the doorway as Gabrielle (French exchange student) and Sukanya (drama school) field telephone enquiries.
‘Six long-stemmed glasses from John Lewis? Exactly as you described, madam. Your taxi driver brought them in yesterday.’
‘You changed from the Central Line to the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road? … I know, those escalators have been out of order for ever, haven’t they – it’s terrible, too totally tragic.’
Truth be told, Sukanya could try to be a tad less dramatic and a tad more sotto voce – I understand she’s practising her acting skills, but there is such a thing as too much projection.
In my crate, there’s a woman’s cardy in an appealing periwinkle. Looks handmade – that row of pearl buttons sets it off splendidly. I’m guessing she’s elderly, an ice-cream whip of hair and an archipelago of liver spots. Mind you, could be a teenager experimenting with a retro look … but no, a quick sniff reveals a powdery lily of the valley. I was right first time, usually am. I complete the Dijon label and securely loop it around one of the pearl buttons, then move on to a grubby pond-green man’s anorak with half a packet of Polos in one pocket, a pencilled shopping list in the other. The odour this time is less definable – a mélange of mint and mildew with a dab of gravy. Much loved though, the jacket; he’ll be upset he left that behind. I fill out the Dijon, double knot it to the zip. What’s next? A handbag, rather a nice one to boot. She was asking for trouble, the owner, with that broken clasp. It’s only a matter of time before something falls out and gets lost. You have to respect someone, though, who doesn’t throw a handbag away at the first sign of wear and tear. Most people don’t have that sort of loyalty any more.
Not much inside – Anita, take note – hanky, lipstick, till receipts. Any money or credit cards have already been removed and locked up in Valuables. Mind you, what, I always ask, is the true value of an object? The bag is fine leather, worn but cherished. I can spot quality. I’m not boasting. When you spend all day handling other people’s property, you get to know these things.
Mostly it’s a parade of phones, plastic travel-card wallets and dog-eared thrillers, so when something special turns up, you take notice, bask for a moment in the glow of its patina. The hanky is a treat – linen and one of Liberty’s original prints, I’d argue their best. But the lipstick is a surprise. I don’t wear make-up – never really got the hang of it – but Red-Hot Poker? It just doesn’t go with the handbag or the hanky. I remove the lid and roll up a few jarring crimson centimetres. Hmm, no pristine diamond tip – it’s rounded and smudged with use. Oh, that mismatched lipstick is going to bother me for the rest of the day, like a poppy seed in my teeth.
‘I see your admirer was in again, Nita.’ Ed nods at a customer tottering out with a walking stick. Despite his actual place of employment being Baker Street station next door, Ed spends a vast amount of his working day propping up our coun ter, swapping double entendres with Anita and drinking alarmingly milky tea from a chipped red-and-white Arsenal mug.
‘Give over, he’s not my admirer,’ Anita says, unearthing a tub of strawberry lip gloss from her bag. Staff possessions are strictly prohibited from the … I’m fighting a losing battle. Ed watches transfixed, like a figure in Botticelli’s Adoration of the Magi, as Anita coats her mouth with slow back-and-forth swoops of shimmering gloss.
‘A repeat offender then,’ Ed says, breathing unattractively through his nose.
‘Takes one to know one.’ Anita pouts her lips into a kiss shape at him. ‘Quick smoke?’
‘Don’t mind if I do—’
‘Hiya.’ Sheila, our latest from SmartChoice Temping Agency, clops in from the back office on heels designed to induce altitude sickness.
Ed’s head whips in her direction.
‘What are you chatting about?’ Sheila SmartChoice shimmies her tiny bottom up on to the counter, liquorice-twisting her stockinged legs.
Ed stares.
Anita pelts the tub of gloss into her bag.
‘Nothing, just an old chap who comes in every couple of months, reporting the “loss” of his walking stick.’ Anita pauses to punctuate the word with her index fingers, one distressingly sticky.
‘He must be ever so forgetful,’ says SmartChoice, giving Ed a wink that causes him to slop his tea on the counter.
I staunch Ed’s milky ablution with the hanky I keep safety-pinned inside my jacket pocket. The customer in question can give you a precise catalogue of the test scores since the England and Wales Cricket Board took over from Marylebone Cricket Club in 1997. He can also tell you the best time to plant asparagus and broad beans, and knows the complete taxonomy of Turdidae. He is not one jot forgetful. He is, I fear, lonely.
‘So, what do you do when the man comes in for his stick?’ pursues SmartChoice.
‘I go get him an unclaimed one from downstairs,’ Anita says.
‘Oooh, is that allowed?’ asks SmartChoice, rabbit-eyed.
‘Why not!’ says Anita. ‘We’re buried in sticks, crutches, canes – you name it. Got a fair number of false limbs too, not to mention false teeth and false eyes. How, I ask you, is someone able to get up and walk off the train without their prosthetic leg? Miracle cures on the Metropolitan Line? No wonder TfL charge so much for the bloody tickets.’ She gives a husky chuckle that has Ed back in her thrall.
I glance at the door; there’s a lull right now, but a customer could come in at any moment searching for a lost item and find us dilly-dallying the day away. Clearly, I am the only one concerned.
‘Bet the Brolly Dollies were in today, eh, Nita?’ Ed says.
‘Too right,’ Anita says. She flashes Ed a conspiratorial smile, bends forward and says in a querulous voice, ‘“Excuse me, dear, I seem to have lost my umbrella.”’
Ed laughs and, encouraged, Anita continues: ‘“Could you describe your umbrella?”’
‘“Oh, yes,” they say. “It’s black, and has a handle.”’
‘“Black with a handle?” I say. “I believe one matching your exact description was handed in this morning. I’ll get it for you.”’
‘That’s amazing you knew we had it,’ says SmartChoice. The girl is as vacuous as an open window.
‘Coming for that smoke, Ed?’ Anita says.
‘I better shift and get myself back to work,’ says Ed, showing no sign of shifting. Anita stands for a moment, bites her glossy lip, then hoists the beast of a bag on to her shoulder.
‘Dot, cover me, will you? I’ll only be a quick five.’
Knowing it’s going to be more like a long fifteen, I leave my crate of lost items and take her place at the counter as she struts off to join the soggy smokers on the fire escape.
I turn to SmartChoice.
‘Unless you want to be filed under miscellaneous, may I suggest you return to work?’
‘Laters.’ SmartChoice untwizzles her legs and teeters back to the office. Ed gazes after her, sighs and slinks out of the door.
I neaten a pile of Lost Item forms and straighten my jacket in readiness for the next customer. I do not condone Anita’s laissez-faire attitude with the walking sticks and umbrellas, handing them out willy-nilly, but she has been facing some trials of late. After years of putting up with her porcine husband’s dalliances and semi-permanent state of intoxication, she has finally given him his marching orders. He recently showed up inebriated and covered in Elizabeth Arden’s Provocative Woman, and she threw him out on the spot, followed by a tray of crispy pork balls. ‘I spent the weekend on the sofa getting intimate with Gordon and his best mate Tonic,’ Anita said when she regaled me with the news, panda-eyed. It transpired she had also made the acquaintance of Harveys Bristol Cream and faced the silent watches of the night with Napoleon Brandy. I pass no judgement. On occasion, I have entertained myself similarly. I brewed her a cup of Lapsang Souchong and popped Exploring the Greek Islands (a truly first-rate travel guide) into her bag.
The door opens and an elderly gentleman in a soft, putty-coloured raincoat and tweed cap slowly approaches the counter.
‘How may I help you, sir?’ I say.
‘I come more in hope than expectation.’ Rainwater traces the wrinkles in his face, beads his thick, grey eyebrows. ‘Quite my own fault,’ he continues. ‘The holdall.’
I lick my finger and thumb, peel a Lost Item form from my stack, unclip my silver Sheaffer from my jacket pocket.
‘A holdall?’
‘Yes. Leather. Sort of a golden-syrup colour. Old, but in pretty good shape, better than me.’ He gives a dry chuckle that turns into a cough.
Three small darns in his cap; whoever did them matched the thread exactly.
‘Excuse me.’ He unfurls a crumpled handkerchief. Raindrops from his coat splatter across the counter. One lands on my jacket sleeve.
‘Last Friday I was on the bus,’ the old man continues.
‘Which one?’
‘Stoke Newington to Oxford Street.’
I nod, write ‘73’ on my form.
‘What was in the holdall?’
‘Let me see … the purse, tulip bulbs, a trowel …’
‘Can you describe the purse?’
‘It’s blue.’
‘What shade? Sky? Sea? Squid-ink?’
‘Sort of bluey-lilac, with a little gold snap closure.’
‘A woman’s purse?’
‘Yes, Joan’s. My wife.’
‘And how much would you say was in it?’
‘How much?’ His forehead puckers.
‘Money.’ My hand hovers over the form.
‘Oh, quite empty. Her favourite, you see, so it’s nice to have it close.’
‘I see.’
I do.
‘You mentioned tulip bulbs? A trowel?’
‘I often visit Abney Park Cemetery. I take The Times and do the crossword. I prefer the concise but Joanie was a devil for the cryptic. Always spot on with the, er … whatsits …’
‘Anagrams?’
‘Yes!’ Such a kind smile he has. ‘Anagrams. A real dab hand. Fifty-four years and she never made a mistake …’ His Adam’s apple bobs. ‘So, if I’m wrestling with a tricky puzzle, I hop on the bus to Abney and we do it together.’
I look down; the word ‘holdall’ blurs on the page before me.
‘It’s really just Joanie’s purse I’d like back. It’s small, like this …’ He cups his hands gently, as if holding a tiny bird – opens and closes them. They shake a little but I can clearly see the shape of the purse, hear the bright chirrup of the snap closure.
Sellotape. Superglue. Safety Pin. My special words. I repeat them in my head while I concentrate on breathing. Substantial, aniseed balls of words, dependable, safe.
‘I’ll do my best, sir. Let me take your contact details. Your name?’
‘Appleby, John Appleby.’
After Mr Appleby leaves, I manage to deal with the next two customers but am glad when the loud clanking of an overfilled handbag behind me heralds the return of Anita.
‘You’re a star, Dots.’
‘Must get these things shelved,’ I say, grabbing the crate of brollies, desperate for the sanctuary of the stacks.
