Uncle Will and the Satchel

My work satchel broke, the bottom finally wore through, I've had it for a number of years. It has lasted longer than the friendship of the person who accompanied me to the CBD that day I bought it. My house keys were hanging out, which is a pretty good reason to invest in a new one.

I have quite a satchel thing, I've had quite a number through my working life. The one that has just finished it's days was the first one I had that wasn't leather and it was the one that lasted the longest.

So, I decided to have a look through the ones I had at home, rather than just buying a new one. I much prefer vintage over new, I've always been like that. There was one sitting amongst the broken ones - I must get them repaired sometime, or throw them out - that belonged to my great uncle. It was fine, nothing broken, ready to go. Considering the great uncle in question died in 1960, long before I was born, the satchel is in remarkably good shape.

So, on the tram this morning, I wondered how old it was? Presumably, since my uncle died in the January 1960, the satchel hadn't seen the light of day since 1959. That's nearly fifty years that it hasn't been used. So, how old must it be?

I like it. I like the idea that my uncles hands touched the same place that mine do - it is our only connection as, as I said, he and I never met.

His initials are embossed in gold in the top right hand corner. He is a four namer, William Patrick Joseph Meredith, just like me, Christian Aloysius Ignatius Fletcher. He would have known the perils of four names and the difficulty of fitting them onto official forms or the superiority of the sound when they are read out.

I ran my fingers over the gold lettering, just how he would have, our second connection. I held the handles, just as he would have.

What would have been inside that satchel the last time it was used? Certainly not a mobile phone, or keyless entry car thingies - despite me not having the car they once activated. He had a silver St Christopher medal key ring that fitted his 1959 Vauxhall Cresta, which he had taken delivery of just a few short months before he succumbed to his weak heart. (My great aunt continued to drive the car and use the key ring for some thirty years after that)

I've only seen photos of Billy, as my great aunt, Ada, used to call him. "My dear Billy," was the way she would always start a sentence about him. I remember serious photos of him always, seemingly, in an overcoat and hat. From all accounts, he was a kind man, quiet and much loved by all those who knew him.

I like the idea of carrying a small part of him around with me.