Miss Hilda lived in a grey, castle-ish looking house high on a rise overlooking the cove. She was an English lady who prided herself on posture, appearance and propriety and she spoke with a cutting accent, her speech clipped and to the point. She was slightly horse faced, favored masculine attire, and carried a walking stick with a shiny brass duck head on the handle. She believed in cleanliness, exercise, proper diet and the monarchy and was said to have been a nurse, a nanny, a head housekeeper and a governess for a wealthy English manor family. From her practical walking boots to the slight mustache above her stiff upper lip, she was the very essence of no frills, no nonsense, properly bred and well brought up British womanhood. She scared the living daylights out of us.
Each evening - rain or shine - Miss Hilda briskly made her way to the post office and back again. She acknowleged those she passed with a wave of her stick and a curt nod but she rarely spoke unless it was to a gang of children and then she limited herself to Clear the way, you bedraggled street urchins! and the children would scatter like marbles. She collected her mail and deposited it in the black handbag she carried in her free hand, and then returned the way she had come, head high, back ramrod straight, eyes front.
Her first visit to McIntyre's Store became an island legend. She strode in like a military commander, surveyed the scene and found it wanting. The old men on the benches looked up from their newspapers and pipes, nodded to her and looked down again. Miss Hilda cleared her throat vehemently and then rapped her stick on the old wooden floor.
It is customary, she said clearly, eyes narrowed at the nearest bench, for gentlemen to rise when a lady enters a room. The dusty old men in their overalls and flannel shirts shuffled and got to their feet, eyes wide in surprise. Miss
Hilda gave them an approving nod and then made for the counter where she presented Mr. McIntyre with a neatly printed shopping list. I don't expect that you will have all these items in stock, she said, her tone clearly indicating that she considered this to be a serious business failure, so you can order them from your suppliers. Time is of the essence.
Mr. McIntyre reached for his reading glasses and looked at the list. Miss Hilda waited like a soldier at attention.
How will you be getting these things home, ma'am? he finally asked, frowning and Miss Hilda arched her eyebrows in surprise, took a breath for patience and said distinctly, Certainly, sir, your establishment avails itself of some manner of delivery service? Mr. McIntyre sighed, wiped his hands on his apron and conceded defeat. Of course, he told her, Will this afternoon be ok? Miss Hilda drew on her gloves and nodded, That will do, she said tartly, Good morning. She turned to leave and the old men on the bench got smartly to their feet. She swept past them like royalty, out the door and down the steps and thus the island's first delivery service was born. Mr. McIntyre hired the youngest Sullivan boy to sweep, clean up, and deliver groceries all over the island. He made a killing and very nearly put his competiton out of business while Miss Hilda became his best and most loyal customer.
Everyone benefits, she told Nana over tea one afternoon, from order and proper manners.
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