The Lost Hat

Margaret Wicks has lost her hat. It feels as if it has happened before, but for the life of her, she can't remember when that was or with which hat. It seems like this particular one she has lost now is the only hat she wore so stubbornly, despite the laughter it causes her two kids and the sweet but backhanded compliments of her husband, Eric, that she looks like a 19th-century feminist writer. Sometimes, she feels like that. Sometimes, she wishes she was. Most of the time, the burgundy wool beret is enough of a defiance to make it through another evening in the somewhat pleasant and lukewarm mist that everyday life has become.

Margaret steps outside the cottage on Tottenham Road and faces east, towards the little town that is an easy fifteen-minute walk with heels and ten with flats. She is wearing flats, but the wind is picking up, and in the air, there is the smell of a storm looming. It would be fifteen minutes today, and she doesn't mind, not really, except that she would really love her hat right now. She knows it is not misplaced, as she is careful to always hang it behind the door, right from the black coat of Eric, and left from the grey umbrella that the whole family seems to share. The damned thing is that, even if she wanted to get another one, she had found hers in a charity shop, and it had no label. But she doesn't even want another one. This one was hers. She remembers her face as she looked in the mirror the first time she wore it.

"That looks good, love," the elderly lady at the till had said. And it did, although at the time she also thought it looked a bit ridiculous. It wasn't her style, really, but she wanted it to be. It had sat on her head like it was always meant to be there, covering the grey roots of her auburn hair, saving her on bad hair days when she didn't have time to wash them, and giving her that little oomph that was last seen on her appearance more than fifteen years ago, when a canary yellow jacket had somehow made it into her wardrobe. But she did know where that one was, or rather, she knew that someone had taken it after she had donated it to a different charity shop, back when she was living in the city, and right before they moved to the countryside.

A gust of wind messes her hair further, as if pointing out how much she will miss that hat, how essential it was to survive in this town, in this life. She brushes the thought, along with her hair, away from her face and quickens her step. Five minutes more, and she would be in the warm embrace of the familiar cobbled main street, with the tiny shops on both sides that always made her feel like living here was the right choice.

She makes up her mind that after picking up Eric's trousers from the tailors, she will have a cup of something warm at the corner coffee shop that always seems to gather people who look like they could be wearing hats like hers. Inside the tailors, the twenty-something lady gives her a look that says "dishevelled". She pats her hair with her hands, tucking it behind her ears, and jokes about the wind sweeping the whole town away. She is met with a close-lipped smile and the "What can I do for you?"

While she waits for the freshly altered trousers to arrive, she dreams of Dorothy Gale, Mary Poppins, and the witches of old—flying, arriving, there.

After the quick "thank yous" and "goodbyes", she steps again into the wild weather, now loving it a bit more. The people walking around have their coat collars high, clenching them, their steps quick, and the little shops with their colourful displays are forgotten. It's all business now—go, get, return. Not for her. Margaret gets a rush of overwhelming joy that lumps in her throat. It's all for her. The wind, the storm that's coming, the unexpected opportunity to not be perceived by others. She can almost feel her feet lifting off the ground.

Walking towards the café, she takes the time to listen. Her flats barely make a sound on the pavement, but even women wearing boots and heels don't seem to make a sound. The wind has made everything quiet, and she can only hear a little bell at a door opening, a dog barking, and a car passing by. The humans are quiet. Oh, the joy! She stops at a real estate window, not seeing the advertisements for the houses, but her reflection. She glows with the warmth of a thousand warriors before battle. The way the picture is placed inside makes her reflection look as though she is wearing a little hat too. Her crown is back.

Inside, two men are discussing business. She smiles at them. They don't seem to see her. Even better.

Another bell, this time on her account, welcoming her to the café. "I am crossing the threshold," she thinks. Such an unusual little thought that makes her feeling of joy bubble up. The quiet of the street seems to have spread through the cracks inside this usually busy place, only instead of the wind, the café is full of jazz music, as if playing from a record player. It seems organic. She approaches the counter, and there are two ladies standing behind it, their hands behind their backs, waiting for the order.

"A cup of black coffee, please," she says, finding that her voice is trembling a bit. She coughs and adds, "And if you have any kind of pie?" finishing the thought with a question and a smile. One of the two ladies gets in motion, the other stands there, as if she hasn't been summoned, so all she can do is wait. Neither of them smiles or seems to acknowledge her, but her order is being prepared. Margaret looks around the café for a place to sit. Now, it seems like many more places are open, but the people inside couldn't have left so fast. She must have been mistaken. Nevertheless, a feeling of unfamiliarity is slowly replacing the joyous one she felt only moments before.

"Was coming here a mistake?"

Before she has time to think more about it, the coffee is in front of her, looking completely unappetising but giving that sweet feeling of a coffee in a hotel with a buffet breakfast. She had one just like that in Paris, but before her mind can calculate how many years ago that was, she takes the coffee and heads over to a table near the window.

The first sip gives her a taste of champagne and running through the rain on a bridge above the River Seine. She looks outside, quickly, before the memory has time to sit in and spread. Only the laughter of the memory remains, now blending slowly with the real laughter of a woman sitting at one of the tables behind her. Margaret turns to look at who dared to disturb the absolute quietness of the café, but her view is obstructed by the waitress, who leaves the piece of pie in front of her and turns to leave. She looks at the pie. She doesn't understand what type it is, but pieces of it have crumbled all around the small plate. The pieces might be oats or dried fruit, or even little dead bugs, ready to crunch in her mouth as she breaks the carapace with her teeth. She takes a quick and huge bite before the thought progresses further and is delighted to find that no crunches are heard. The taste seems familiar, but of something she can't place. It tastes like her childhood, a summer somewhere with her parents, and there are pine trees, the needles dancing with the breeze, the indelicate aftertaste of plastic Tupperware.

The laughter is heard again, loud, unapologetic, violent. This time, she sees the Woman, but before the vibrant image of her captures her whole attention, with her peripheral vision, she senses something off. She looks around. Now there is no one else in the café, not even the waitresses. The jazz music has stopped, and the sound of the wind is now inside, almost like a stentorian whisper. The Woman sits alone and keeps laughing, her back turned to Margaret. She can see a yellow jacket and a hat—her hat—on the Woman’s head.

Not knowing if her legs are planning to hold her standing up, she slips from her chair and takes the few steps towards the Woman. When Margaret is right above her, she can see what the Woman is laughing at: a little pink and baby-blue notebook that was her diary when she was in her early twenties. But the violation of her privacy seems like a minor issue right now. She knows, but still, she has to see the Woman’s face.

As the Woman turns, it seems like time has started going in loops. Her face blurs in the sudden but also somehow superbly slow motion of the turning of her neck. She can't see any characteristics, but she knows—it’s her. It must be the her that never was but could be. The wind and the laughter blend together, reaching a crescendo, and Margaret feels like falling, screaming, reaching her hand to stop the Woman’s face from turning.

The sound of the bell makes both women stop and turn their faces towards the door. Ethel Harrow, her neighbour, walks in. Ethel lives just two doors down from Margaret, a widow, with her constant dachshund companion that barks at leaves and ignores people with the fluidity of a cat. Margaret notices that the normal sounds have returned to the café, along with some people and the waitresses. She turns to look at the Woman, but no one is there. Standing still, she looks at Ethel again, who catches her eye and, with a little "oh" of recognition, heads towards her.

"Oh, dear," she says, slowly and with her raspy voice, while her hands are busy looking for something in her tote bag. "I was so hoping I could see you today. I even said it to Old Man, I said, maybe today is the day," she says, nodding with her head at the dog, who looks at her lovingly. The antithesis of her soft tone and slow speech with her quick hands that take out items from the tote bag and lay them on the table is mesmerising. Margaret is still speechless, still shook, just waiting to see how this bit of the story will unfold.

While Ethel murmurs, she tries another glance at the café. Everything seems normal—overly normal.

"Ah, there you are, little rascal!" Ethel exclaims and pulls out the burgundy beret.

"Oh my God."

Margaret can't believe her eyes, and thinks for a moment that this might be another trick, another dive into the uncanny that she has experienced since entering the café. Or since she left the house. When did it start, really?

"It's yours, isn't it, dear? See, I told you, Old Man, it's Margaret's hat, I've seen her wearing it," she says to the dog, who has decided to take a little rest and is laying down. "He's such a sweetheart, isn't he? These days he gets tired so easily. But aren't we all?"

Margaret makes an effort to speak. "Where..." she mutters, and thankfully, Ethel doesn't need much of a prompt to start talking again, her slow speech a panacea for Margaret's turbulent mind.

"It was down by the riverside, dear. He found it, really, you know, was sniffing so long on that rock that I had to go check what it was. I was afraid of a dead squirrel—we’ve had accidents before, you know, he's old but very insistent when he gets something in his mind."

Margaret tells them to wait a second and goes to the till to the little jar of dog treats for the customers. She looks up at the waitress standing behind the till, and she smiles and tells her to go right off and take two. Old Man seems excited when she brings them back to him, and Ethel looks at him like a child who's just brought back good grades.

"You are both life saviours," Margaret says to them and puts on her hat.

"Oh, did you hear that, Old Man? I told you Margie was going to be very happy about her hat, didn’t I? With everything that's happening, we all need a bit of cheering up, don't we?"

Margaret is all smiles and walks out of the café, checking her reflection in the glass that now looks all kinds of normal. She notices the table she was sitting at—the coffee is still full, and the pie untouched. But she’s not going to linger in that daydream, that madness, anymore.

Walking back towards Tottenham Road, she notices that the wind has completely stilled, and now there is a dampness in the air that pairs with the fading light. On the ground, some mist starts to creep in. Passing by the bridge, which she thinks of as the natural border between the town and the village, she looks out at the field where the riverside is obscured by tall trees. Some black cows are standing around, their legs completely covered by the mist, and they seem like they are resting on a cloud.

Her smile drops just a bit, a nagging thought that she doesn't know exactly what it is, creeping in, just like the mist that now seems to be coming out of the drains and from behind the town lights, slithering behind her, gathering. What time is it? How long was she in that café? Margaret's steps quicken. Why did Ethel call her Margie? The only one who does that, in her knowledge, is Eric. These questions need answers, but they are not the thought that she can’t reach. They feel like birds, circling around the Thing, the one she must see, the one that has created all the chaos of the day.

When she reaches Tottenham Road, the street in front of her seems unbearably long, her cottage a destination that she can't reach. She feels dumbness in her hair and wonders if it had started raining after all. But no, the street is dry. She takes off her hat, only to see that it is soaking wet and dripping. She throws it down as if bitten by it. But the dripping sound doesn't stop. She looks down and realises that the bag with the trousers from the tailors is also dripping, heavier in her hands now. She takes out the trousers, dread now creeping inside her and reaching all parts of her body and mind. The trousers are soaking wet too. She throws them down, and they land on top of her hat. She has no other choice—she runs.

She needs to get away, she needs to reach home, needs some kind of normalcy before she truly and well loses her mind. When she reaches the front gate, she takes a moment to catch her breath, while searching for her keys in the coat pocket. Beyond the unkempt garden, the house seems steady as it ever was. A light in the kitchen makes her smile. Eric must be getting his afternoon tea. Soon, very soon now, everything will be normal again.

Passing by the gate, she frowns at another memory that's not quite there. When she puts her keys in the door, the memory intensifies, as if tapping her insistently on the shoulder.

"Eric?" she calls, while taking off her coat. She hangs it up and then, right before she turns around to go to the kitchen, notices something. Eric's coat is missing.

The thought hits her like a stone in the head. She hasn't been by the riverside for months now.