Open Writing

“I might go to town on the bus this afternoon Fred. I could do with a few things.”

Hilda had just finished washing the breakfast pots. Breakfast was always porridge - made with milk, never water as the packet said. She shuffled into the shabby front room, her head down.

“This carpet’s a disgrace - threadbare on these bits and where the stairs door catches - just look at it? This door’s needed fixing for as long as I can remember. It’s dreadful when the suns on it - all bleached out in places. I can hardly see the pattern. It’s a real worry to me this carpet.”

Hilda was still in her dressing gown, her thin grey hair unkempt, tired eyes straining to see. Seventy-nine years old, Hilda weighed less than six stones. She looked ghost like, the drooping cardigan at least three sizes too big.

Forty years ago she was the local ballroom dancing champion, with flaming red hair and likened to Rita Hayworth. She and Fred had won cups galore and many still stood on the sideboard, tarnished reminders of an exciting past. The small house was airless and kitchen smelly. It cried out for fully opened windows and sunshine fresh air. The ancient Goblin, cylinder cleaner, in the stair cupboard, was itself gathering dust.

The green chair, by the window, was her favourite and she sat in it now, staring out and listening to the shouts of children on their way to Greensboro School, at the end of Albert Street.

“Have we left it too late to start our own dancing school Fred? Young people are always asking us about it. We could do with the money. You might be able to pack your job up at the butchers - you’d like that.”

Images of the glittering ballrooms they knew were now dancing across Hilda’s vision, clear as yesterday.

“You loved me in that white tulle Fred. We won the South Yorkshire in that frock. You always told me that. Too fancy for the wedding though.”

”I think I’ll put a few rollers in my hair and we can go down town on the bus.”

Hilda eased herself out of the chair and made her way to the bottom of the stairs.

“We could have a cup of tea at the bus station and get the same bus back if you like.
I’ll just get dressed Fred - we can decide later.”

Hilda was breathless climbing the thirteen stairs to the top landing and rested in the usual place by the airing cupboard. It was warm there and comforting.

“Never thought, when we met in the butchers, we’d end up in Blackpool Tower ballroom. All those people, clapping and cheering. We showed ‘em didn’t we Fred?

Hilda was looking through the window again, when the white van pulled up at the gate. It was Audrey Bromley, the ‘dinner’ lady.

“See you’ve got your rollers in Hilda. Dancing tonight is it?”

Audrey was smiley and cheerful, as always.

“Brought you some nice pasta - or you can have homemade pie and vegetables. Fruit for afters - How’s that?”

I think I fancy the pasta please - perhaps Fred could have the pie. That sounds
really nice”

Audrey gently took hold of Hilda’s thin bony arms.

“Fred’s been dead two years Hilda”, she said quietly - just as she’d said it yesterday and the day before

“ I’ll get the pasta for you love.”