Cousin Fergie
I dragged the trunk from a dark attic recess, jiggled the key a few times and then lifted the lid, revealing photo albums and garments wrapped in brittle tissue paper. When had I last peeped inside? 1948? 1949? No matter, I’d sworn to dispose of the contents after Fergie’s death. Despite the age difference, we’d always been more like siblings than cousins, and a promise made was a promise kept. I wondered who had taken the black and white snapshots that couldn’t begin to capture the colourful floral sarong draping Fergie. Then there was the head-shot – he looked like a movie star – that led to numerous modelling assignments. Other albums held endless pages of photos with captions from the service years in Germany; demolished buildings, grand castles, friends mentioned in letters but never met. An unshakeable sense of survival shone through the drab uniforms, for it appeared that even in wartime there were occasions when a satin gown and turban had lightened the mood. Without thinking, I pressed the sarong against myself and twirled across the dusty boards, hoping to recapture Fergie’s magical performance for me on the same spot. That long-ago laughter was replaced by my tears, brushed from the faded cotton before they damaged the fabric. More layers uncovered a treasure trove of velvets, brocades, and crepes; timeless designer gowns that would be welcomed at any vintage clothing boutique. At the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in a silk scarf, was a shoulder-length chestnut-brown wig. Holding it towards the light, I ran my fingers through the lifeless strands of a stranger before slumping to my knees. Poor Fergie. Poor dear Edward Ferguson Garrett. His life had been like the wig. A cover-up, a charade, a stranger to his family, never believing they would love and accept him for who he was, only who he pretended to be.
