The Satchel
Many years ago, in a chilly London winter, the old oak door downstairs would let out a long, tired groan as it opened. Its paint was always a dependable dark brown, but the years had flecked it with scratches and new gouges from the lopsided handle, which banged, as always, against the crumbling wall. The door would pause to let someone inside, trailing a whiff of snow, the scent of cats and the faint must of old buildings. Then, sighing heavily, it would swing shut again, cutting off the stream of snowflakes desperately rushing in from the street.
Alice, cheeks bright red from the cold, clambered onto the bottom step, wrapped up in an oversized coat and a fur hat that had once belonged to someone from her mothers office. She took in a deep breath and promptly began wailing again, this time in the deepest, most mournful tone she could muster. It was the brand new sledge she was dragging behind herit was streaked with dirty London snow, the kind that looks white until you look closely. Alice couldnt bear to pull it up the stairs: the sledge had been a gift from her mothers friend, and now those shiny running blades would scratch against the stone and lose their shine. They would be old and battered, and that was more than a five-year-old, sniffling and utterly heartbroken, could stand.
She managed two more steps. The wellies she wore werent easy to walk in, and her feet felt stiff and awkward. She had another pair of shiny red boots lined with fleece, but her mother only let her wear them if they were visiting someone special, or going to the pantomime. They were never meant for the nursery, let alone everyday use.
Sighing, Alice gave the fraying washing line another tug to pull the sledge up, but it snapped. It had been old and mouldy, probably found in a cupboard by her mother. The sledge tumbled down with a clatter, sprawling awkwardly at the bottom like a fallen horse. Alice thought she could almost hear it sigh in defeat.
Biting her lip to stop the tears, Alice scrambled down after it, placed her sledge upright, and ran her mittened hand over the lacquered handrails. But she couldnt hold back. Hot, salty tears stung as they slipped from her cheeks onto cracked, sore lips, smarting sharplyas though the world itself wanted to hurt her a little more.
Fine red lines appeared on her cheek from the icy flakes stuck to her mittens when she wiped away the tears.
Somehow, Alice was determined to climb to the fifth floor. Thats where she and her mother lived: a small, tidy flat, just like her mother herself.
Her mother, Emily, was a tiny woman with delicate hands and a fondness for rings. Alice loved to play with them, slide them onto her fingers, until her mother would gently pull her hand back, sending Alice off to her room again.
Emily wore elegant dresses, styled her hair just so, and knew how to apply powder and rouge until she looked like a porcelain doll.
Ballerina! Alice would cry, running into her arms. Mum, youre my ballerina! Let me kiss you! Shed tiptoe up to reach her mothers perfumed neck with her lips.
Silly Alice, Emily would protest. Enough hugging, let go before you crumple my collar!
Her mother was immaculate. On her bedside table were three delicate bottles of perfume that shimmered in the morning light. Alice would sometimes touch the glass, mesmerised by the rainbow glints, but she never dared open them. That was strictly forbidden.
That day, Emily sent Alice to play in the yard with her new sledge, explaining she had some work to finish. She had brought home shorthand notes from some local meeting and was typing them out with her long, crimson nails tapping the keys. Alice would fall asleep to that gentle, rhythmic clacking soundand wake to it, too. That was comfort: the perfume, the clatter of the typewriter, the satisfying heaviness in her stomach from cabbage pasties brought home as a treat from the shop, the golden lamplight, the playful shadow of her mothers hair on the flowery wallpaper.
Cold and hungry from sledging, Alice struggled up the stairs once more with her sledge and began to cry again. All she wanted was to curl up with a hot cup of tea, eat a crunchy biscuit, and drift off in the warmth. Instead, she trudged on, each scrape of the sledge against the stone step echoing inside her, small hands aching, boots wet through, and cheeks burning with salty tears.
Suddenly, from above, a mans voice called out, Well, my dear, whats all this then? Tsk tsk, we mustnt cry so! Shall I give you a hand, hmm? Standing beside her, wrapped in a dark wool coat, checked scarf, and a battered cap sat funny on his head, was a man carrying a battered satchel.
Alice paused, waryher mother had told her never to talk to strangers.
Shall I hold your sledge? You can lean on me if you like, he said kindly, offering a hand. For a moment, Alice took a step forward, but then shook her head fiercely and burst into tears again.
She would not hand over her sledge! Let them call her greedyshe wouldnt let go. She wouldnt even give him her hand!
Well, off you go then, young lady. As the saying goesif youre going to ride, you must carry the sledge too! No sense crying over it, he said, not unkindly, but she stomped off, sledge clattering, not looking back once.
Strong-willed girl, good for her! he remarked, and after watching a little longer, disappeared from the stairwell.
Down in the twilight-shrouded street, Mr. Andrew Carter was pictured for a moment in the amber glow from the porch lamp. He set off down the pavement, jaunty, swinging his satchel. Lovely sledge, only that rope was uselesshe made a note to bring Alice a strong bit of twine from work tomorrow and perhaps show her how to tie it, or do it himself.
Maybe hed take her out onto the snowy slope, shed put her warm, plump hand in his, andno! No use imaginingits dangerous to dream too far ahead.
He shook his head, gathered a handful of snow from the kerb, pressing it to his feverish brow. All he could see was Emily, delicate and almost ethereal, with the scent of lilac and something mysterious that always made him yearn, made him feel he might burst from longing.
Alice, once on tiptoe, rang the bell. Footsteps approached inside.
Forgetting something, Andy? Emilys voice called, her playful smile fading when she saw Alice red-faced and sobbing. You? But its still early! Isnt it playtime?
Im just so cold Alice whimpered and slipped inside.
There was a faint aroma of pipe smoke, two glasses by the typewriter filled with amber champagneAlice knew the smell. On New Years Eve her mothers friends would toast with it, clinking those same glasses. Alice once sipped the dregs, and found it wretchedshed been ill after.
Near the glasses was an ashtray. Her mothers slim cigarettes with a dab of lipstick and someone elses, larger, stubbed out roughly.
What are you standing about for? Youve dragged snow in again, look at this puddle! Careless child. Did you break the sledge? Or is that why youre crying? I told you, Alice Emily hesitated, I told you Id get you something simpler. A plywood board next time, and that coat is torn now!
Emily grew cross, spinning Alice around to show the rip in her coat, scolding sharply.
Sometimes, as their neighbour Mrs. Clara would say, It comes over her, Emily does. A touch of the devil, I swear.
Mrs. Clara brought her milk and curd cheesethe rich, country kind. She pitied Emily, while the others in the block looked down their noses: distant, prideful, always too busy for the residents meetings.
What did she do all day? Entertain men, thats what! So the married women gossiped behind her backat least their husbands were at home (even if they drank, cursed, or struck out from time to time. At least they were chosen). Emily flitted from man to man, with her cast-off child in tow.
Well, the girls a stray, if you ask me! Mrs. Grey from downstairs would grumble. Born out of wedlock by the look of it and not a clue how to raise her! The poor girl stomps about over my head all day.
Alice, you see, wanted to be a ballerina; and to be accepted in the ballet school meant practiceso she twirled and thumped on the floor.
Mrs. Grey would march upstairs, knock, and Emilyreluctantwould open the door.
Well? Emily sighed.
Dont well me! Im not a nagyour girls given me palpitations again! Make her stop, do you hear?
I dont, actually, Emily replied, unmoved. Its daytimeshe can dance if she likes. Maybe you should get out more, freshen up a bit.
And she shut the door, leaving Mrs. Grey to mutter about how all those home children were ungrateful louts. The government gave Emily a flat, didnt it? And she still had the nerve to be haughty.
Emily, the bald doll, as they called her, carried off the coat to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and sat Alice down on a stool.
Look at your hair all tangled like an old rug. Sit still, Alice! She tugged at the knots with her brush, fussing over her, making sure the socks were spotless and the pinafore pressed.
Oh, Alice what a time were living in, my little lamb, Emily murmured, pulling her daughter close.
Whats happened? piped Alice, peering up at her.
Good things, but nothing you need worry about. Supper first, then bath and bed. Its nursery tomorrow, and she set out a plate of borschtAndrews favouritewith a dollop of sour cream swirling in the deep red soup.
Alice sighedthe soup was not her favourite. Nor was the smell of strangers tobacco.
There was a knocka female voice, husky, called for Emily, and something clattered. Perhaps the milk can.
Emily looked at herself in the glassa frivolous dressing gown, lips bright with lipstick, lashes long and dark. She opened the door.
Mrs. Clara? What is it? she asked, seeing her neighbour on the threshold.
Ive brought the milk can. Honestly, it stinksthrow it out! Ill lend you a jar; it once held my husbands homebrew, bless his soul, Mrs. Clara chuckled, not unkindly.
Emily waved her away. No, Ill find something else.
Mrs. Clara sniffed the air, peering nosily inside. Youve got company, have you? Am I interrupting?
No, Alice is having her supper, Emily replied, then, catching Mrs. Clara by the wrist, dragged her into the sitting room. Hes asked me to marry him, Clara.
Whothe man with the satchel? And are you saying yes?
Emily rarely sought advice, so Mrs. Claras eyebrows shot up, but she drew up her skirt and straightened her cardigan.
Right then. Lets work this out.
Alice, eavesdropping, was shooed away.
Lets see Income, arrangements. Where will you live, what about Alice? And well, you know Is he up to scratch?
What do you mean? Emily blinked, then, realising, nodded. Hell do fine.
Are you scared?
A little, Emily admitted, blowing out a stream of smoke. I wasnt always an orphan; there was a family. I wont allow it to be like that again. Never.
Good girl. Hes not a brute. Try living a while, see how it goes, Mrs. Clara counselled, but, love, know this: if hes head of the house, youll have to accept it. Men with satchels are always that way.
Hes alright. He found Alices coat, fixed her sledge. I can stand up for myself, Emily insisted.
Just dont let him rule the roost, then. Get Alice her own hook for her things! These are changes, Mrs. Clara concluded, gathering her bag.
Emilys heart ached as she recalled her father, who, after too many pints, would throw her out for eating his bread, shutting her out in the cold. Her mother was long gone by thengone, she was told, to Heaven, but shed never heard her spirit.
A week later, Andrew moved in. Was it soon? Perhaps, but why wait? Both were tired of snatched visits. Two suitcases, a lampshade, a net bag with tinned goods, andmost importantlythe battered satchel. That was the grooms only dowry.
Well need a spot for this, I think! Andrew grinned, shaking the satchel. Perhaps on this stool?
Thats Alices, Emily said through gritted teeth and suddenly wanted to throw everyone out. She drew a breath to protest
Indeed, my dear, but Alice shall have a hook for her things. We cant have her left out, can we?
That we stung, but Andrew hunted for hammer and nails himself, made a hook, and hung up her coat. He admired his work. Well redo the wallpaper come spring. About time, dont you think?
Then he swung her round and reached out, rough-lipped, for a kiss. Possessive, she thought, stepping away to the window.
Ah well, Andrew muttered. Lets have lunch then. Whats on the table?
But Emily just gathered herself and set out.
Where are you off to? Andrew asked in surprise.
Collecting Alice. Early today, she replied, and hurried from the flat.
She slipped along the icy pavement, her arms drawn close to her chest. How would they manage? Once, Andrew had been part of the romance. But now?
Alice, meanwhile, grew silent, gave no trouble, stayed hidden in her room and ate with her eyes on her plate. When Andrew tried to draw her out, shed only mutter or shrug.
Emily, tell her ImI am
Youre no one to her. Not yet. Dont confuse the child, came Emilys sharp reply.
He began as nobody but built a new chair for Alice to draw at and tied a fresh rope to the sledge. He brought home a pair of little white skates for her boots. But she wouldnt go out with him, wouldnt even look at him. He took her red boots with the fur trim to be mended, and when Emily questioned him, he only replied, It was needed.
Ill decide whats needed, Emily snapped. Andrew only smiled grimlytheir life together was more like a farce than a family.
They both worked at a public institutionEmily, the shorthand typist, Andrew, a junior researcher. Theyd met at a retirement do, Emily giddy on a couple of glasses of prosecco. Andrew had walked her home. He woke in a strange bed, and felt content. And so did shefor a time.
But now, nothing was going right. What sort of household was it, where their words had no weight? He had no authority, not even to raise a child under his own roof.
One day, exasperated, he shouted at Alice. She howled, and Emily flew in, hissing that he was not to scold her daughter, and so Andrew shut himself behind his newspaper, fuming.
That night, he made a decision. Perhaps the registry would have an answer.
Emily was deep in thought, typing away, pencil between her teeth, when Mrs. Clara burst inred-faced, trembling, and near tears.
Emily! Its a disaster! she cried, brushing aside the other office girls. Your blokethe one you live withhes taken Alice from nursery, put fancy bows in her hair, and carried her off somewhere! She protested, but he marched her off! I came straight here, I promise!
Emily bolted from her desk, Mrs. Clara gulped some water, and tried to collect herself.
Hes taking her to a home, Im sure of it! Mrs. Clara wailed after Emilys retreating back. She resists, but he wont listen!
Emily was in a panic. If Alice ended up in an orphanage, shed be lostjust as Emily herself had been, when her parents were gone and she was taken away. She had lived for years like a hollow shell, thawing only when she became a mother herself.
Now, perhaps, she had trusted wrongly.
Outside the city childrens home, Emily shouted herself hoarse at the porter, pounded the partition, but everyone was at lunch. Finally, a matron emerged, bemused.
No ones been brought in. You must be mistaken. Sit down and tell me plainly: what man? Who is he to you? Lets call the police. What coat? What sledge? The matrons briskness snapped Emily out of her panic.
I think you, Emily Clarke, are the fool here, she sniffed. Try the police if you mustbut have some sense!
Emily ran home, determined to fetch Alices documents, and stumbled through the stairwell door, injured her shoulderthe same one shed hurt as a girland staggered up the steps, finally flinging open the flat.
There at the table, in the golden glow from her precious lampshade, sat Alice and Andrew, eating cream cakes and sipping tea. Alices cheeks and hands were covered in cream, and Andrew burst out laughing.
He caught sight of Emily, white-faced in the doorway, and leapt up.
Where did you take her? Why? What were you thinking? Mrs. Clara saidyou took her to the orphanage Emily whispered.
I would never! Andrew cried, guiding her to the chair. I wanted toadopt her, make her my daughter. But they said I couldn’t without you. Im a fool, I know. I shouldve brought you, but youd have said no. Emily, I want us to be a family. I want to marry you and adopt Alice. Thats all.
His heart thudded madly. For years his own mother had told him he could never be head of a family, that he was incapable. Perhaps shed simply wanted him for herself.
Now he wanted his own family, but Emily seemed frozen, uncertain.
You wont take Alice from me, will you? she whispered at last.
He looked away, dejected. More than anything, it seemed Emily simply couldnt trust.
Ill learn, Andrew. I can do this, she murmured, wiping away tears, as they stood at the open window late into the night, chain-smoking. Alice was already asleep. I was afraid youd see her as some burden.
Listen here, EmilyAlice and you, youre a part of me. Would you cut off your own hand? Of course not. So neither will I, Andrew said firmly. And no more talk of getting rid of anyone.
He turned away, and Emily pressed herself close. His head spun with the scent of her, with the truth that this wasat lasta real family, that he was its head.
A month later, they married. Alice carried their rings, grinning, and Andrew, bashful, kept calling her my dear in front of everyone.
They had a secret now, the three of them. Emily could never quite put her finger on it.
When Andrew took Alice to the registry office to complete the adoption, the officials questioned her. Who is this man, bringing you here?
Papa, Alice whispered, taking Andrews hand.
Then why are you crying, Alice? one clerk asked, kindly.
Tight bows. They hurt, she replied with a deep sigh.
She walked home with her fatherno more bows, but with a bag of cream cakes.
That was their secret.
Mrs. Clara no longer visited with milk and cheese. Shed fallen out with Andrew over some minor dispute. But Mrs. Grey, for her part, approved.
Theres some order in the building at last, she nodded, stepping aside to let Alice pass, bearing the precious satchel, Andrew panting behind.
He nodded, smiling. Alice smiled, too. Quiet at last; order, and peace. Next to her mothers perfume, a bottle of Andrews aftershave now stood. Alice would remember that scent for years and search in shops but never quite find it again. Such a pity.
Thank you for listening, dear readers. Until we meet againIn the years that followed, life in the fifth-floor flat crept on, steady as the ticking of the little mantel clock Andrew found at a market and fixed for Emilys birthday. On snowy evenings, Alices laughter pealed down the stairwell as her sledge, tied tight with Andrews rope, clattered behind her. Emilys hands were busy with new things: cakes cooling on the sill, postcards home to her cousin, hems to mend, secrets to whisper in the late quiet. She found her gentleness againnot always, but often enough that, come spring, the air seemed thinner and clearer, even inside their rooms.
Some days, Andrew walked Alice to nursery. He always carried the satchel, now battered and patched with a blue scrap Alice had sewn, and hed wait for her in the yard, where mothers and nannies gathered under the budding trees. Alice would hurtle from the gate, skates slung around her neck or boots muddy, cheeks wild with stories. Andrew always listened.
There were quarrels and tears, the slap of Emily’s sponge on the wallpaper, sudden jokes, even a shrieking mouse caught on a cold morning. But most often, peace reigned; the gentle clatter of the typewriter, the pop of champagne on New Years Eve, a hot supper, three chairs drawn up to the little round table.
Once, on a clear Sunday, Alice slipped from her mothers side at the market and darted toward the stall with shiny latches and buckles. She studied the battered satchels, weighing one in her arms, her eyes serious and bright.
Looking for something, sweetheart? Andrew asked.
Alice paused, then grinned, holding up the satchel for him to see. Its like yours, Papa. For all my secrets.
He knelt, heart full. Then lets fill it, shall we? Together.
And as the years wore on, Alice grewa dancer after all, strong and unafraid, steady on her feet. She went to school, then to the city ballet, and when she left, she took with her her mothers perfume, a length of sturdy rope, and a small, scuffed satchel.
Inside, she tucked a faded photograph: her first sledge, Andrews crooked grin, and her mothers painted lips pressed to her cheek. That scenttheir life togetherlasted longer than any bottle.
London winters came and went, but Alice never forgot: some families arrive not all at once, but in steady, patchwork pieces, stitched together by rope, laughter, and the weight of gentle hands.
And so it was.
