Ida – A True Story

Foreword

The following story is based on real life events.

‘Ida’ accounts the curious end of an even more curious story – the story of Ida Mayfield Wood, a fascinating swindler-turned-hermit of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I first read about Ida when I was working on an entirely different story. I was set to call my main character ‘Ida Wood’ – a name I thought I had made up. I always Google search my characters’ names, however, to make sure I haven’t accidentally borrowed it from a celebrity or historical figure. In this case, I had done just that. Once I started to read up on the real Ida Wood, I was so fascinated by her story that I cast aside the other story entirely, and began taking down notes about her, and her strange but fascinating life.

The story is written from the second person perspective, to encourage the reader to form a relationship with Ida herself. I wanted them to feel as though they were living in the moment, walking in her shoes, rather than being led through the action by an outsider. When telling somebody else’s story, I believe it is important to take a step back and allow it to speak for itself, and this was my way of doing so.

Ida – A True Story

The date is March 5th, 1931. You haven’t left your Herald Square Hotel apartment since you checked in, twenty-four years ago. You still feel it was the right thing to do. What choice did you have, but to tear yourself away from that world?

Nobody has entered your room in all the time you have been here. You made sure of that. If something could be settled through a crack in the door, then why would you allow your privacy to be invaded any more than that? You could always take care of yourselves just fine; you never needed any more than each other. Anybody could call themself a hotel ‘employee’ just to get close to you – to your money.

Your childhood taught you just how little you needed in life. You are grateful for that now. Eggs, bacon, crackers, coffee, evaporated milk, and the occasional fish – that’s all you requested in all your years at the hotel; that’s all you ever needed. You are nothing, if not resourceful. How else would you have got to where you did in life?

But now, your sister is dying. Mary is the only one left who you trust, and now you are to lose her too. You are the oldest: this isn’t the way things were supposed to happen.

You know that you must open the door; you must call out for help. But it’s already too late. Your hand hesitates above the handle for just a moment longer.

You open the door.

The universe you created between four walls shatters into pieces. Now that you have acknowledged the outside world, there is no going back.

Soon enough, your room is swarmed by maids and paramedics. The undertaker follows shortly after. The place feels smaller somehow. The hordes of old newspapers, balls of used string and cracker boxes stacked up around the room, which have never bothered you before, are now an embarrassment.

You don’t remember the last time you bathed. What must you smell like to them? You know exactly what they see when they look at you: two crazy old ladies, with no idea how to look after themselves.

Nobody recognises you. Those who might have, will be dead by now. This frustrates you. You tell them who you are – or were – and who your husband was.

You become so wrapped up in this rendition of your former glories, that you almost forget why you invited everybody in to begin with. You are an entertainer by nature, and you have much lost time to make up for.

They don’t believe a word of what you are saying. You can see it in their eyes, as they smile and nod, humouring you. But soon they will realise exactly what they are standing amongst: a goldmine, contained within a dusty hotel room.

When you made your escape from society, you took everything with you. Every dollar there was to your name, has sat safely under your nose ever since, away from the relentless greed of the outside world. Shoeboxes are stuffed with bundles of thousand dollar bills; diamond necklaces are hidden amongst boxes of stale crackers.

They will find it all, eventually. But when? You know better than anybody that people can’t be trusted where money is concerned; you know just how careless they can be with it.

But who will protect it once you are gone, now that Mary is dead? You are ninety-four years old. Your money will live on long after your death. Who will wear the name ‘Mayfield’ in a bid to steal what they have no right to? Who will beat you at your own game?

Afterword

Ida Mayfield Wood is a truly fascinating historical figure, and I would highly recommend reading into her. As a starting point, find out more about the real Ida Mayfield Wood here.