It was a sad day when Hamid returned from his holiday in Morocco. He brought me a present: a very expensive-looking, soft-leather mini satchel.
“I’m so tired of seeing you use plastic bags to carry your diary. I brought you this.”
“But Hamid, I’ve used plastic bags all my life. If I use your satchel, people will think I’m rich.” The bag was dyed to a perfect dark olive green. Inside, it was lined with soft green silk, with zippered pockets to accommodate cash and other bits and pieces.
“It’s one of a kind. I designed it and had it made especially for you. It’ll smarten your appearance no end.” I wasn’t convinced.
It felt like the end of a family tradition started by Mum in England sixty years ago.
Mum spent her life inching her way towards the summit of the rich and fashionable, without ever quite managing to get there. Her favourite store was Harrods of Knightsbridge. She would peruse the papers for notice of its annual sale. Then she would charge down to London and jostle her way into the marble-floored food emporium situated in its basement. Once there, she would disgorge all her saved shillings and ha’pennies to invest in their most affordable product—invariably a saltshaker (also on sale). Mum would then insist on half a dozen free Harrods bags—forest green and bearing the name of Harrods in tasteful gold lettering, with of course, the Queen’s insignia and the motto: “Purveyors to the Royal Household since 1910.”
These bags, which were the real investment, would grace her arm all year round. She carried them proudly, like an expensive haute couture accessory she could only ever covet in her dreams.
As I grew up, I became an inverted snob. My airline-employee dad gave me free tickets to travel the world. Neither of my parents had the money to sponsor me. I would sleep at the airport, walk all day, and return at twilight. There was no money to buy presents. I had no camera to capture my travels. I resorted to asking shops for their free plastic bags. They took pity and furnished me with a few. I was fussy with the bags I chose. They were in bright, bold colours, usually displaying wares exclusive to their country or region.
As I married and raised children, I was able, for a while, to take them abroad. I upheld family tradition by continuing to collect plastic bags from shops I adored. Hatchards, one of the oldest bookshops in England, would allow me half a dozen dark green bags, bearing their name in gold; Zurich’ Sprüngli confectionery bags in sky-blue insignia on a white background; Old Port Centre, Limassol, selling handmade olive oil soap for my wife, in royal blue, with sunshine-yellow lettering; Hamleys toy store on Regent Street, London, in red and white colours.
Each bag had a story to tell—not to shout out that it was connected to the rich and famous. Yet no one ever asked me to explain their significance. Like succouring a beloved pet to its dying days, I clung to each bag, as its lettering wore out to illegibility and its colours faded. One handle would break, and I would continue to carry it until both broke—and I could carry on no more.
On her deathbed, I returned to my mother’s home. In her late eighties, she was blind from glaucoma and had been moved to a brand-new care home because of her dementia.
Part of settling her affairs was to find her will. Her current solicitor knew of no such document. Rummaging through all her correspondence—opened and unopened over so many years—I came across a letter and invoice for a will. The lawyer had long since died. Somehow, his law firm was able to retrieve Mum’s final instructions.
“You will find my will in a Harrods plastic bag hanging on a hook behind the storage cupboard door.”
Semper Fidelis.
