Returning, I asked her how she was.
‘I feel very stiff today.’
‘Well, I keep telling you, Hilda, you ought to get up and about. Walk up to the square and back. It’d do you the world of good.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, readjusting her blanket.
‘Are you warm enough? Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘Maestro, I’m fine. Will you stop fussing?’
‘Well, you know, I like to make sure you’re OK. None of us are getting any younger.’
She attempted a smile. ‘You’re so kind. I don’t know how I would cope without you.’ The words were appreciative, and she said them occasionally, but I always felt as if she was saying them for the sake of it; because she felt she had to; it never felt as if it came from the heart.
‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ I said, playing my part.
‘It’s been many years now, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it has. But someone had to look after you, eh?’
‘Did you say something about a cup of tea?’
I laughed. ‘Coming right up, Hilda, coming right up.’
Annecy, October 1982
A couple days after Monsieur Bowen’s visit, came the photographer. A young woman in a hurry. She declined my offer of a drink and kept her mackintosh on, its belt flapping behind her. She did her business quickly and efficiently, thanked me and left. I was rather disappointed how little time it took.
Each day, I bought Hilda her paper and quickly flicked through its pages to see whether my interview had appeared yet. I did wonder what she’d make of it. I feared she’d be cross but she knew what I was like, and, heck, I thought, the world had given her up for dead; it had no interest in her any more.
I hadn’t been quite honest with Monsieur Bowen. I did visit Hilda in prison again. A week or so after my first visit, I received a short letter from her. It merely thanked me for the cake, saying how delicious it was. I was so pleasantly surprised that, a few weeks later, I made another and set off all the way to Rennes to deliver it to her. And that’s how it started it. Despite the distance and the effort, not to mention the cost, I went once a month for the rest of her sentence. I didn’t like leaving Claude by himself for so long a day, but, as I told him, it wasn’t often.
Once there, we talked about the news, the gossip and even, to my surprise, sport. She read the papers everyday, devouring what was going on in France and around the world. She was fascinated by the on-going war in Vietnam; she adored the cyclist, Eddie Merckx, who had won the Tour de France that year, and liked to pour scorn on Georges Pompidou and the work of his government.
Towards the end of her sentence, I brought up the subject of where she was going to live following her release. Although she still had her apartment in Paris, she was determined never to return to the capital. I knew the feeling. I helped her sell the flat and, with the proceeds, bought a little cottage in the same village as mine near Annecy. In October 1971, after exactly three years in prison, Hilda was released. I met her at the prison gates, and took her to Annecy and her new home, fearful of what she’d think of it. She liked it. Almost immediately, however, she became a recluse, rarely venturing out, content to sit at home all day, or sitting out in the small garden at the back, reading the papers. I suggested she buy a pet and took Claude round to visit. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the dog and asked me never to bring ‘that mongrel’ round again. But she did buy a budgerigar – the first of many.
Eleven years later, little had changed but now, aged 82, she suffers from her age.
*
Ten days after the photographer’s visit, it was there! My interview. I was already half way from the shop to Hilda’s cottage, when I saw it. Whatever happened to the Maestro? said the headline. Once, he was renowned and feted throughout France as the future of classical music. Yet, just when his star was at its zenith, just
‘I feel very stiff today.’
‘Well, I keep telling you, Hilda, you ought to get up and about. Walk up to the square and back. It’d do you the world of good.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, readjusting her blanket.
‘Are you warm enough? Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘Maestro, I’m fine. Will you stop fussing?’
‘Well, you know, I like to make sure you’re OK. None of us are getting any younger.’
She attempted a smile. ‘You’re so kind. I don’t know how I would cope without you.’ The words were appreciative, and she said them occasionally, but I always felt as if she was saying them for the sake of it; because she felt she had to; it never felt as if it came from the heart.
‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ I said, playing my part.
‘It’s been many years now, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it has. But someone had to look after you, eh?’
‘Did you say something about a cup of tea?’
I laughed. ‘Coming right up, Hilda, coming right up.’
Annecy, October 1982
A couple days after Monsieur Bowen’s visit, came the photographer. A young woman in a hurry. She declined my offer of a drink and kept her mackintosh on, its belt flapping behind her. She did her business quickly and efficiently, thanked me and left. I was rather disappointed how little time it took.
Each day, I bought Hilda her paper and quickly flicked through its pages to see whether my interview had appeared yet. I did wonder what she’d make of it. I feared she’d be cross but she knew what I was like, and, heck, I thought, the world had given her up for dead; it had no interest in her any more.
I hadn’t been quite honest with Monsieur Bowen. I did visit Hilda in prison again. A week or so after my first visit, I received a short letter from her. It merely thanked me for the cake, saying how delicious it was. I was so pleasantly surprised that, a few weeks later, I made another and set off all the way to Rennes to deliver it to her. And that’s how it started it. Despite the distance and the effort, not to mention the cost, I went once a month for the rest of her sentence. I didn’t like leaving Claude by himself for so long a day, but, as I told him, it wasn’t often.
Once there, we talked about the news, the gossip and even, to my surprise, sport. She read the papers everyday, devouring what was going on in France and around the world. She was fascinated by the on-going war in Vietnam; she adored the cyclist, Eddie Merckx, who had won the Tour de France that year, and liked to pour scorn on Georges Pompidou and the work of his government.
Towards the end of her sentence, I brought up the subject of where she was going to live following her release. Although she still had her apartment in Paris, she was determined never to return to the capital. I knew the feeling. I helped her sell the flat and, with the proceeds, bought a little cottage in the same village as mine near Annecy. In October 1971, after exactly three years in prison, Hilda was released. I met her at the prison gates, and took her to Annecy and her new home, fearful of what she’d think of it. She liked it. Almost immediately, however, she became a recluse, rarely venturing out, content to sit at home all day, or sitting out in the small garden at the back, reading the papers. I suggested she buy a pet and took Claude round to visit. She wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the dog and asked me never to bring ‘that mongrel’ round again. But she did buy a budgerigar – the first of many.
Eleven years later, little had changed but now, aged 82, she suffers from her age.
*
Ten days after the photographer’s visit, it was there! My interview. I was already half way from the shop to Hilda’s cottage, when I saw it. Whatever happened to the Maestro? said the headline. Once, he was renowned and feted throughout France as the future of classical music. Yet, just when his star was at its zenith, just
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