Hilda

The cat sat, staring at him. Eyes that were two white dots that looked otherworldly. He woke and looked up at it, then rolled over and fell back to sleep.

When the alarm went off, he slammed the ‘off’ button hard, then rolled over and hauled himself up, walked over to the tiny makeshift kitchen and put the kettle on and waited for it to sing, then made himself a cup of coffee, sat and sipped it, looked out at the day; an apartment block standing opposite, a cloudless sky above. He took his shower and got dressed, and stood, looking at himself in the mirror, saw that he had grown older, noted the wrinkles around his eyes and the paunch that he was now carrying. It was cold outside and he pulled his coat close, the air, a reflection of his mood. He crossed the road and made it to the tram-stop where a little old lady was sat, knitting, skin like a turkey’s, flapped over itself, and he sat and looked at her and wondered what her life had entailed and then the tram wobbled its way up the tracks and the doors crunched open and he got on and found a seat by the window; cars going passed, all lined up and beeping at each other.

By the time that it had made it into the city, it had turned overcast. He got off and started making his way to his place of work, the streets, full of people, some bumping into him as he walked. After a while, he came to the restaurant that was his place of work; a red lettered sign that lit up the front in electric lights, said ‘the spaghetti tree restaurant’. He looked at it, and wondered if he would be working here all his life, and the idea seemed plausible enough, though, if he was honest, he had always hoped for more out of life than a job in restaurant, but what? It was his own sixty-million-dollar question, and one that he never seemed to be able to answer.  The old door squeaked as he pulled it open and made his way up the stairs.

He passed the bar; the bar-man, a new guy, standing behind it, polishing a glass, looked at him as if he was in the wrong place. He ignored him and made it to the back and ran into Hilda, the night manager, as he always would, holding the door-way to the kitchen. Hilda, barking orders and holding plates with meals on them, hair cut into a fresh bob; clothes, as always, immaculately pressed. She looked at him and chastised him for being late, which he wasn’t, then strode passed, and, as always, he admired her legs, high heels in black stockings, good calves. He walked out the back and got changed into his uniform, glad for the fact that he had ironed his shirt, then stepped out, and, as was his habit, said hello to the kitchen staff.

There was Ray, the main chef, who had reportedly done jail time in his youth but had apparently mellowed, Pauly, a former con-man, and some said pimp, who, too, had reformed his ways, and Tommy, the apprentice, who never seemed to say much, which made everyone nervous.

‘Jimmy, you on the floor tonight?’

‘Where else would I be?’

The same old gag that they would always open the shift with, and by now, he didn’t even know what it meant, except to say that what he had come to understand was that he actually liked working here, and for reasons, he himself, didn’t fully understand, something about the place that he liked, but couldn’t put his finger on.

Two years later, Hilda died from lung cancer, shocking everyone. Now, he was standing in a funeral parlour with the other workers, morning her passing, and, as he stood, he realised that he had fallen a little in love with Hilda, and now, was shocked at how short life could be. The priest said a few words, words that were of some comfort, though did little to console him. Now, they were leaving and getting into cars and making their way to where she lived, with her mother.

An overcast day in suburbia. They pulled up to the house and made their way inside, the place just like any other, like all the others in the neighbourhood; a small front yard with a veranda, polished wooden doorway, carpeted rooms: a three-bedroom place, one he would never be able to afford.

Inside, it was full of people, some, standing around consoling each other, telling stories about Hilda, and he was shocked to discover just how popular she actually was. Though, one thing stood out like sore thumb: Hilda never had anybody, or at least no-one that anyone knew about, and he suddenly wondered if she was saving herself for someone, maybe even him? But there was no way to know, and then, a woman was pressing herself up against his arm, a woman he had never met before, a woman with long hair, wearing a skimpy dress, smelling of perfume and whisky.

‘I loved Hildy,’ she said, burrowing herself into his arm, and he looked at her and didn’t know what to say except the truth.

‘So, did I.’ And then a man came and took her away and he looked around for his mates, drank more whisky.

That night he dreamt of her and wondered where she had gone. The same old thing: losing someone; it just didn’t seem possible that she wasn’t there anymore. The next day, he returned to work, and that was where the biggest gap was, the emptiness, without Hilda. For a second, he thought about quitting his job, then walked out the back to take the first of the orders, saw Ray and Jimmy and Pauly, standing there in their chef’s outfits, all wearing glasses, balding and overweight.

‘Jimmy, I need you to take over Hilda’s job.’ He looked around and saw that it was the voice of Carlotta, the owner, someone, he hardly knew, and had only heard about; a big woman with long blonde hair, a woman who once might have been something but now had let herself go.

‘But I don’t know how to �"

‘Don’t give me that crap, you’ve been working here for seven years. If you don’t know how to do it by now, you’ll never know. And with that, she turned her back on him and walked out of the restaurant and then, Carla, the other night manager, came over and consoled him.

‘Don’t worry about it, Jimmy, I’ll show you the ropes.’

He looked at her and was grateful, but it didn’t bring back Hilda.

That night Hilda’s ghost came to visit him, and it wasn’t just in his dreams. She was sitting on his recliner, facing him in his sleep, watching his movements, smoking a cigarette, the stench of it making him cough, waking him up, and there she was, as she had always been, wearing her night manager’s suite.

‘So, you got my old job, aye, I always knew that you would; though, naturally, I didn’t think that I’ve have to die, so you could get it.’

His eyes snapped open and he saw the apparition sitting in front of him, sitting on his recliner staring right at him: Hilda, it couldn’t be! He sat up and looked closer, saw that it was her, except that it looked as though her skin was falling off of her and starting to sag, and there was a rotting smell, far worse than the cigarette smoke.

‘Hilda, is that you?’

‘Who the hell else, you’re Mumma?’

‘What are you doing here? You’re meant to be de-

‘Dead, yeah, I know. Well, don’t worry about it.’

She looked down for a moment and he saw a great sadness come across her face, and then she looked up at him.

‘You should have asked me out, Jimmy.’

He looked at her.

‘But what difference would that have made?’

‘It would have made a big difference, Jimmy.’

She held his stare and started to disappear, her body evaporating.

‘We don’t go on forever, Jimmy, just remember that.’

He watched the last remnants of her disappear, and then she was gone and there was only the empty chair and the darkness and the night, and no trace of her whatsoever, and he immediately wondered whether or not he had even seen her at all, and then the dawn came in and he watched the sun rise over the horizon and he was suddenly shocked by the beauty of everything.

He got out of bed, and decided to end his habit of sleeping in, and taking everything for granted, and being angry at the world. He took his shower and decided to go for a walk before work, walked to the beach and watched the sun come up on the horizon, saw some early morning swimmers making their way from the water. He sat down and watched them, watched the water washing in on the sand, and thought more about Hilda, wondered whether or not he had merely dreamt about her ghost, then realised that it made no difference. He tried to hold onto the memories, but it was no good, she was gone, and there was nothing anyone could do about that either.