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The woman who walks alone

John Farquhar Young

    Every morning, following a light breakfast, Harriet, a tall, single, very thin woman now in her mid-fifties, starts her first walk of the day. She walks alone. She walks for miles. She frowns as she walks. She walks as rapidly as she can, her left arm swinging in an exaggerated angular fashion in front of her as she marches along one of several country paths near her home. She is occasionally conscious of the odd picture she must present but is quite indifferent to the other people’s thoughts. The movement of her spindly legs – left, right, left again – is the best, the only means she has found of masking the troubling inner beat in what she has come to think of to as her “substance”.
    Often, when she walks, the ever-vivid, ever-recurring memory of the final day in her beloved job erupts and adds energy to the inner pulse. “You’ve given many years of committed and highly valued service to the company,” purred the Head of Human Resources, his head slightly inclined to one side as he attempted to demonstrate concern and sympathy. “But the company must streamline its operations and make savings. And so...” he paused as if reluctant to continue, “... we sadly have to say farewell.” He smiled and nodded before continuing. “But of course, we feel obliged to recognize your important contribution over many years.” He paused again. “Accordingly, the company will provide a very generous redundancy payment and will substantially enhance your pension entitlements.”
    And then she was gone. In a state of shock, she opted to leave immediately. She was out, on her own, alone with a gallery of memories: memories of the many challenges she faced as an admin team manager, her achievements. Years of commitment! Years of dedication!
    Her sense of injustice simmers then erupts again, as she recalls her own meek, almost dutiful acceptance of her dismissal. How pathetic I was!
    She ignores the daffodils, brilliant yellow on the embankment, the crisp blue March sky, and the odd ‘good morning’ from the walkers she encounters on the path. Walk faster! She encounters an upward slope of the path. Her pace slows, her breathing becomes more laboured, her thin legs begin to ache, the pain dancing with the pulse of her grievance.
    She turns a corner in the path. A middle-aged man is slumped on a bench groaning, his breathing laboured, his face an ugly shade of bluish red. She knows the signs. Heart attack!
    She dials the emergency control room. Within minutes the paramedics arrive, an oxygen mask, a heart monitor, and intravenous drip are attached. And then he is gone.
    Life is so fragile, she thinks.
    She starts to walk again, then pauses. She has often passed this spot, but this is the first time she has taken in the scene - the small river, the waterfall, the trees, the banks of wild, blue, white and yellow flowers. Beautiful, she thinks.
    But then her inner turmoil reasserts itself with added force. Indifferent to her surroundings and still caught within the whirlpool of her emotions she turns along an unfamiliar and heavily wooded path. Stumbling and losing her balance she tumbles down an embankment coming to rest in the tangle of a bramble patch. “Fool,” she barks after a moment, her anger at her carelessness being further inflamed by the indignity of her prone position and the pain from her torn hands. Ruthlessly wrenching herself free from the grasping thorns, she clambers back to the path. Watch where you put your feet, she counsels herself sternly as she slowly commences her homeward trek.
    That day, she does not walk again but passes her time ruefully tending her scratches and pondering. Pondering is an unusual activity for Harriet. Pondering is not her favoured approach to the problems of life. Impatient by nature she has been inclined to prefer the rapid conversion of mental exertion into material accomplishment. But now, finding herself in more reflective mood, she begins to think about her jarred relationship with life.
    She believes she has many skills. I must put them to use, she decides. So, first step? What can I take for granted? Emotions, she believes, are, very often, a person’s reaction to their view of the world. But what world am I constructing? A challenging question! But ... I like challenges, she reminds herself.
    Her day draws to a close, and contrary to expectations she thinks she has made good progress. She has recalled an exercise involving a make-believe dialogue with imaginary personalities as a way of clarifying issues; and although, initially, she thinks that attempting to converse with a personalised view of her ‘world’ is basically a silly idea, she nevertheless diligently applies herself to the task, eventually concluding that aspects of her inner life she has hitherto regarded as irrelevant in her pursuit of a well-ordered life, are probably worthy of further scrutiny.
    Two months later: She walks, but now she no longer walks alone. A small, white, rescue dog of indeterminate breed, named Bertie, happily accompanies her. She walks, but now often pauses to take in the scene or else to watch Bertie vigorously investigating smells, cavorting with other dogs and doing other doggie things.
    Frequently, as she walks - and at other times - she conjures up, then smiling, waves aside, memories of the frowning, frequently disapproving scrutiny of her ambitious, driven father. Though long deceased, the remnants of his ever-critical presence in her formative years have, she believes, tightly woven themselves into the fabric of her reality. But now, as she walks, she shapes new inner pathways decorated by friendlier thoughts and enriched by fresh purposes.
    Her world? Quite a nice place really, she often thinks as she walks along.

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