Time to go A-Sleuthing

I discovered via an acquaintance that there is a crime writing competition being run for crime stories set in Scotland and it is far too tempting.

A Soul for Hilda Mainwaring

This is another story that didn't get me through the first round. It's not a bad story but I'll admit I needed more room to investigate the theme properly. Hope you enjoy.

A Soul for Hilda Mainwaring

When reaching her limits, Donna has to face what it is that makes her hate her charge so much.

 

Hilda Mainwaring wasn’t ill or old. She smoked 20 fags a day, but her lungs toughed it out. She ate truckloads of cakes and chocolates that her neighbours snuck in but wasn’t diabetic. Hilda was over 30 stone and could do nothing for herself. Woe betide anyone that didn't do things exactly how she wanted. She would rip into them. By the time I got sent over, Hilda had gone through 18 nurses in six months.

"Do you know nothing about arranging a sleeve?" Hilda snapped, as I put laundry away.

"No, I don't, Hilda," I answered her back. "Are you going to come over and show me?"

She glared from 10 feet away, her pronate ankles incapable of supporting her.

"I didn't think so. I'm on a time limit, if you don't mind."

She didn't say another word. I had to get out. I was gasping for a smoke.

As I dressed her next day, she was silent as the grave. I winched her into the reinforced wheelchair and got her settled in the living room. Once I’d done breakfast, I headed for the door.

"Someone has to clean that kitchen floor."

"Then you better call domestic services, Hilda. I'm a nurse, not the help." The line was blurrier than that. By rights I could have done it, but I felt like being argumentative. Let Home Care take care of it.

I was seething as I walked towards the car, scrabbling in my bag for a lighter. I needed a smoke to calm my nerves. I inhaled deep, letting the anger go. This was my life: house to house, blankets, bathe, breakfast. Men putting hands on me. Women accusing me of theft. Do the small stuff. Hand them a cup of tea. Make sure their medication was in order and that they weren’t storing it up for a quick exit. I could sympathise with that.

But Hilda got to me. I dreaded walking up her path in the morning or going back for lunch. I hated doing her evening meal and putting her to bed. One entire week she didn't speak to me except to tut if I hadn’t done something. No matter dismissive I was of her, she never complained.

“Your dinner’s in the dumb waiter,” I called up the stairs, an unlit cigarette already in my hand. We had that in common I suppose.

I heard a grunt and the click of the electric motor carrying the food upstairs. Good enough.

Hilda died that night.

"I'm glad she's dead."

"Donna!" Mam glared at me.

"Mam, I don’t give a shit?"

"You should."

"Why?"

"She died alone. That’s awful for anyone."

Mam had a point. Hilda was stubborn. She knew what she wanted and didn’t hold back in getting it. A trait I would admire in others.

Despite myself, I realised I would miss her. There but for God’s Grace…

As I left the church, fishing out a cigarette, I prayed for the soul of Hilda Mainwaring.

P.S. All constructive criticism welcome