Baggage

I arrived at Gatwick airport at 7.30 a.m., groggy from lack of sleep and weary from the unaccustomed noise. I went to the baggage claims area and found the carousel with my flight number over it.

The carousel went round and round, empty at first, then a suitcase bumped down, then another and another, as if someone had opened a dam causing a waterfall of luggage to flow into a meandering river. The crowd was close and thick around the carousel; I could smell the tired bodies and the alcohol breathe on the more vocal ones. I waited in stillness, long black robes keeping me apart from the others even though I was in the midst of them. I wasn’t surprised that my bag didn’t come through early. I had checked in at the Toronto airport in good time, so my luggage would have been one of the first on. My mind took up a meditative sequence, first on, last off; the last shall be first and the first last.

So I waited, eyes attentive as each suitcase came onto the carousel and circled around and back out again. The crowd thinned, the baggage lessened, and there was still no sign of my large bag. It should be easy to spot the leather Samsonite suitcase, bought years ago when I went into nurses’ training. Good quality so that it would last, worn now from lots of train and bus trips home from nursing school, an ocean voyage to Canada, and moves around the country.

I was alone now. How long had I stood there? Was it one hour, two? My sense of rhythm had shifted with the change of time zones; jet lag had set in. I would not be able to catch the train I had planned to take to my family in Gloucester. I was certain there would be no more bags from my plane; my suitcase was lost and I wondered what to do.

I walked towards the exit to look for some place to report my loss. There was my bag on the floor and I wished that I had looked around earlier. I bent over to check the tag: St. John’s Convent. Yes, it was mine, what a relief.

Then I smiled, allowing myself a picture of the robber as he investigated the name and address on the baggage tag. I shared the joke with God, imagining the thief’s shock when he saw he had taken a suitcase full of nun’s paraphernalia and not some good haul that he could use to his advantage. Perhaps he had a change of heart when he saw that he had taken something that in his eyes would appear holy. A suitcase of nun’s habits might have broken him of his thief’s habit.

Holy baggage, Angels! God works in mysterious ways!

 © Judith Lawrence

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