Ill Wind

ILL WIND

 Hilda tried to ignore Cassie's yowling at the back door.   She drew her head under the covers, reclaiming the tip of her nose from the morning's chilling touch.

     The yowling continued.  Guiltily, Hilda eased out from beneath the covers.  She winced as the slipper caught on her corn.  Her arthritic fingers fumbled with the cord on her dressing gown.

     Cassie pushed up on her hind legs, rubbing her body against Hilda's legs.  She did this several times, rising and falling like a feline wave.

     Hilda ruffled Cassie's head fur.  "It's only cupboard love, you rascal.  You've only been out for a couple of hours."

     As Cassie ate, Hilda wandered absent-mindedly in the back garden. The winter sunshine fell on her like a blessing. She was surprised that the sun was "well up over the yard-arm" as her husband, Francis, used to say.  All their lives they had been early risers, but she didn't see much point in getting up early nowadays.

     As she went inside, she noticed the paw marks below the open laundry window.  She remembered Christa's warning about leaving a window open at night.  Perhaps she should get a cat flap put in, but she couldn't afford a tradesman.

     After eating and dressing, she decided to do some housework. The ornaments on the shelves in the living room were thickly coated with dust.

     She retrieved a sturdy chair from the kitchen and stepped up onto it.  She gently lifted a porcelain figurine from the shelf. As she brought it down to eye level, the room began to sway.  Her focus blurred.  Panic and nausea welled up as the world revolved around her.

     I must get down, she thought.

     She turned to get off the chair, but her left foot found only air. She pitched forward.

     As she fell, it seemed like she was swimming in slow motion. Her left hip caught the wooden arm of a lounge chair.  The impact twisted her body sideways and her arms, flung out to break her fall, hooked around, sweeping a large, porcelain vase off the coffee table.  She heard it break as her right shoulder slammed into the floor.  She came to rest on her back, her lungs fighting for air and coughing at the harshness of it when it came.   Each cough drove a hot spike into her hip.  She knew it was broken.

     For several minutes, she lay numbed by fear and pain.  She considered her options and decided they were few.

     She doubted that she could crawl to the phone to call Christa. And why give Christa the perfect excuse to put her in an old folks' home?

     Turning her head, she saw the handle of the duster protruding from the coffee table.  She raised herself on her elbows and dragged herself over to the duster.  As the carpet tugged at her blood-matted skirt, she realised that some of the broken porcelain must have embedded in her leg.

     With the duster handle between her teeth, she inched forward on her elbow towards the window.  Pain made her bite down on the duster handle. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead and upper lip.

     Repeatedly, she banged the duster handle against the window. The jarring on her hip forced her to pause.  When the pain subsided, she continued.

     Surely she must attract someone's attention.  It was a busy road with many passers-by.

     She lay still, her breathing laboured.  She must conserve her energy, only banging when the traffic noise abated.

     She continued.  Listening, banging, waiting, listening, banging, waiting.  No one came.

     Finally, enraged with frustration, she flung the duster at the window. Smashing glass should attract attention.  The duster rebounded to the floor.  Again and again, she flung it, but the window merely vibrated, easily repulsing the duster.

     Disbelief gave way to tears.  She slumped on the carpet and her pain dragged her over the threshold of darkness.

     Something warm and rough rubbed on her cheek, bringing her awake with its insistency.  It mewed softly near her face.  She lifted her head and Cassie's fluffy, white chest and ginger body came into focus.  Cassie's head was cocked slightly in that pose she adopted when a situation puzzled her.

     Cassie was a familiar landmark in a sea of distress.

     Hilda's voice came, cracked and disembodied.  "How'd you get in, Cass?"

     Cassie gave a short, sharp mew by way of reply.  Then she trotted away, disappearing into the kitchen.  Cassie's saucer chinked on the back step as Cassie stood on the saucer several times to gain Hilda's attention.

     The back door must be open, thought Hilda.

     The lengthening shadows cast by the Venetian blinds indicated that it was late afternoon.  She squinted at the wall clock, but could only decipher that it was some time after five.

     Darkness approached, a herald bringing a message of fear. What if her banging had been heard by the wrong person?  What if some human predator, aware of her helplessness, was returning under cover of darkness to beat and rape and rob her?  Her face was tight with anguish as she heard the back door banging intermittently in the night breeze, like a calling card to evil.

     The jangle of the phone made her heart leap.

     She winced as she turned her body round to crawl to the phone. Every limb had stiffened while she slept, but she set her face against the pain and crawled with all the speed she could muster.  The phone rang and rang like a verbose preacher holding out the promise of salvation.

     Finally, she was beneath it.  She reached up, but it remained tantalisingly out of reach. She lifted herself on her arm until her body shuddered with the effort.  Still her fingers clawed only air. The phone stopped.

     She sank back to the floor.  A wave of self-pity crashed against the foundations of her hope.

     She thought ruefully of how she had declined the offer from the home-visiting organization.

     "Save that for the folk who really need it," she had proudly told the nurse.

A kilometre away, another phone rang.  John Roberts was too preoccupied to answer it.

     "John, it's for you.  John!"

     His wife, Janine, held out the receiver, waiting for him to take it.

     "Who is it?"

     "Harry," she whispered tersely.

     Harry's ebullient voice boomed through the earpiece. "G'day, John. Like to drag those old bones around the golf course tomorrow?"

     "Sorry, Harry.  Too busy tomorrow.  And enough of the 'old'. 52 is hardly geriatric."

     "Too busy?  I thought you retired blokes had all the time in the world."

     "Semi-retired," John corrected him.

     "Sorry.  How's the consultancy going?"

     "I make a damn sight more than you slave drivers used to pay me. And for less work."

     "Well, don't slip into your old routine.  Take care of that ticker. I want someone to play golf with when I retire."

     "Sorry about tomorrow."

     "No worries, mate.  Catch you later."

     Janine asked, "Why'd you tell Harry you were busy tomorrow?"

     "There's something I have to do."

     "What?  Walk around the lake?  Golf's good exercise and the company would do you good."

     "Harry's conversation is limited to golf, football and engineering. I did hear something this morning, Janine.  It's probably something quite ridiculous, but I must be sure.  It's been bothering me all day."

     Janine was about to reply, but thought better of it.

As the morning sun came through the blinds, Hilda lay in its zebra pattern, dozing in welcome respite from the nightmares and noises of the night.

     A hollow rapping on the glass of the front door roused her.

     Her voice was an alien rasp.  "Help! Help me!  Please!"

     The knocking continued.  It stopped.  Someone tried the door handle.

     Hilda no longer cared who it was.  She took a deep breath and yelled, "Help!" as loudly and as highly pitched as she could manage.

     The ensuing silence seemed to go on forever.  Her heart pounded in her ears.  Someone called, "Hold on!" and urgent footsteps were followed by smashing glass.

     Although he was balding and overweight, the man who appeared looked like the Archangel Gabriel to Hilda.  His blue eyes were full of caring as he knelt beside her.  Gently, he brushed a wisp of hair away from her face. "Don't worry.  I'll call an ambulance."

     When he put the receiver down, she smiled weakly.  "The back door was open, you know."

The nurse wound Hilda's bed up so she could receive her visitor.

     John smiled shyly.  "I brought you some flowers."

     Hilda smelt their bouquet.  She peered impishly over the flowers. "A man hasn't brought me flowers for a long time."

     John brought out a gift-wrapped package from behind his back. "I hope you have a sweet tooth."

     Hilda tore open the wrapping like an excited child. "Chocolates."

     Her eyes were watery as she took John's hand in hers.  "I'm glad you came.  I didn't get a proper chance to thank you yesterday."

     "No need to thank me.  I'm just happy that you're all right."

     "How'd you find me?"

     "The day before yesterday I was passing your house and I heard banging on the window. I thought I'd imagined it until I heard it again. I went away, thinking it was nothing, but I couldn't get it out of my mind. Yesterday, I made some inquiries. When your neighbours realised they hadn't seen you the day before, I decided to check on you."

     "I'm glad you followed your hunch.  I could have still been there, wasting away slowly and painfully."

     "Why didn't you call me?"  Christa's question struck like a cobra.

   John and Hilda turned to face Christa.  She advanced to the bedside, her dark eyes smouldering. John caught a waft of the perfume that surrounded her like an aura.

     "I couldn't reach the phone," Hilda said.

     "I suppose you couldn't tell the hospital to contact me either.  I was worried sick when I couldn't reach you."

     John said, "I'd better go."

     Hilda grasped his hand tightly.  "Stay, John.  I want you to."

     Christa primped her hair and offered John her ring-bedecked hand. "Please excuse my rudeness.  I'm Christa, Hilda's daughter-in-law."

     "John Roberts."

     "You must be the man who found her.  How can we ever repay you?"

     "By going away and letting us get on with our conversation," Hilda said.

     Beneath her olive complexion, Christa flushed.  Her lips tightened. John could see Christa was unused to being challenged.

     "We have things to discuss, Hilda.  Would you excuse us, John?"

     "I'm not going in a home and that's final.  Now please go away."

     "Your experience has been very upsetting.  I'll come back when you're in a better frame of mind. Nice to meet you, John."

     John visited Hilda every day while she was in hospital.

     When Hilda returned home to recuperate, John volunteered his services. He enjoyed Hilda's company and admired her feistiness.  His newfound zest caused Janine to comment dryly, "I'm glad the other woman is at least 20 years older than me."

     One afternoon, as John was wheeling Hilda around the lake, he asked, "Tell me if it's none of my business, but why is there such animosity between you and Christa?"

     "She wants to put me in a home."

     "Perhaps she's worried you can't cope on your own."

     "The only thing she worries about is her bank balance.  She'd get a pretty penny from selling my house.  People like her assume old people are stupid."

     "Surely she can't be that calculating."

     "She put my older sister, May, in a home.  Said she was senile. May wasn't senile, but she is now."

     "Don't the rest of your family have a say in what goes on?"

     "My son's in Sydney and my daughter's in Melbourne.  They're too busy with their own families.  It suits them to believe Christa is looking after my interests."

     "And Christa's husband?"

     "My youngest, Mike, was killed in a car accident."

     "I'm sorry."

     "That's okay. My wounds have healed.  Christa's haven't. She wasn't always hard and bitter.  She never forgave Mike for dying and she's been taking it out on his family ever since."

     As they approached Hilda's house, they saw a blue, late-model car in her driveway.

     "Uh-oh, here's trouble," said Hilda.

     Christa got out of the car.  She wore a well-tailored cream suit. She removed her over-sized sunglasses and smiled.  Her smile was without warmth.

     "Did you two have a lovely walk?"

     "Yes," Hilda replied, "until we got home."

     "Let's not have any unpleasantness, Hilda.  I've brought you some good news."

     Christa handed Hilda a letter.  Hilda read only a few lines before her face set in a scowl.  She passed the letter to John who read some key phrases before Christa snatched it from him.

     “This is family business."

     "John's more like family to me than you are."

     "Well, we're very grateful to John, but I'll be taking care of you until you're well enough to go to Sunny Vale."

     "Sunny Vale."  Hilda spat out the words.  "Why do they all have sugary names like Sunny Vale?"

     John said, "Look, Christa, I'm sure you mean well, but Hilda's happy in her own home."

     Christa fixed him with a flinty gaze.  "This accident proved she's not capable of living alone."

     "But she has me to keep an eye on her now."

     "And what happens when you tire of playing Good Samaritan?"

     "But I..."

     "I'd like you to stop coming here.  If you persist, I'll be forced to take out a restraining order."

     John was about to argue when an idea came to him.

     "You can't treat John like that.  Don't listen to her, John."

     "It's all right, Hilda."  He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, but she didn't feel reassured.  "Goodbye."

Two days passed in uneasy truce.  Christa was gracious in victory.  Hilda looked through the Sunny Vale brochures half-heartedly, brooding about John relinquishing their friendship without a fight.

     On the second afternoon, Christa answered a knock at the front door.

     "What are you doing here?  I thought I made myself quite clear."

     "Christa, I'd like you to meet my friend, Malcolm Evans....QC."

     "What stupid game are you playing?"

     "Malcolm doesn't normally do this, but he felt you deserved the personal touch."

     Malcolm pressed a legal document into Christa's hand.  "Christa Weyland, you are hereby restrained from visiting these premises or having any contact with Hilda Weyland without her permission. This temporary order is binding while the proper documents are being prepared for filing."

     After Christa left in a flurry of threats and slammed doors, John and Malcolm went into the living room.

     "Hilda, we've..."

     "I know.  I heard every word."

     Malcolm offered his hand.  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Weyland.  I'm Malcolm Evans."

     "Call me Hilda, please."

     John beamed.  "No more Sunny Vale while I'm around."

     “John, I'm ashamed.  I thought you'd deserted me."

     He gave her a look of mock reproval.

     Hilda looked at her injured hip.  When she looked up, two fat tears were gathering momentum down her cheeks.  "It's true what they say about an ill wind."