by Steve Rayer
Hilda was completing her morning household routine. The washing-up had been done, the dining room and hall carpet swept, the kitchen floor mopped, the tea towels hung up to dry and now it was the turn of the bedroom; nothing much to do here but make the bed, ensuring the blankets were straightened with military precision and the counterpane turned down by the exact distance on either side of the bed, all under the watchful gaze of her husband from his photograph on the dressing table: confident, appraising, commanding.
As always, she was doing her duty. All through her married life with Hubert she had done her duty, from the first night of their honeymoon, afterwards as a stalwart support on the canvassing trail when he had first entered local politics, then as his private secretary (unpaid), coping meanwhile with the bringing-up of two children, bearing the brunt of domestic activity so as to leave Hubert free to advance his career. She had sat through interminable dinners and after-dinner speeches, attended coffee mornings and local bazaars - being seen everywhere as the wife of the rising young counsellor, later alderman, then mayor, chairman of the district council, always at the side of the man with his confident, appraising, commanding manner which stood him so well in politics and who insisted everything should be just so and correct, a quality he did not hesitate to bring to his domestic life.
As befitted a man of Hubert's status, their children had done well at school, going on to university and good careers, then good marriages and settlement in good residential areas, doing no damage whatever to their father's self esteem since it enabled him to speak loudly of their achievements whenever an occasion presented itself which not surprisingly he was able to discover so often. His cup was full to the brim when both pounced on highly paid jobs in the financial world of the United States, one in New York, one in Boston.
Hilda quietly put up with all this. She had long since given up the attempt to keep abreast of whatever it was the children she once adored did to earn their enormous salaries, and it pained her to think of the direction their lives had taken compared to her own: the daily round of long hours and decisions taken under high pressure, whereas she liked nothing better than to be left alone with her box of paints, her sketch pad and the garden with its never-ending chores. Of what use was their old mum to them now? she thought. Better to stay away, not to interfere.
It accorded with her upbringing, the way she coped, the sense of duty instilled in her by her father, the Methodist minister. She had learnt from an early age the power and satisfaction of private contemplation and cherished over the years a dream world to which she would escape when the world outside became too demanding, or rather too boring, although she would never admit to such an extreme as she felt sure the fault lay with her. She had perfected the art of displaying the interested, concerned facial feature whether at public conference or private party whilst her mind within composed the next stage of interminable romantic tales with handsome heroes and beautiful heroines, (of whom she was more often than not the principal player) of exciting last minute rescues from danger or from cruel captors ready to inflict torment on her. The older she grew, the more extreme these dangers, the more cruel these torments became and she began to wonder at her own sanity which relied on this nonsense to support her in situations where those round about her were keenly involved whilst she, but for her iron self control, would be gently nodding off.
Then, quite suddenly, Hubert had died. As befitted a married couple, all the estate devolved on her and as Hubert had always managed the family finances, paying her an adequate monthly allowance, she felt certain there would be no nasty surprises in store, which proved the case. She would at least be able to live her life on the same sober level she had always known without any undue financial worry.
Not surprisingly for a man of his stature in the local community, the parish church was crowded for the funeral, all the local bigwigs present, the choir attending specially for the service, and throughout it all Hilda dutifully played the part of bereaved wife, veiled, handkerchief held at the ready to demonstrate her sadness but never visibly putting it to use as though to demonstrate the self restraint expected of her in public. She had acknowledged all messages of condolence gracefully, her two children having crossed over from the States for the funeral had hung about the family home for a few days, going their respective ways when they judged there was nothing more to be gained by staying, with invitations for Mum to come over and visit them any time. She put up with it all, the way she had been taught from her earliest days.
Then, finally, it was over. Hilda was never to forget the moment the door had closed on them and she was left alone in the house. It dawned on her there were no more duties to perform or even any to be expected of her.
Somehow she had got through the weeks that followed; a lonely woman hanging on to the vestiges of middle age, past the halfway mark and threescore years rearing up on the horizon. She thought of playing the perfect grandmother, a few days in New York with her son and family, then in Boston with her daughter and her family. Several times she set out for the travel agents to book the tickets, only to walk up and down outside the premises, undecided, coming back home empty-handed. The fact was her last trip across with Hubert had been a disaster. She hated the long flight, the bustle and noise of the big cities, the bolted meals, the rapid fire conversations with which she strove in vain to keep up. Hubert of course was in his element. What did he care that the magnolia in the garden back home would be coming into full flower? The gulf between Hilda and her family widened and she grew to resent it. Back home in England, the magnolia had finished flowering. A neighbour said it had been the best year's showing ever.
She did however try staying for a few days with her brother, he who had followed their father into the church. She was quite unsurprised when it didn't work out. He had his duties in the manse to perform which served only to bring back dark memories of her childhood according to its strict religious principles. There were no quarrels, everyone was scrupulously polite and kind but she was quick to sense the prevailing atmosphere of relief when she let it be known she felt her stay had been long enough. Thank you for having me and all you have done for me but I really ought to be moving on.
So once more she found herself alone in the house only this time she knew what had to be done. There was no help to be expected from anybody, nothing from Hubert's acquaintances (she couldn't possibly call them friends) or heaven forbid their wives whose tittle-tattle she had endured with such patience. Nothing either from her children. She didn't begrudge them their supposed indifference, and personal pride would not permit her to go asking help from her own children of whatever form. They had their own lives to lead, and Hilda who was so used to being put to one side whenever her duties were no longer required mistook the genuine kindness of their letters for condescension, replied with cool finality and that was that.
She simply had to get herself out of the house.
To begin with she enrolled herself at a local health spa. She loved gardening, she loved walking and the idea of physical exercise for the sheer hell of it attracted her. She had never dared mention it when Hubert was around. He would have laughed at the idea and the children would have been tickled at the thought of their old mum on a treadmill machine. Mid morning was the quietest time to go, they told her on the reception desk, which proved to be true as the young school mums had left by then and a few older people remained. A track suit was 'de rigueur' and she bought one, closer fitting round the hips than she would have liked but nothing as bad as those lycra tights which the young and even the not so young preferred. Her bum was too big, she thought.
She really enjoyed herself. Working up a sweat made the years fall away and the warm shower back home set her up for the rest of the day. After a week or two of this she was bold enough to try the swimming pool, shyly at first but then after no one seemed to take any notice of her she began practising in earnest, managing to accomplish two lengths in the slow lane which gradually she built up to three and no doubt more to come.
Next she joined a local ramblers club. This really suited her. Twice a week, ten miles, twelve miles plus in the surrounding countryside and she didn't have to talk to anyone, most of them were ex-professional people and being a simple housewife from the past, what had she to offer them anyway? Her secretarial experience she reckoned didn't count. There was however Arthur the plumber and it amused her to watch his antics and listen to his fractured, tumbling English. An immigrant, real name Artur, from Poland, he had used his skills to build up a successful business employing a decent-sized workforce, enjoyed telling everyone 'I make decent bob or two' and stuck out in the respectable middle-class crowd like a sore thumb. Balding, brash, fairly short but powerfully built with long arms, she likened him to a gorilla with his peculiar rocking gait which nevertheless would keep him going all day without any sign of exhaustion. A widower, he was slowly letting his sons take over the business, and as he put it to anyone who would listen, 'I 'ave to enjoy life now. Me, I work much so now I play much: no?'
Hilda kept her distance. She divined a sensitive soul under that brash exterior and she noted how out of all the walkers he made no effort to approach her and indulge her with his bluff, heavily accentuated observations, so amusing to that relatively sophisticated crowd. She was grateful to him for that. Once, towards the end of a long day's walk, she lingered behind the crowd to enjoy the setting Autumn sun shining through trees on the brow of a hill. Devoid of leaves, the bark of the trunks seemed to glow silver. She was thinking how the landscape setting reminded her of a Brueghel painting when she noticed Arthur had stopped close by, evidently as captivated as she was.
"I could be 'ome in Poland," he murmured. "When I was little boy I think the sun like that was hiding behind trees."
She let him go on ahead. She couldn't help liking him.
All of this took place in the daylight hours. In the long dark evenings, unable to concentrate on her painting, she was absorbed in an activity as murky as the scene outside. Hubert had installed a computer in the home and had encouraged her in its use, helping out with correspondence and responses to the official communications which a man of his importance was expected to deal with.
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