On Indy, Bags and Badges

 

I am not the type of woman who uses a handbag: a sliver of polite leather will not hold all that I need it to, and a large tote held over one arm means that I have one arm out of action. My life demands two hands. My bag, the one I was using before lockdown, is screaming pink and made of fur. It’s entirely silly, meant for a twelve year old and goes with nothing. On the front, there’s a tiny badge with an interlinked Saltire and European Union flag, and a large Yes badge from the 2014 campaign sitting in the middle. In Central station I heard two women loudly discussing that badge.

‘That’s silly. Why on earth would you have that? There isn’t even a campaign on right now.’

I was meant to hear, meant to feel embarrassed. I wasn’t. I turned and stared them right in the eye and grinned at them for just a beat too long, then went to work knowing that they were afraid of seeds and conviction and belief that continues after defeat.

This bag has been sitting by my bed since March last year. It has not left the house: it has been nowhere. I opened it today and had a look inside, like someone unearthing a time capsule and guessing at the meaning of the objects contained within. In the front pocket, a bottle of my favourite Jo Malone, brand new and smelling like another world, a world where I wear smart clothes and leave the house with headphones on, to teach teenagers how to question the news around them. A pair of round sunglasses, silly rainbows, a tribute to my late 90’s uni education. Two ibuprofen in a blister pack. A pocket-sized packet of tissues. Two business cards for a villa we stayed at in France. Numerous pebbles and bits of sea glass because I’m a mermaid who keeps her tail tucked in.

Inside would normally be my lunch, my coffee, my books, my work. Those things are gone for now. There’s an unopened box of peppermints. My keys are there, unused, since these days there is always someone at home. I carry a tiny Swiss army tool in a leather pouch because I am a woman and do I really need to explain more? I have no idea if it is legal: I couldn’t care less. There is a purse, turquoise, covered in bunnies and pandas and butterflies with a silver snap clasp like your Grandma had, the type that makes that satisfying click signifying the end of a transaction.  It feels heavy and I open it to find money: lots of coins, mostly large denominations, a white pebble and a twenty- pound note. What world did I use cash in? I can barely remember. I spill the coins into my hand and enjoy the metallic scrape, imagining the joy of a vending machine or the drop of coins on the bus – double decker, front seat, upstairs, Greggs picnic. 

The rest though, for now, is a witness to what women do: we adapt; we plan; we prepare to act to look after everyone. I packed the bare essentials in case I had to take flight in the night with someone poorly – in case I was poorly myself. I’ve sat by enough bedsides. There’s a tiny deodorant, spare knickers, a loo roll, baby wipes, batteries, a charger. Because I’m me, - a handcream, a tiny mirror, something to write and draw with. No lipstick and I feel that I need to rectify that because a red lip delivers power when your own feels out of reach. I throw one in, then - having had enough of this pink, furry load sitting useless beside my bed – I chuck it in a cupboard.

When this is over, I will buy a new bag. I will take forever to choose it, but I’ll know it when I see it. I will fill it with my life as usual. It will go on buses and crowded trains, hanging from my shoulders as I walk city streets. I will carry my home on my back, like a tortoise and my kids will know that every single thing we could possibly need is in there, ready. We’re always ready.

So is Scotland. Despite it all – despite all this stuff… - she has all she needs. My new bag will have my vintage Yes badge on the front: that will not change. And my tiny silk saltire folded and tucked in the bottom of my portable home will wait to be unfurled somewhere new and undiscovered. In May I’ll walk to a polling station and I’ll put this past year behind me. I’ll chuck it in a mental cupboard and cross my fingers and hold my nose and vote for a future where my kids will see the seeds and convictions we sowed in 2014 grow into a wilderness that’s all of our own creation. We’ll tend to it in a way that no politician ever could - or ever has. We will not be careless with it. But we need the keys to the gate first. We need to steal them back. There is no other choice. Sometimes there’s only this reality or that one, and when neither look appealing, you go for the one that allows you to hope and not for the one that has always caused you such despair.

Buy a backpack. Fill it with what you need to survive. We’ll all need two hands free for what comes next.