A Handbag’s Tale

Here I am in this Op shop tucked among a mess of other handbags, most worn out. Plonked on the shelf. The smell.  Nauseating. 

Time passes slowly in this cluttered shop. I rely on my memories to keep me company.

 Coming out of the Melbourne Concert Hall one evening, I‘m snatched. Can you believe it? A high class bag like me. What an insult! I hear a shout from Mrs Leyton-Brown, but the thief, holding me tight, races across the road and boards a tram.

What now? To St Kilda. Heard rumours it’s not a good place:  drunks, thieves. Perhaps this young girl lives here. She’s a thief after all. Called Aggie by her friends, she shows me off.

‘Look what I got,’ she gloats. ‘Feels like real leather.’

‘Trust you to steal that, Aggie. I’d love one too. Don’t have the cash though,’ Liz sighs, her words loaded with envy.

‘Must be a few dollars in there, then,’ Sally says. ‘Have you looked?’

‘No. Wanted to get away as fast as I could. Let’s have a squiz.’

Sitting on a nearby bench, Aggie turns me inside out, grabbing my good friend Wallet. ‘Two hundred dollars. That’ll come in handy.’

Sally and her mate Liz rifle through my other friend Make-Up Bag, discarding the powder compact but taking the mascara, lipsticks, and perfume. Sally tries to grab the lot, but Liz is having none of it.  

‘Divvy it up. Equal shares.’

After a tussle, Sally relents.

‘What‘ll we do with the bag?’ Liz asks.

‘It’s mine’ Aggie claims. ‘I stole it. Mine by right. It’ll come in handy for my trip to Perth.’

‘What! Ya scored with Ian, then?’ Sally squeals. ‘We’ll miss you. Love to do that, but can’t give up me day job.’

‘Yep, nothing for me here. Dad doesn’t want anything to do with me. Mum’s taken up with her new fella. What have I got to lose? A chance to see new places.’

‘When you leaving?’ Liz asks.

‘Saturday. Ian wants an early start.’

Friday evening, Aggie packs a couple of suitcases. Clothes shoved in, nothing neatly placed inside. Not like Mrs Leyton-Brown, my first owner. She was meticulous at packing. Shoes in bags, placed at the bottom of the case. Delicate blouses and frocks on top. I sense Aggie will be different. Thankfully, Wallet is loaded back into me, along with Make-Up Bag, notebook, pens, a pack of chewing gum and tissues.

Early Saturday morning, Ian arrives, a tall, thin, sandy-haired young man. Narrow lips. Shifty eyes. This may be a difficult trip. ‘Are you ready, Aggie?’

‘Yep. Help me with these.’

‘Only one case. Told you.’

‘Sorry. Couldn’t get my stuff into one. We’re moving over there you said. I’ll need good clothes for a job.’

‘Oh well. Let’s go. It’s a long way.’ Ian takes the cases to his vehicle. Aggie picks me up from her bed, locks the front door, pausing a moment. She looks sad. Is her heart in this venture? Nobody to wave her goodbye.

With a sigh Aggie walks down the path and sits in the front passenger seat, placing me on her lap.Where will we be going? How long?

The start of a hot, sticky and lengthy drive. It seems to go for days. A relentless straight road. Endless dry, barren landscape. Most of the time I lay on the dashboard. Picked up when they stop to refuel.

Little conversation during the trip. Ian loves to play his music: heavy metal thumping and throbbing at full throttle. Aggie doesn’t have a choice in what’s played. They take turns at driving, using the back seat for sleeping.

From snippets of chat I hear ‘alcohol’, ‘drugs’, ‘new start’, ‘Perth’.

Another city? Where? Must be a long way with all this driving.

-

Dozing on the floor, dream-like memories arise, like autumnal mist, of the good life I had with Mrs Leyton-Brown.  Brown leather. A long gold chain handle that enabled me to hang from her shoulder. Regular polishing maintained my shine.

I always thought of her as Mrs Leyton-Brown. Her first name was Ursula, but I could never call her that. The cut-glass accent forbade such familiarity. Her friends spoke the same. It was like being in an ice bath at those afternoon teas in Claridge’s.

We went to the shops, to the local park and on holiday. Mrs Leyton-Brown often spent weekends in the Cotswolds. There, she met Mr David Appleby. I don’t know what Mr Leyton-Brown thought. Perhaps Mr Appleby was her brother or another relative.

A favourite place of theirs was Castle Combe, one of the prettiest villages in England. They took walks admiring the flower-filled gardens. Other times she and David wandered through the woodlands. Delightful in spring with the trees bursting into leaf, pale lemon primroses, patches of bluebells, daffodils beginning to open. Lunches taken in one of the two village pubs. Oak ceiling beams and a large fireplace in the main bar, the logs giving off a blaze of heat in winter, making a warm, cosy atmosphere for customers.

Sunday mornings attending services at St Andrews church - Mrs Leyton-Brown and David seemed to love that place.

‘It goes back to the thirteenth century,’ David said. ‘Imagine all those generations worshipping here.’

‘If only walls could talk. The stories we’d hear,’ she whispered.

Without any warning, I found myself with Mrs Leyton-Brown and Mr Appleby, and luggage, in a taxi. Where were we going?  Heathrow Airport? After waiting in various queues, I was rested on the floor by her feet on an aircraft.

Then I was in a strange city. Different smells. Less crowded than London, from what I’ve seen so far. It’s called Melbourne. Australia. Wow! That’s on the other side of the world isn’t it? Seems they’re now a couple. Mr Leyton-Brown’s been left behind. The atmosphere’s less tense with fewer arguments. More laughter too. Perhaps that cut-glass accent will fade in time.

Outings resume. New places to see and experience.  Many happy hours spent in the Royal Botanic Gardens. The Terrace cafe, overlooking the Ornamental Lake, become a favourite spot for morning teas and lunches. I accompany Mrs Leyton-Brown to the theatre and concerts with Mr Appleby. They hold hands and act like young lovers. Being taken everywhere, I get numerous opportunities to observe people and their behaviour. We store memories deep inside ourselves. Of course, they don’t realise us handbags watch. Why would they? Ladies just consider we’re convenient carriers of their make-up, and personal bits and pieces.

-

Perth. At last. Relief from that music and being confined for so many days. What will life be like here? How long will Aggie and Ian be together? They’re not suited, I can see that.

This new chapter begins well, although I’m not keen on the discos and nightclubs Aggie and Ian hang out at. Loud, ear-splitting music. Glittering, flashing, huge balls of light around the ceiling.  Aggie wears me around her chest. The twirling and twisting on the dance floor makes me dizzy. Everyone crammed together. Now I know how sardines must feel. Other times I’m plonked on the floor in a heap of bags while the group of young women dance around us, arms waving, laughing as the music blares out. When it stops they collapse on top of us. Boy, glad to be taken home for a rest!

Visits to these places continue, until unfamiliar hot hands pick me out of the pile of bags while Aggie and Ian are dancing in a tight embrace. Held close to a body, I feel cool air brushing me as the boy runs up the street. Not again?  Another snatch. Now what?

The lad catches up with his mates. ‘Look what I got. Maybe drugs, if we’re lucky.’ Roughly tipping me up, my contents fall onto the pavement. One lad grabs Aggie’s wallet, pocketing a fifty dollar note.

‘Bank card?’ Another boy asks. ‘I want it.’ A struggle ensues. I’m ignored, until the thief begins poking around, finds a tear in my soft silk lining and rips it wider. How dare he assault me!

Finding a small packet, he shouts. ‘Yay. Let’s go smoke this.’

Next moment I’m flying through the air, landing in a bin. Ouch, now I’ll be sore all over. That’s where I spend the night, or maybe longer. Can’t remember.

Come to in this Op shop?

-

‘Hey, look at this, Bev.’ A soft hand picks me up.

‘Leather. Just what you like. Chain handle. That’s back in fashion. Your phone will fit in too. It will look cool with the vintage dress you bought last week. What do you think?’

Bev, I feel, knows quality when she sees it. She runs her hand inside, her touch warm, firm while checking my chain handle.

‘Lining’s torn, but I can fix that. A polish and it’ll look good.’

I glow. One of the things I loved was being polished by Mrs Leyton-Brown. Beautiful fragrance. A feeling of wellbeing afterwards.

Bev hangs me on her shoulder, looking at the effect in the full length mirror.

‘What do you think, Sarah?’

‘Great. Suits you. A bargain at ten bucks!’

One more twirl and we’re at the counter. Then out onto the street. The breeze wafts over me, dispelling the musty odours from the shop. The noise of people and traffic. Alive again!

We’re outside a grey and white stone cottage, white roses tinged with pink climb around the front door, small garden filled with plants, and in the centre a bird bath. A veranda runs along the front of the house, with a couple of old armchairs and a round glass table. Looks inviting on this sunny day.

In the kitchen, Bev waits for the kettle to boil, grabs a small round metal box and cloth from a cupboard under the sink. Oh, is this polishing time? Putting her tea, the tin and cloth on a tray, she picks me up and we go outside. Sitting in one of the armchairs she opens the container. The fragrance of lavender. Mrs Leyton-Brown’s favourite. The gentle movements of being polished so soothing and relaxing. Soft words.

‘Lovely colour, now the grime’s gone. Excellent quality. Glad I found you.’

I blush with pleasure. I fill with hope for this new life, as a connection emerges between us. What kind of life does Bev have? Lying here I can smell sea air, fresh, with a tinge of salt. Fremantle. Creative people live here I’ve heard.

The days pass. Bev meets friends for coffee, casual lunches and conversations. Regular sound and oil healing meditations, crochet and patchwork get-togethers. Her life style is  relaxed, friendly; no more discos and nightclubs. Occasional visits to concerts, mainly classical, and the odd jazz gigs. It seems I’ve found my new forever-hom