Moving On

Claire is packing her bags and leaving for good. After all the years she has spent painting the magical Hampshire landscape, she has decided to move into one of the little cottages in the countryside. She cannot miss her train again, so she is hurrying through the door an hour before the scheduled trip. The last thing she packs is her cat, Ani. The little beast has bitten her too many times to fool her again, so Claire always leaves the inevitable struggle of cat and mouse till last. She walks around the house, checking everything is in order one last time and sees her reflection in the mirror. Red lipstick, ponytail, and a wide smile, all signs of changes to come. Freedom at last.

According to the landlord, there should be someone waiting for her in the train station, but Claire has some trouble believing him. People are not trustworthy these days. She takes one last look at her precious home and brings out her ugly bright-yellow umbrella. It is freezing cold, and little pools of water are brought to life irrepressibly in the pavement. Ani starts complaining inside her travel-bag, and Claire whispers sweet words to her. She closes the door and starts walking away.

Close to the station, there is a cemetery. She recalls the number of times she has stopped to look at the engravings on the tombstones: Here lies Anna Fairfax, who departed this life in 1934, Loved husband and father. Stephen Randall lies here, 1945. She could spend hours staring at them across the iron fence. But now she must go. “Farewell,” she whispers to the ghosts, as she makes her way uphill.

When Claire arrives at the car park, she notices the people rushing in and out of the grey building. It is not pretty at all, but Claire knows well the feeling that all commuters adhere to in the morning rush. The ticket barrier is free now. She puts on her mask and reaches for her ticket. Her ticket to freedom. She pats the back pocket of her bag, the cat hanging from her shoulder, she notices that there is something missing. Her notebook. She tries not to panic: it has to be somewhere. Around her, strangers keep flowing, a never-ending tide of travelers, and she even notices a small fox crossing the road to disappear into the scrubland beyond. If she had her notebook, she would note down the idea for one of her paintings. But there is no trace of the red notebook anywhere. Her breathing becomes irregular, she is lost without it. It must have fallen on the way, she thinks. She has to get back and find it before anyone else. It must be laying on the damp ground, hopeless, waiting for Claire to pick it up.

She decides to set foot backward, being grateful for having left the house too early. The train can wait, she thinks, but the notebook of inspiration, where she pours her deepest thoughts and ideas, has to be rescued. She doesn’t know where to start looking. She walks slowly, retracing her steps, confused as to how she could have mislaid such a vital object without noticing. Yet Claire knows she is prone to losing things. Her eyes are starting to fill up with tears, but she is striving to control her emotions. You cannot cry because of a notebook, she keeps repeating to herself.

It is quarter to twelve now. She is going to miss her train.

“Leave it, leave it, leave it,” she says out loud. “It is not worth it.”

“Look mommy.” she hears the voice behind her back. It is a little girl, long locks of curly black hair falling over her shoulders, her hands grabbing her mother’s skirt trying to get her attention. Claire knows what the mother is going to see before she turns. The girl is holding the notebook in her hands. “This must be someone’s treasure map. Look at these pictures, mommy.” she keeps talking, but her mother is too busy looking in her purse for the tickets to listen to her. She nods and continues perusing.

It is a moment of realization for Claire. She watches the girl's eyes brighten with joy and the curiosity that surfaces when she is browsing through the pages, and she and bites her bottom lip. She already has too many things. Most of them are already in the house, and she has had to leave behind some others. She has plenty of blank notebooks, and she can always start from scratch. New life, new notebook.

She smiles to herself and enters the platform holding her yellow umbrella. She looks down at her cat and thinks: It is going to be alright.