Serendipity.
Not the first thing to come to mind after breaking down on the side of the A20. It came later, having been towed home; the next morning’s viewing for the flat in Nunhead would have to be canceled. It was a good thing that they had driven past it on the way home from the first viewing, as it hadn’t looked as good in real life as online. But then, she thought, very few things do. Or people, for that matter.
So, no clutch meant no car, no more househunting. The first flat was better than it looked on the outside, and nearly on top of the primary school, so T would be taken care of. Maybe this was a serendipitous clutch failure, if there could be such a thing.
After a day of festering in thought, the rain finally stopped. Time to drag the furniture, books and tchotchkes outside with a homemade sign that read, ‘Moving Sale’. Just in time to catch the mums on the school run; they’d surely be up for a good old rummage. Immediately, it worked; here came Hippy Mum #1 – the pretty one with the hair and the eyes and the coat – and flicking through the books, she said,
“Moving sale. What a groooovy idea!”
“Well, I can’t take it all with me.”
“Where are you going?”
“Peckham.”
“Are you craaazy?” she said, circling her fingers around her temples. “From down here to there? Wow, that’s something!”
“I know, people usually move down here when they have kids. But I got a job up there, and I’m going to be studying up there for a year as well, so it’d be too expensive to go up by train.”
“Yeaaah. Oh wow, good for you! We’ll miss you!”
This seemed strange, as this was only the third time they’d spoken in four years.
“I’m gonna come back and have a good look. See youuuu!”
“Bye.”
The sale was a success, seeing that she hadn’t actually left home all day, and there were fewer large bits of furniture to manoeuvre up what would hopefully be two flights of stairs. Sitting in a tub chair on the driveway, pretending to read a 13 year old copy of Anna Karenina, she looked at the rest of her unwanted possessions and withered. What was bothering her most was the shed full of lime planks, mdf, and the art materials she’d spent considerable time and money in accumulating. They had to come along, but where could they possibly go? Since finishing the course, she hadn’t made any work at all, and the writing had stalled under the cloud of chasing The Job and then, consequently, facing up to The Move. Now, it was nearly August, and the reading she would have to do for the MA course would have to be crammed in, and straight away. Was all of the upheaval actually going to be worth it? The shed, which only two months previous was destined to become her cupboard-sized studio, was now on ebay, and there was no chance of doing any painting in the new flat. Carving? Not easy with less space than she had now. Drawings, it would have to be. Very small drawings. Or rent a studio – but not on her part-time wages.
She started to think about the unfinished proposal and its looming deadline, when the phone buzzed and brought her back.
How are you feeling about the move?
From Lewis Arnold. No matter what, a text from an ex-boyfriend is always an event.
I’m ok now, had a v odd day yest. Selling off some stuff!
It’ll be fine, I’m sure you’ve made the right decision.
You still talk like a robot. :P
And you’re still too emotional. :/
Fair enough. Nice to talk to you again though.
It would be good to sell some of his portraits sometime soon; that would help with the mechanic’s bill, at least. And maybe it was time to get him off of the wall and out of sight, with a new flat in which to start over again. Thank goodness for the exhibition in August, at least she would get some use out of him, if not a sale, then something for the cv. And if no-one else wanted him, he could live under her bed.
