The Little Red Suitcase - A Short Story
It’s 1962 and the Beatles’ footprints are still fresh on Penny Lane in Mossley Hill, an anonymous and pleasant leafy blue-skyed suburb in South Liverpool, soon to be immortalised for all eternity by its most fabulous four.
Prudence was 16 and lived with her mother Kate, a self-obsessed secretary, her father Charles, a bank manager at the local branch on Allerton Road and their miniature German Schnauzer Scamp, a hateful, yappy rat with a permanent sneer and a poisonous snap.
Together they lived in a lovely big house, with a large garden, an Aston Martin, and Sunday Summer drives to the beach at New Brighton for family picnics, where Scamp’s blood lust was kept firmly tethered to a commandeered croquet hoop amongst so much tender flesh.
Prudence had been methodically masterminding her escape since her mother had screamed at her in the hall for ruining her life when she was four. Her first memory was watching her hysterical heroine storm out of the house and sit in the driver’s seat of the car, to then immediately storm back in the house and thunder up the stairs to brush her hair.
She didn’t understand at the time that this was to be the defining moment in their relationship, at the time she was heartbroken, terrorised with fear and consumed by her first experience of abandonment, sobbing, all dress up like a new doll that had been thrown from a car and had no home. Still, now, she picks up dropped lost toys and puts them somewhere safe in the found box.
At six years old, she intuitively started practising her survival skills by squirrelling away essential supplies for when she was ready to run away. A packet of crisps here, a wagon wheel there, and buried them in the cavity of the springs in her bed under her mattress. The plan worked well, she had grown quite a harvest, she even proudly shared her secret plans with her current best friend Sarah, but they had to eat everything there and then when it was realised that things went a little soft and foisty after six months.
Despite what to others appeared to be a wealthy life, her parents were emotionally destitute and morally bankrupt. Luckily they had found each other, and Charles worshipped Kate and Kate despised Charles but loved his adoration.
There was nothing he would not do for a stranger and no end to the cruelty swaddled around even the smallest kind gesture towards his only daughter behind closed doors. A spiteful and vindictive little man wrapped up in a raincoat with no lining.
Every Saturday morning he’d drive to the local general store and newsagents and in a strangely emasculatory act buy women's magazines, the best and latest issue for Kate and the cheapest, least hip one for the by now 14 year old Prudence, which he’d throw at her, then walk to the pub.
Even though the shittest magazine was flung at her every week, Prudence took what affection she could from the gesture and took advantage of the extremely low readership by entering all the completions, which, with such good odds, she regularly won.
The prizes obviously could not be delivered to her house for fear her mother would sabotage her system, so she had brokered a back room deal with Sheila Rossi, the glamorous and generous flame-haired owner of the General Store & Newsagents.
Sheila had been an ace pilot during the war, delivering more bombers than any of her squadron and had survived multiple mid-air machine gun attacks too. Her courage and aeronautical skills where legendary and she intended to become a professional commercial pilot, however after the war ended the country couldn't care less about her aviation prowess, so she was discharged and despatched back to life as a wife to Salvatore Rossi, a barber with a shop on the corner and mother to two sons, whom she raised with warmth and affection.
Wifing, mothering and running a general store kept her busy and distracted enough, but not as fulfilled as her aptitude to be commander of all international airspace, so Sheila entertained herself by becoming the village secret agent. Every time Prudence’s competition prize arrived at the store, Sheila would sell it as her deal of the week from a podium especially built by Mr Rossi and surreptitiously slip Prudence the money like a spy, which Prudence meticulously rolled up in tissue and stuffed into the springs of her bed under her mattress in place of the squirrel nuts and musty biscuits.
Code names were given if there were potential snoops in the shop. No questions were asked.
On her 16th birthday, Prudence woke up on the proceeds of two years worth of wins, including a Dansette record player, state of the art black and white tv, an electric sewing machine, a crimson coat from Woolworths and a years supply of Blue Riband margarine. It was September, the house was silent, even Scamp, and her first birthday waking up not having to go to school. After breakfast, alone, with her parents at work, she planned a visit to the hot houses in Calderstones Park where she would sit on bags of compost chatting with the head gardener Bert, drinking tea from his thermos flask and dreaming of living in the land where the tropical flowers grow, then take the bus into town and splash some of her stash on a cherry float and a new top from a boutique on Bold Street, but first stop was Sheila’s for her winnings.
Nothing had changed in her physical circumstances, she still lived in a cold home, but this day, her sixteenth birthday, marked a psychological step into the blue beyond. Everyday of those sixteen years had been filled with hope that one day her parents would care, and even though she had no reason to expect it, she subconsciously held on to the hope that today’ll be the day.
She picked out her black Audrey Hepburn cigarette-leg trousers, black and white checked pumps and a powder pink angora batwing jumper with a wide-eyed cat embroidered at the shoulder on the front. As she got to the front door Scamp stared at her and stood up in entitled expectation that he was obviously going with. For a moment, out of emotional muscle-memory she ferreted under her dad’s mackintosh on the coat stand for the lead, but in her first moment of birthday defiance, turned and flicked the V’s at Scamp and informed him: “Not today shithead, see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya”, slammed the front door behind her, put on he cat’s-eye sunglasses and strolled up Menlove Avenue swinging her Waldybag.
“Hello love, happy birthday”, Mrs Epstein was standing in the corner of the shop flicking through a Woman’s Own. A kind and unassuming woman with a softly spoken Scouse accent, always impeccably dressed in a buttoned up beige wool coat even in the summer, a felt hat and gold frame glasses. Everybody liked Mrs Epstein and she appeared to like everybody back.
Prudence: “Oh, hello Mrs Epstein, thank you very much, how did you know?
Mrs Epstein : “Oh a little birdie told me”.
Prudence: “Is the birdie out the back…I mean is Mrs Rossi out the back please?”
Mrs Epstein: “Yes, love, she’ll be through in a minute. Here look at this, says you can win a state of the art Singer sewing machine. Does buttonholes by itself! I’d love to get rid of my old treadle. Do you think anyone ever wins these things or do you reckon it’s just a trick to get stamps?
Prudence: “Oh I heard of someone winning, I’m sure it’s possible. Hello Mrs Rossi, how are you? I’ve got some cigarette cards for you from Nana, are you still looking for the wild animals or the birds of prey?”
Sheila: “Thank you love, tell your Nana the eagle has landed, but I think you had better keep this egg basket”. As she spoke, Sheila pulled out a brand new bright red Antler suitcase wrapped in a huge bow and put it on the counter in front of Prudence, who was both thrilled and confused and stared at Sheila and Mrs Epstein and back to Sheila with growing concern.
Mrs Epstein: “You are going to need it”.
Sheila: “Don’t worry love, this is Chief Commander Epstein of the Parisian legion of the Resistance. Killed seven Nazis in one night with her bare hands. Our secret is safe with her.”
As Prudence stared into her eyes, Mrs Epstein’s permanently down turned pale lips slowly broke into a gleaming smile and her sad grey eyes twinkled like sapphires as colour appeared to swirl like blue ink dropped into water.
Prudence: “Mrs Epstein?”… “I”
Mrs Epstein: “I am not Mrs Epstein”
Prudence: “Oh, Comm, Commandant, no! Chief, oh! Sorry!”
Mrs Epstein: “I am Commander In Chief and you know too much already”
Prudence: “oh, no...I won’t say..”
Mrs Epstein, in a gentle natural French accent: “Don't worry darling, I only kill Nazis, I was just having a moments fun for old times sake. Here…” she opened the snap fastener on her handbag and pulled out a small booklet. ”That’s right darling, I have your passport for you, happy birthday sweetheart”.
Prudence: “A passport. My passport. I can’t?” She ran her fingers over the photo to feel for the edges.
Sheila: “It’s real love. Consider it your ticket to ride”.
Mrs Epstein: “It’s your school photo. Mrs Martin aka Lieutenant Martin, your Headmaster’s wife, works in the Passport Office in town. Don’t lose it”.
Prudence: “I won’t lose it! I can’t believe it! What do I do with it? You’re French!” She slid it into her Waldybag and snapped it tightly closed.
Sheila: “You must go home and pack immediately then head directly to St Michael’s station. There you will take the train to Limestreet and go to the ticket office on the left”.
Mrs Epstein: “Leave a note. Tell them you have gone”.
Sheila: “Keep in touch!”
Prudence ran home and opened the suitcase on her bed. Inside smelt of fresh new adventure, it was lined in satin the colour of liquid mercury and there was a surprise gift from Sheila, a little toy teddy bear she named Rebecca. After neatly packing her clothes and and checking her passport was still there one hundred times, she cashed in her bed springs, ripping all the rolls of pound notes out and leaving a pile of shredded tissue paper on the floor, then belted belted down the stairs.
She paused at the door and stared around the livingroom for the last time. Not an ounce of sadness entered her body, until she saw Scamp’s big doe eyes staring up at her.
Will you miss me boy? She gently reached out her hand to lovingly stroke his head and within that moment he snarled and snapped at her fingers with his viscous glaring white teeth.
“You little bastard! See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!”
With that she grabbed her dad’s mac, tied the belt tight around her waist, popped her collar and after one last farewell victory V salute to Scamp made through the park like a spy to the station.
The shame of being the parents to a runaway was more painful for Kate than the loss of her daughter. The kids would sing “Where’s your daughter gone, where’s your daughter gone, far far away” as Charles walked past and they’d laugh behind his back. It was the talk of the town for a while, but something bigger was on the way.
PLEASE READ PART 2 “My Little Runaway” HERE
Thank you so much for reading, I hoped you enjoyed it. If you did and you would like to read the next installment, I’d be extremely grateful if you could leave a ‘kind’ message in the comments, share it with your friends and follow me on any social platform you prefer. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely fictional and bares no resemblance to any person or thing living or dead. Any similarity to anyone or thing is entirely coincidental. It is a work of fantasy , none of it is real, and I made it all up.
