The West London Hills

I was sitting on the hills of west London and waiting, perhaps for a person but most likely an audience; the papers were in my young hands and I chewed the tip of my pen. London was silent and grey. Sad. There was truly not a joyful human in the place from my view. The tendrils of blue smoke trailing from the countless houses told me of seclusion, of scuttling away and rotting. The big factories fumed smoke, but this too was silent and opaque, and the smoke seemed reluctant to escape the thick chimneys.

I came to those hills every week generally armed with ready written ballads and poetry, but that morning the papers were blank and my fingers shaking, craving for a decent thought. I kept watching the worn path below me, which expired at my feet, sometimes imagining her weaving into view and constantly growing closer as she would trek up the path. Her visits to hear my poetry had diminished. The day my brother, her husband, had gone to war she listened to every bit of my work, though back then it could hardly be called good, and she used to sit next to me, silently crying, watching the world beyond London and sometimes whispering, “Come back, won’t you?”

We were sad together for my brother. A day didn’t go by when we had the option to vacate the city and resign ourselves to each other’s company. It was never ceremonial. Friends hopefully don’t have to be. A month after my brother was in the trenches, she began to smile at my poems and ended the occasions with, “You’re wonderful, Hugh. I love you.”

I could actually gather some joy from her words, and began to write excessively, with the pure hopes of averting her thoughts from bleakness, and I was ecstatic that it worked. We met every week on the west hills, sometimes twice a week, and by the end of the year she was smiling so much that perhaps people below were looking up and considering us insane. Now it was March, a gusty month and often strewn with leaves wet with rain. There had been no news of my brother for three months.

She did come that day, however, to my surprise, and when I saw her I realized I hardly knew the person. The thoughts which had slowly overtaken me over the days were pulsating, She hardly cares about me. Look. She’s coming because she feels perfectly obligated to do it. What about me? Do I exist too? Does anyone else care about shedding some light like I do?

Even when she had come in the recent past, her face was dormant and told me nothing. There was no longer any praise or smiling, no friendly embraces, no I love yous, or anything else I had put my hope in. She gave a grim smile and sat down next to me, then turned away and stared over the city. It was true. I was afraid of her, terrified, to be precise, and had I been asked to say anything my mind would have refused. Had she said anything, even the most innocent of all details, I knew that I would prefer to stay silent, to ignore her efforts and consequently force her to pity me.

She spoke. Her voice was quivering and far too personal for me to remain composed. I clenched the papers in my palm and snapped the pen in too, rendering useless the things I evidently cherished the most.

“I’ve lost you, Hugh,” she said. “Don’t you remember?” She looked at me. I could not for the life of me look back. Ink had spilled over my trousers. No matter. Better to be seen as the fool one is than to put it off subtly for year on year. I coughed and managed, “What do you mean, Estes.”

“I never came here for your poems.” My body was gripped by the cold. I had no conscious reply. I raised my head, the head of a phantom, silent and pale. She was looking into my eyes and nowhere else. I was caught there, for once failing to look away, and she continued, “I came here because I loved you. I know you’re alone. I’m alone too. I laughed because I was in your company. Your poems are lovely. But can’t you ever get over your own words and be yourself?”
My breath was gone, but I said, “I’ve tried so hard to please you. I don’t know why I feel this way.”

Estes touched my shoulder and whispered, “You’ve forgotten, dear. You’ve forgotten that you were never my performer but my friend. You’ve forgotten so much that you’ve nearly forgotten me.”