Hilda
Sunday 9th October 2016
If you have been on one of my workshops here, you may well remember Hilda. She often came down to the house at about tea time to sit with us at the end of the day, have a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and hear all about what we had been doing.
Well, last month, Hilda died. It was very sudden. She went on holiday, became unwell, was admitted to hospital first abroad and then after being air-ambulanced back, here in Somerset but a week later she died.
Hilda was 80. But really, she was about 40 years old in spirit, determination and character. I know 80 is a good age, but it’s not good enough for me and Hilda, because Hilda was one of my closest friends and much more than that, to me. A surrogate mum, I suppose, with all that goes with that – ups, downs, tiffs, laughs, tears, and mostly, love.
When we moved here, from Burnham-on-Sea, which may as well be That London as far as some locals are concerned, Hilda was the first person I met. If you don’t count the old goat who stomped up the path at 7.30 one Saturday morning just after we moved to bang on the door and moan about the hedge by the pavement. Hilda was not from Puriton. She was from South Wales originally and then had moved all over the UK and the world with her RAF husband. But unlike me, she had a great gift for overcoming barriers and she might as well have been born and raised in this village, because she was an integral part of its fabric.
Our first mutual love was knitting. Hilda was a fantastic knitter. She taught me to knit Fairisle. Years later, when I really took to it, she was so proud of me. She taught me to do so many things you cannot learn from You Tube or a book or a degree course. I have been almost unable to knit since she died, which is terribly awkward as I have a busy schedule of workshops to deliver. I also appreciate that I will have to pull myself together fast to a) be able to actually DO the workshops and b) avoid the wrath of Hilda if I don’t. She would tell me in no uncertain terms that I must not be so silly, I can hear her saying it: OK Ali, that’s fine, you’ve had your tears now let’s crack on.
When I applied for and, in an act of folly on their part, was appointed as a Rowan Design Consultant in the Cribbs Causeway John Lewis store, Hilda was absolutely, whole-heartedly and very generously even more thrilled than I was. Unlike me, she was also confident that I could do it. To make 100% sure of this, she often drove all the way up to sit at my table and be encouraging on my quiet shifts. From then on, until the last time I saw her in hospital which was three days before she died, she has been at my side in all my knitting adventures. Not always literally, but still, there. She knitted for me, she knitted with me, she encouraged me when I was unsure or anxious (often!), and always added so much value, wisdom and common sense to my work.
She used to say to me: Ali, you have the ideas, you’re the designer; I am the monkey! But she wasn’t. She had run her own hand-knitting business in the pre-Puriton days and I really do believe she did ‘Kaffe’ style designs before he could even knit. What she loved – and I loved about her – was that she never stopped wanting to learn. If she taught me, then I also taught her. Not as much but she really embraced skills such as felting, knitting with beads, Kidsilk Haze – she loved it! Moebiuses, steeking – wherever my adventures took me, she came too.
One things I used to do was ‘use’ Hilda as a guinea pig ‘class’ when I had a new, tricky workshop to teach. I never went ‘live’ without a practice on Hilda. Now I feel like I am flying solo for the first time. Where is my safety net? Who will I tell funny stories to when I make a hash up of something simple?
In the last few days in hospital in Taunton, she was visited by all her closest friends, mostly from the world of patch work which was really her domain. She was brilliant at it, ran several groups over the years and donated literally thousands of hours of her generous time to teaching and encouraging and organising at so many levels. Her group in the village was her pride and joy. As bereft as I feel, so they must feel terrible too. They have lost their group leader, a force to be reckoned with – and they loved her.
At her funeral – which was packed – the group hung some of her quilts in the church, in the porch and in the Church Hall. The Order of Service was literally covered in quilting too – it was so adorable, utterly bonkers and very, very Hilda. Look! Also, a quilted cross. She would have loved to see this.
This is not to say that we didn’t have our ups and downs. Unlike someone who is a ‘friend’, we could and did sometimes fall out, squabble – as you do with your family, because you
can. At times, she drove me nuts. For example somehow Hilda always seemed to pop in on the day I had my hair done – and she really didn’t like my purple, blue or pink phases! Never afraid to share an opinion, even if it was not invited, I frequently heard: Oh Ali! that really does not suit you! Thanks. Or: you will wear yourself out with running and the damn gym, well don’t ask ME to push you round in a wheelchair! Or: Don’t go caving. Or if you MUST go, don’t tell me! You will kill yourself and then what will you do with All That Wool?
We managed, twice, to fall out over the Village Flower and Craft Show. Impressive. God knows how, except that Hilda loved it and I hated it. Not the show itself, but entering it, which she forced me to do on three occasions. The trouble with you, Ali, is that you are not a joiner. You need to join in more! Oy, OK.
She comforted me when I was upset and told me to pull myself together many times. One creature who I think loved Hilda more than any other non-human is Rupert. He adored Hilda from the day she met him when he was eight weeks old. I went and ruined it a bit when I also got Arthur but Hilda and Pete had Rupert with them so often. Once he went on holiday with them in the caravan and he loved it. When his spine went and he had all those operations, Hilda made him a patchwork sling to help him learn to walk and knitted him a hand-made, felted sleeping bag which he still uses every day and every night. He simply loved her.
Now, I have part-fostering care of Hilda’s dog, Toby. He is only one year old. He is staying with Peter but has been spending a lot of time here, especially after Hilda was admitted to Musgrove and then again after her death. Poor Toby. But he has settled down here and also at home with just Pete and I walk him too. Rupert is not his biggest fan but we have attained peace and I aspire to friendship. Looking after Toby seems like the very least I can do for my old friend.
What Hilda enjoyed about the tea-time workshop visits was seeing all the participants, hearing about their knitting – and their sewing – and putting on on of her best hand-knits and sitting with us in the busy, end-of-workshop atmosphere; and then staying on for an hour after everyone had gone home to gossip about her week and tell me to stop knitting in grey all the while, for pity’s sake, Ali.
The door would open, in she came, I’d sit her down and get the tea and cake. It was just part of my life. It signaled the close of the day and it made me really happy just to see her, even if I was usually running about with a knife and ball of wool. I actually do not think I can bear it, that she will never do that again – and I am as mad as a badger because I booked her in at tea time for both my October workshops and the Christmas ones. And if she could be there, I know she would, because she never let me down.
Yesterday was the first workshop since her death. She was due to have tea with us, as always and at 3.30 ish I just could not help looking at the door. But I did not cry or feel like I would because it was busy and also a lovely, happy day which Hilda would have loved. We did steeking. She had knitted two Scandi-style cardigans and steeked them some years ago, but I still practiced my teaching on Hilda in the summer, showed her how I do it, with crochet (she did not approve, as she did hers with a sewing machine, but she did it anyway). That was the last time. If anyone wants to volunteer to be a guinea pig student in the future, just say…or I might just not bother.
The last time I saw her, in hospital, she had some fairly specific instructions for me to carry out. Amongst these, I was to eat cake at tea time after workshops. And use some of her stash to knit a jumper or cardigan in many coloured stripes, each one of which must be bordered with a single line of black knitting. Well, of course I promised so now I am faced with that task. I never wear stripes! I never wear colourful cardigans. She has set me a challenge, as ever. I was due to see her again two days later but she was too ill by then and the next day she died. The effort I must now make is to not remember her as she was that day, but as she was on some of our adventures together, in the years before her mercifully brief illness.
We have permission for her ashes to be buried in the village church yard, by the Church Rooms where every Tuesday she held court at her Patchwork/Quilting club. Very fitting.
So, Hilda, the question is (I am, as you know, ever selfish) what the HELL am I supposed to do now? And thank you, for being such a faithful friend to me – and more. Goodnight, God bless, see you in the morning.
Ah I remember Hilda, that’s a lovely tribute Ali. Sounds like she was living life to the full to the last. Don’t be too sad…xxx
Beautifully written. I’m sure Hilda would have been thrilled with that tribute. xx