When I answered the door bell the postman was standing holding out a parcel. I wasn’t expecting anything, but he insisted it needed to be signed for and sure enough my name was written on it in large shaky capital letters.

It was vaguely rectangular, not solid enough to be a book and wrapped roughly in reused brown paper with no sender address. Who would pay extra, the price of postage these days, to send a parcel special delivery and not wrap it properly? What was it and who sent it? My life was far too boring to have threats sent in the post and certainly not a bomb or something.

‘Why don’t you just open it and see?’

Geoff had appeared at my shoulder.

I ripped off the paper to reveal a battered old leather satchel, like the one I had in junior school, in fact very similar. I felt a pang of sadness. My satchel had been a birthday present and I loved it, the scent of new leather, the shiny buckles and my initials embossed on the flap PMT. I presume when my parents chose my names they had not heard of pre menstrual tension, nor had I back then.

The long leather strap I wore round my shoulders to carry it on my back. I imagined myself to be a horse in harness trotting, cantering to school. A lot of the time in the playground we would play horses, taking it in turns to be rider or horse. The sash we wore round the waist of our gymslips was ideal to use as reins.  In addition to the satchel and equally exciting was the blue zip up pencil case the size of a book. Unzipping and folding open to reveal slots for everything, pencils, Lakeland coloured pencils, rubber, pencil sharpener and my pride and joy, the grown up protractor and compass. Did children have such things these days? Probably not the compass with its lethal point.

I didn’t enjoy my satchel for long, it disappeared without trace. My parents were furious that I had been so careless. I had not been careless, but had no explanation as to how I had it one moment, getting ready at the end of the school day, chairs on the desk, then suddenly it was gone.

Lost in memories it was Geoff who was examining the satchel and noticed the initials PMT. Even he had to agree things were getting weird and quickly opened it up to reveal an equally battered pencil case which was just about recognisable as blue. The zip was broken, it fell open to reveal pencil stubs, a worn rubber, cracked protractor and a bent compass; wear and tear to remind me sixty years had passed since I last saw it. If it was mine.

‘Ah, a letter inside the satchel,’ said Geoff ‘go on, read it, obviously some rational explanation.’

The shaky writing was not easy to read.

‘Dear Pauline, I expect you are surprised to have your lovely satchel returned. Yes it was me that sneaked off with it and of course I am ashamed now, was ashamed, but didn’t have the courage to give it back. Now is the right time. I haven’t got long to live, a cliché I know, but I want to tidy my life up. If you could spare an hour to visit, I have no one else to talk about the old days with.

Apologies     Patricia Mary Thompson’

Geoff looked expectantly at me, I handed him the letter.

‘I don’t even remember a Patricia in my class.’

‘She had the same initials as you, maybe that’s what tempted her.’

In the envelope was a card with the address Mary Mannings House, our local Hospice named after a forgotten worthy.

‘How did she find me Geoff, is she even real?’

‘You still live in the same place, though you have never kept up with old class mates?’

‘No, we all went to several different schools when we left juniors, I think most people went on to careers and travels world wide… Patricia, Pat, Tricia… Thompson, Thompson I think we had two Patricias and three Thompsons … yes, yes I think she was quiet, not naughty, not clever, not in my group… ‘

I arrived at Mary Mannings House feeling very nervous. What on earth did one bring? Flowers, grapes… I had never been inside the place. I took nothing, it was me she wanted to see.

I didn’t recognise her, but then I hardly recalled what she looked like when she was ten. Her voice was as shaky as her writing, she was not playing games, this was a dying woman.

‘Pauline, you came and I am doubly grateful; that you came today and for the satchel. It brought me such luck. I have travelled all over the world with it, jungles, dessert, oceans. I became an artist and a secret agent, had glamorous lovers, turned out I was much clever than anyone at school gave me credit for. So I have no regrets that I’ve ended back in our home town like this. It was a good life. My only regret was I stole from you.’

‘Oh it was so long ago, you probably didn’t realise how precious it was to me, but just please tell me why you took it?’

‘Simple jealousy I’m afraid, you were popular, in that group of clever clogs who never played with me, didn’t even notice me and you had a nice family who came to sports day and school fetes… I never got nice presents like you did…’ She lay back on the pillow exhausted from talking.

I was stunned, jealous of me?

‘Patricia, that was the only nice present I remember, Mum and Dad didn’t have any money. Those girls only let me in their group so they could share my pencil case. Their mothers were all good friends, I was the odd one out, didn’t get invited to their houses. As for my life, well you made the best of yours by the sound of it and my satchel has certainly had a more exciting life than me. I have had a pretty dull life, ordinary job, nice but boring Geoff in the same house since we got married…’

I realised Patricia had fallen asleep, probably hadn’t heard a word, dreaming of adventures past while I was left with my regrets.

.