Silence, Please

Well, that had not gone to plan. A private detective – one she could afford on her pension and part-time librarian’s pittance – had been her last resort. Her manuscript was now gone forever. Lost. Correction: stolen. She was sure of it. Probably in the clutches of one of those bitter wretches at the writing group. So to hear the smug “Sorry, madam, that’s not the kind of work we take on here” (accompanied by a nasty little smirk) made Hilda want to gouge the investigator’s eyes out, so frustrated was she.

As if sensing her wintry mood, the weather took a turn on the return journey home to the village of St Jude. Soft December snowflakes began to fall from an increasingly leaden sky. The warm lights emanating from the pub windows mocked shivering passers-by. As if granted permission by the pub, its radiance was mimicked, domino-like, in the Victorian terraced homes that ran perpendicular to the church. Hilda hastened by the darkly gothic St Jude’s and its surrounding churchyard, dotted with ancient oaks and drunken headstones in various stages of decay. Shivering, she blinked away the particles of ice attacking her eyelids and pulled her hood forward, upping her pace.

Never mind, a cup of tea (she was a coffee drinker, but coffee, Hilda knew, altered the whole tone of the cliché) will make everything seem better – a thought belied by her garden gate attempting violent divorce from its hinges, signalling its owner’s entrance. Home: Hilda Hightower-Hardy didn’t recall ever making a conscious decision to leave her husband. She simply made her way to the caravan at the rear of the back garden one day - and never spent another night in the marital home.

The tree-canopied carapace became her womb. She would, one day, have to make an appearance in the world. The real world, that is. Bawling and blood-soaked, no doubt. But not yet.

And the strange thing was, Max just got used to it. As if he expected such behaviour from her. Perhaps they were just too alike for it to be an issue: asocial, atypical, a-whatever. If asked, she’d say they were still great ‘friends’. But their situation was the proverbial elephant in the room. For now, her bolt-hole in the garden offered peace and security. It would not stay that way, of course. The uneasy stasis would intensify, and something would have to give.

But not yet.

Right now, she had another problem to deal with. Her missing manuscript. Since retiring early from teaching and taking up a part-time position in the local library, she’d found the time to do what she’d always wanted. Yes, she’d joined a writing group. And finished – actually finished – a mystery novel. The ideal genre for an author with an inquisitive mind. An author who wanted everything to turn out satisfactorily in the end. For justice to be served.

But now, it was gone.

Now where had she last seen it? That’s right, in the village pub, at the latest gathering of the writing group. Freshly printed, it needed – of course – to be exhibited, validated. Before being sent off to a publisher, who would surely jump at the chance to regale the world with the creation of such a long-hidden talent? Wouldn’t they? And didn’t she deserve it? The Silence, Please signage in the library seemed to Hilda to be aimed exclusively at her. In her marriage, too, she’d felt perennially put on pause. This novel was her voice, her chance to speak out; its absence yet another silencing.

A plan of action was required; to accept defeat was simply not in her nature. This was her thought as entered the tiny hermitage she called home, to be greeted by her best friend in the world. Hilda had always wanted an Irish Wolfhound; instead, she’d got Hildegaard. A feisty, knowing feline with shrewd green eyes and a clear superiority complex. Perhaps it was their shared name that made Hilda leave the animal shelter as Hildegaard’s new owner that day. This alarmingly angry black cat had spent years – quite literally – in and out of the shelter. For Hildgaard, new addresses never lasted long enough to earn the epithet ‘home’. One unceremonious dumping after another had scarred this wary creature. Trust did not come easily. Nevertheless, the two had operated as a pair for over a year now.  Hilda’s heart gave a small unbidden fillip on seeing Hildegaard’s silhouette guarding the caravan door as she entered.

‘Let’s get some light in here, Hildegaard,’ said Hilda.

Within minutes the cramped space became infused with the cleansing aroma of burning beeswax. and the flickering flames bathed the scene in a warm saffron glow. She’d completed the first step in the crutch of her afternoon routine:

1.   Light candles

2.   Feed Hildegaard

3.   Brew strong coffee

4.   Fill pipe with tobacco

5.   Lounge on bed with said coffee and pipe (and Hildegaard) – all the more enjoyable for the absence of Max’s hectoring health warnings

6.   Fantasise about potential MOs for dealing with the thieving blighter who’d had the audacity to steal her manuscript

This sixth item, of course, was a recent addition. And temporary. It would cease when – yes, when – she uncovered the perpetrator and brought them to justice. With the writing group meeting tonight, she needed a game plan. Come on, Hilda – you’ve read enough detective fiction to have some idea where to start. First of all, she decided - some two hours later - she needed a pool of suspects. That bit was easy. Her fellow aspiring writers were the obvious candidates. She would cast an exacting eye on each of them tonight. Speaking of which, the time was nigh.

“Off out, girl?”

Max’s voice rang through the darkness of the garden. Slipping out without his notice was barely possible, given his penchant for standing at the back door with his evening tipple, no matter the weather. And the weather was heartless tonight. Still, he slouched against the door jamb in the illuminated doorway. Why, for goodness’ sake, did he still insist on addressing her as “girl”? At fifty-seven, she was only ten years his junior – and long past girlhood. What he perceived as a term of affection had started to grate on her long ago.

“It's writing group night – as you know,” Hilda’s exasperation was poorly masked.

“I’ll walk you over there,” said Max.

“Max, it’s only on the other side of the church.”

“No matter – give me a minute. Can’t have you walking alone along there, girl. Not in the dark.”

Hilda suppressed the urge to tut. Really, there should be awards for such restraint, she thought. Watching Max huddle into his shabby brown coat, she softened a little. His head, a cadaverous congregation of angles, managed to create an aura of both gravitas and vulnerability. His piercing blue eyes, though now borderline rheumy, remained vitally intelligent. The general impression was of genteel impoverishment.

“Might pop in for a quick whiskey,” Max said. They strode along the still street, the terraced row on the right and the church - its irradiated stained-glass windows joining forces with the full moon to offer respite from the darkness - on the left.

God, no – the thought jumped unbidden into Hilda’s head. Because Max would interfere. He wouldn’t – couldn’t - stand and have a quiet drink at the bar. No, he’d interject and opine freely about the topic under discussion. And, regardless of the theme, he’d know all about it. Of course he would. He was a former Professor of Creative Writing, after all. Boundaries, such as they were: blown to smithereens. At one time, Hilda reflected, his habit of discussing the writing habits of Dostoevsky or James Joyce – or whomever – as though they were neighbours of his was a source of amusement. Pride, even. But now? Did others see it as intellectual arrogance?

Did she?

But now was no time for reflection. She had a job to do.

The village shivered under its crisp, snow-filled roof. It was one of those evenings best spent indoors with the fire blazing and the seasonal weather witnessed through a pane of glass. Despite the biting cold, though, the scene that met Hilda and Max was warmly festive. The church, proud and imposing, stood sentry over its surroundings like a mother surveying her brood. In the centre of the green towered a brightly-lit tree, flanked by memorial seats and facing one of three pubs the village lay claim to: the St Jude Arms.

A cheerful, intimate buzz met the pair as they entered the pub. They settled by the log burner and Max went to order drinks. Hilda braced herself for the coming investigation. Her peers must be put under the spotlight tonight.  

First to arrive, confettied with rapidly defrosting snowflakes, was Vivienne Sullivan, high-school English teacher and former colleague of Hilda’s. Sacred Cow was Hilda’s secret moniker for Vivienne. Always left to graze, no matter how obvious the misdemeanour. Was it accidental that she was Suspect #1 on Hilda’s list?

“Not taking your coat off then?” What some might call a smile hovered around the corners of Vivienne’s lips.

“I’m not stopping,” snapped Hilda.

Both Max and Vivienne shot Hilda a confused look, interrupted by the entrance of the group’s latest members, gloopy married couple John and Judy – ages indeterminate. Hilda had no idea what the two of them stood for. If anything. They seemed to use the writing group as an opportunity to showcase their tediously saccharine partnership. And she was sure she’d heard Judy, last session, describing her as ‘salty’ to her husband. Judy’s creative offerings were on a par with the average fourteen-year-old’s. A spiteful thought, Hilda knew.

John and Judy Davenport liked living in St Jude. They’d said so many times. It wasn’t the same as their old seaside home in Seaview Sluice, of course. But with everything becoming more expensive, and the two of them not getting any younger, downsizing had been a sensible option. Much cheaper here, they reasoned, and ample amenities. They also liked the cosiness of the old village, from which the ever-expanding town radiated.

They even had a budding social life. Judy had joined the knitting group. Never mind that they had been politely asked – by Hilda - to find another venue to produce their woolly hats and baby booties. Well, library-users complained about the clacking of their knitting needles, so what else could be done? John had a small garden to potter about in – much more manageable than the sprawling patch of land he’d tended at the old house. And then there was the writing group. Something they could enjoy together. And small enough to ensure they could have their say.

Between these two, Vivienne and Max, five minutes would be Hilda’s limit in her current mood. Two more members to arrive, then she could say her piece and leave. As if on cue, the ancient wooden door flung open, admitting the group’s founder and his sidekick, along with an icy blast. Shaking off his overcoat, the slow-moving, rimy-haired George ‘Irony’ Wolff, editor of the local paper and chair of the group, said his good evenings and commented on the weather. “ An apt night for deconstructing the cosy mystery genre!” he guffawed, his ruddy face angling in the direction of the window. A comment that brought a chorus of agreement from around the table.

Shadowing his movements was Jed Steele, freelance journalist, a rather gaunt young man of didactically liberal leanings. His articles, which sometimes made their way into George’s paper, were freighted with the moral righteousness specially reserved for those who enjoy a certain level of privilege. His nose was on the long side, and borderline pointed, contributing to his somewhat pinched appearance. His eyes, small and blue, darted from behind his designer spectacles. Agreeing with George, he then added “Not so good for the homeless, unfortunately – courtesy of this government’s shambolic attitude to social responsibility.” Really, his endless political cant is rather exhausting, thought Hilda. It trounces my fundamental tendency to agree with him. One cannot not even have a bacon sandwich without his turning it into a diatribe on the plight of pig farmers, or the evils of not being vegan. Hilda questioned whether Jed was someone who would actually want to claim her work as his own. It was unlikely, she admitted to herself. Their styles differed enormously. And his moral superiority – she was sure of it – masked a mean and narcissistic spirit.

Whiskey drained, Max plonked his glass down on the table. As if sensing Hilda’s prickliness, he announced, “Well, that’s me done, folks. Off home to wrap up warm, read a good book and have an early night!” Amid a cacophony of goodbyes, Max made good his departure. Hilda glimpsed his dark shape shuffling past the window, head bent against the blizzard.

“Now then,” began George, “let’s get on with the business of the evening. Have we all had a crack at writing an opening based on the model? We’ll do our usual thing of going around the table and…” Aware that George was about to bluster through one of his woolly commentaries, Hilda cleared her throat. “Before we begin,” she said, “there is an issue I would like to raise”. All eyes turned on her. Quietly critical was her usual style, not this strident ambush. And so she began: “As you all know, at our last meeting I shared my manuscript. It was, you’ll remember, ready to pitch to publishers. You all commented on it. Max was here, too, and even he agreed that it should be in print.” She paused, “And we all know how picky he is!” This brought a few snickers. “Anyway, I recall placing it in my rucksack afterwards.” She paused again, and when she spoke her voice had taken on an unwelcome cracked quality. “The thing is, when I went to take it from my rucksack the next morning, it was gone. And … well, I’d left it unattended several times the previous evening.”

“Surely,” George was the first to respond, “you don’t think one of us removed it?” Despite his role – inherited! -  at the paper, he really was rather stupid.

“I’m saying,” Hilda had now gathered herself, “ that on Thursday evening the manuscript was in my bag, and on Friday morning it wasn’t.”

“Hang on!” sneered Vivienne. “What on earth makes you think anyone here would want to steal your work?!”

And there we have it, thought Hilda, but said, “Why indeed? What motive would anyone have? Playing a trick on me, perhaps?” Here she looked Vivienne straight in the eye. “Or revenge?” This time it was Judy’s turn to receive Hilda’s now steady gaze, and its recipient flushed at the memory of the knitting incident. John patted his wife’s shoulder,

Jed had clearly decided to act as the voice of reason, saying “Couldn’t you have taken it out when you got home and simply forgotten about it? Have you had a good look?”

But Hilda did not hear this. She heard, instead: “You’ve lost it, you silly, post-menopausal, middle-aged woman! No one would want to steal that pile of chaff we were all too nice to pillory!”

“ I live in a caravan,” Hilda replied coldly, fixing her eyes on his. “Even I, with my supposedly diminishing capabilities, couldn’t mislay something as tangible as a manuscript in that small a space!”

“Don’t you have it saved?” smirked Vivienne. This caused Hilda to smash her glass down on the table, triggering her Guinness to slosh over the side and splash onto her coat.

Of course she had it saved. That wasn’t the point.

Thank goodness she no longer had to work alongside this painted creature on a daily basis. The best course of action, decided Hilda, was to completely disregard the question.

“Anyway,” thrust Hilda, “as we all know, find the motive and you’ve found the man!”

Vivienne and Jed laughed out loud in unison. “You really have been reading too many detective stories!” said Jed. Not too unkindly.

“You don’t seriously suspect that I would take it, Hilda?” pressed George, the tip of his nose reddening. “I started this group! I’m a newspaper editor, for goodness’ sake, so why would I want to purloin the work of one of my mentees?” He patted her hand.

Mentees?!

“ Because,” Hilda retorted, “ because, you talentless little scone-faced man, you couldn’t write your way out of a paper bag! You’re only at the paper because of nepotism! Everything you write, whether here or in your silly, small-town rag, is as dull as ditchwater! My bus pass has more interesting text on it!” Oh well, no point in trying to save the burning bridge now.

With that, Hilda jumped to her feet. And, knowing full well the childishness of her behaviour, she stamped her foot, Rumpelstiltskin-fashion, did an about-turn, and stomped out of the pub, letting the door noisily announce her exit.

All she wanted to do was go home, to the soothing ferocity of Hildegaard. The sight of her tiny home, the green box donning a deep white lid, balmed her soul. She felt strangely liberated. However unfair or inaccurate her comments, she’d released the beast that had been hibernating within her being. She’d given her tongue free rein.

To her annoyance, Max was standing at his – her! – doorway, enjoying his umpteenth tipple of the evening. Something about his stance told Hilda he’d been waiting for her. “You’re back!” he called. “Got five minutes, girl?” Hilda inwardly groaned. “I’ve good news for you!”

Hilda raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Your manuscript?” Max gushed. “Thought I’d surprise you – forgive me, but I pilfered it from your bag last Thursday night and sent it to a friend of mine – you know, Harry, at Northumbrian Press? They love it – they want to publish! Congratulations!”

Hilda stood, motionless. Her jaw – literally, surely? – dropped.

She opened her mouth. But no words came.