When the Aunts Came (Short Fiction)
20th July 2011
In: Short Stories
We always knew when the aunts were coming for Sunday lunch because Mother bought fresh flowers and arranged them in her best crystal bowl on the hall table. This had some significance as rest of the time we made do with a spray of artificial sweet peas in a plain blue vase from Woolworths. That, and the fact she spent an hour before church hoovering and dusting our front parlour.
Amy, my younger sister, and I stayed upstairs while these preparations were going on, playing quietly as we’d been told, keeping ourselves presentable and not dirtying the church clothes that we were to remain in ready for when the visitors arrived. Various smells drifted up to us — lavendar polish and the Sunday roast vying with the more subtle waft of Mother’s eau de cologne. Father, too, usually made himself scarce and smuggled the newspaper out to the potting shed on the pretext of some small chore that needed his attention. Mother made it clear she didn’t want any of us under her feet.
Lunch was at two o’clock and we were sent off to wash our hands ten minutes before, returning to sit at the bottom of the stairs ready to greet our aunts as they came in through the front door. Aunt Daisy and Aunt Lil were always prompt and as the clock began to chime the hour we would whisper to each other, betting on the exact moment the door bell would ring and there they’d be, large as life and looking, as I remember it, rather like a couple of pantomime dames.
Aunt Daisy was a big, doughy-fleshed woman, her size magnified by bright, boldly patterned frocks with voluminous skirts, her person adorned with a great deal of chunky fashion jewellery. Assorted bracelets jangled and her pendulous earrings swung as she walked. She also tended to be a bit heavy handed with the make-up and, close to, her face revealed its network of powder-caked wrinkles. It was hard for us not to stare but, for the most part, we remembered our manners and stifled any awkward giggles as she bent to kiss us, overpowering us in a cloud of musk-heavy scent.
By contrast, Aunt Lil seemed wishy-washy in her plain pastels and restrained style of dress. She was of average build but her sister-in-law diminished her somehow, making her seem smaller than she actually was. What she did have, however, was an amazing head of thick black hair that she wore swept up and coiled round on top of her head like a sleeping snake. Amy had once asked her if it was real and Aunt Lil assured her that it was, every last strand of it, and her natural colour too. Mother had coughed at this point and changed the subject, as though embarrassed. Amy and I exchanged meaningful looks. That is, as meaningful as such looks can be between a seven and a nine year old. Later we would get a stern lecture from Mother about asking personal questions. Amy was plainly mystified by this instruction and insisted on some clarification, at which point Mother got impatient, muttered something to the effect that “elderly ladies sometimes get a little confused and don’t remember things accurately.” Once Mother had gone downstairs I translated this for Amy.
“What she means is that Aunt Lil was fibbing about her hair.” I explained.
“You mean, it’s not really black?” Amy gasped, appalled that a grown-up member of our family might be caught out doing such a thing.
“Dyed,” I pronounced knowingly, “it’s probably grey underneath.”
“Is she very old, then?” Amy obviously expected me to be able to come up with a figure so I had to do a quick calculation.
“Well,” I hedged, “she’s one of grandmother’s sisters so she must be about sixty, at least.” I could tell from Amy’s expression that she was well impressed. That was old.
“She’s nice, though,” Amy decided, and I had to agree. Of the two aunts, I liked Aunt Lil best.
Lunch was normally a pretty formal affair. Mother presided over the vegetable dishes, handing things round to ensure everyone got a fair portion and frowning at Amy or me if either of us dared take too much or too little of anything. Father’s duty was done once he’d finished carving up whatever roasted joint or poor unfortunate bird graced our dining table. Conversation was minimal, both aunts tucking in as though they’d just broken a religious fast. Their clean plates were, Aunt Daisy unfailingly declared, a testament to the excellence of the meal. Amy and I knew that her remark was at least partly directed at us as we each pushed our now cold carrots and sprouts around, hoping we’d be excused without having to force the rest of them down to satisfy Mother that we, too, appreciated our good fortune. Pudding was invariably trifle or fruit fool in individual sundae dishes. No one left any of that.
Afterwards, Father ushered the aunts into the parlour where, in winter, the fire had already been lit and the room had had time to warm to a comfortable temperature. Because it’s window faced north, it tended to be a cold room so Mother had chosen deep russet upholstery and orange-gold velvet curtaining to make it feel more cheerful, enhancing the effects of the open fire. While the four grown-ups relaxed with their glasses of sherry, Amy and I played with our dolls on the hearthrug or behind the enormous overstuffed sofa, catching snippets of the general conversation and exchanging our own whispered comments. That scene is like a stage set in my mind, the colours rich, the atmosphere bordering on cosy, allowing for a modicum of formality — the code of good manners and social niceities afforded to guests of a certain age and genteel bearing.
One particular Sunday, Aunt Lil arrived with a cold. Her nose glowed, red and sore-looking, it was the brightest thing about her and she constantly dabbed at it, sniffing and sighing, her eyes watering as she sucked on mentholated cough drops. She hardly touched her lunch and kept apologizing to Mother for the waste, desperate to assure her that her lack of appetite had nothing to do with the quality of the repast, as she put it. As normal, we all trooped into the parlour afterwards and father settled the aunts while Mother cleared the table, rinsed the crockery and stacked it by the sink ready for a proper wash-up later on. Unthinking and unsupervised by Mother, Father poured the customary sherries and handed them round. Aunt Daisy sipped hers as usual while Aunt Lil, unable to taste anything much, tossed hers back in two gulps. The effect of the alcohol on an all but empty stomach, combined with whatever cold-relieving medicines she’d been taking, had an almost immediate effect. Her eyes became glazed and she lolled back on the sofa with a half-smile dimpling her now pink cheeks.
Aunt Daisy wasn’t paying her any attention, being deep in conversation with Father. It was Amy who noticed Aunt Lil slide purposefully forward and reach for Aunt Daisy’s sherry glass, still three quarters full, swallow the contents and replace it with the exaggerated precision of someone aware that things are getting a bit fuzzy round the edges. Amy gave me a swift nudge with her foot so that I, too, witnessed the episode. Then we took it in turns to watch, trying not to make too obvious our interest in her quickly deteriorating condition.
Father, always the genial host, noticed the empty glasses and refilled them while he continued to listen to what Aunt Daisy was saying. By the time Mother put in an appearance, Aunt Lil had already polished off three generous-sized sherries and was apparently trying to focus on, and judge the distance to, Aunt Daisy’s nearby glass. Amy and I sat spellbound by the drama unfolding before us. Mother sized up the situation quickly and shot Father a cross look before leaning over Aunt Lil’s semi-prone figure.
“Aunt Lil,” she paused then tried again “Aunt Lil,” while shaking her shoulder gently.
“Yes, dear. That was very nice. Thank you.” Aunt Lil slurred, her eyelids fluttering. Then she belched loudly and began to giggle.
“Lillian!” Aunt Daisy’s tone was outraged but controlled. “Really! Remember where you are!”
“Oh, buggeroff Daisy — God, you’re an awfully prissy old windbag sometimes!”
There followed a horribly uneasy silence. Aunt Daisy stood white-faced and pop-eyed with shock. Mother and Father simply looked at each other, both obviously at a loss to know how to handle the situation. By this time, Amy and I had retreated behind the sofa, staying absolutely quiet and hoping no one would realize we were still in the room. We didn’t want to miss a thing.
“Lillian,” Aunt Daisy was almost tearful now, “I really think it’s time we went home.”
“Why? We don’t usually go so early.” Aunt Lil sounded belligerent now, adding “You go, if you want to. I’m stopping where I am.” She wrestled a cushion into position and sank back against it. “That’s a very nice drop of sherry” she nodded towards her empty glass then looked at Father. The hint was unmistakeable. He glanced at Mother who was now biting her lip, her eyes roaming the room.
“You” Aunt Daisy accused, pointing a visibly shaking finger at Aunt Lil, “Are tipsy!”
Aunt Lil smiled crookedly up at her. “Yes, I am a bit — not a crime, is it? You’re always so critical — have you looked in the mirror lately? You wear too much war paint and you’re always putting on airs and graces, thinking you’re better than me. It’s about time you loosened up a bit and let yourself enjoy life. Have another sherry!”
“You’re a disgrace — you have no idea how to behave — I’m not surprised Harry left you!” Aunt Daisy had gone red under her powder, in contrast her voice was now cold with contempt.
“He wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t introduced him to that tart Doris Taylor!” Aunt Lil blazed back as a loosened pin fell from her hair and the freed strands gave her a wild, rebellious look. I thought I could see a few telltale grey roots. The aunts glowered at each other, pausing, as if to reload for the next exchange. Mother took the opportunity to usher us both from the room.
From upstairs, we weren’t able to hear very much of what followed. There was undoubtedly a lot more said — judging from the high pitch of the voices it was a real humdinger of a family row. Eventually, we heard the aunts leave and the front door close behind them. Curiosity overode caution and we tried to get some answers out of Mother but she became snappy and wouldn’t tell us anything about Uncle Harry and Doris Taylor. Amy sulked for days.
More than twenty years later, at Aunt Daisy’s funeral, I asked Mother about the frail elderly man who sat beside an equally frail Aunt Lil in the church.
“Oh, that’s your great uncle Harry,” her voice gave nothing away, “Aunt Daisy’s brother.”
I was digesting this piece of information when Amy piped up “Wasn’t he the one who ran off with Doreen something-or-other?”
“Doris Taylor” I corrected, remembering the dramatic set-to on that long-ago Sunday afternoon.
“So what’s the story?” Amy insisted, obviously feeling an explanation was long overdue.
Mother sighed, still apparently reluctant to dredge up old family gossip. “It was a bit of a scandal at the time, I suppose. Uncle Harry and Aunt Lil eloped because the family didn’t approve of the match — he was almost ten years younger than her and that didn’t go down well in those days. Anyway, Aunt Daisy was the real problem because she was very protective of her younger brother and thought Aunt Lil wasn’t good enough for him. She tolerated Aunt Lil for Harry’s sake. Harry wasn’t much more than a lad, was quite handsome and had an eye for the ladies so he was easily led astray. Aunt Daisy talked some aquaintance of hers, Doris Taylor, into getting him drunk and seducing him. Then she made sure Aunt Lil found out about it. Aunt Lil threw him out, Doris Taylor took him in because she was quite fond of him, in her own way. He probably just wanted a roof over his head. Afterwards, Aunt Lil went a bit unhinged, took to drinking to drown her sorrows and, perhaps because she felt a bit guilty, Aunt Daisy did the good sister-in-law act and helped her through it. Aunt Lil never actually divorced Harry. Doris Taylor got TB and died quite young, leaving Harry her bungalow because she didn’t have any other family. For security rather than as a genuinely Christian gesture, Aunt Daisy invited Aunt Lil to live with her. A sort of companion-cum-housekeeper arrangement. Then, sometime later and quite by chance, Aunt Lil and Harry bumped into each other again and they began meeting. No one let on to Aunt Daisy and they continued the affair secretly for some years. It was all quite bizarre.”
“So, that Sunday Aunt Lil got drunk in our parlour was when all this came out, presumably?” Amy pressed.
“Yes, more or less. From what I can remember of what was said, Aunt Lil threatened to leave Aunt Daisy and go off and live with Harry, who had been trying to persuade her to do just that for some time. Once Aunt Daisy had taken in the fact that Harry had been seeing Aunt Lil behind her back, and for all those years, she swore to disinherit him. She got the family home when their parents died and he would have benefited following her death. It all got very ugly and I thought they might come to blows at one stage.” Mother sighed, frowning with the effort of recall, then continued “They calmed down eventually and your father persuaded them to go home and sleep on it — although in Aunt Lil’s case it was more like sleep it off.”
“So, what happened, then? I can’t remember seeing either of them since because they didn’t come to Sunday lunch again, did they?” I looked from my Mother to Amy for confirmation. They both shook their heads.
“No,” Mother went on, “Your father and I decided we wouldn’t take sides which meant we couldn’t really invite one without the other. We heard that Aunt Lil had moved out to be with Harry then, within a matter of weeks, Aunt Daisy was taken ill. She collapsed and went into hospital. They found quite a lot of things wrong with her, including diabetes and a heart problem — a faulty valve that needed an operation. Afterwards, Aunt Lil moved back in to look after her while she was convalescing. Aunt Daisy never really got better, became an invalid and Aunt Lil nursed her right up until the end. She still spent time with Harry, Aunt Daisy knew that but they never talked about it.” Mother lapsed into silence and the three of us stood contemplating the irony and perversely romantic twist in this strange tale.
I looked across to where Aunt Lil and Harry seemed locked in their own private world. She looked almost girlish at this distance although I calculated she must be in her late eighties. Her hair, now allowed to be its natural silver grey, was swept up and neatly pinned, her pale lilac twin set looked tasteful and quietly dignified. It was dawning on me just what her life must have been like and what a caring, loyal and unselfish person she was — our favourite aunt.
Amy, my younger sister, and I stayed upstairs while these preparations were going on, playing quietly as we’d been told, keeping ourselves presentable and not dirtying the church clothes that we were to remain in ready for when the visitors arrived. Various smells drifted up to us — lavendar polish and the Sunday roast vying with the more subtle waft of Mother’s eau de cologne. Father, too, usually made himself scarce and smuggled the newspaper out to the potting shed on the pretext of some small chore that needed his attention. Mother made it clear she didn’t want any of us under her feet.
Lunch was at two o’clock and we were sent off to wash our hands ten minutes before, returning to sit at the bottom of the stairs ready to greet our aunts as they came in through the front door. Aunt Daisy and Aunt Lil were always prompt and as the clock began to chime the hour we would whisper to each other, betting on the exact moment the door bell would ring and there they’d be, large as life and looking, as I remember it, rather like a couple of pantomime dames.
Aunt Daisy was a big, doughy-fleshed woman, her size magnified by bright, boldly patterned frocks with voluminous skirts, her person adorned with a great deal of chunky fashion jewellery. Assorted bracelets jangled and her pendulous earrings swung as she walked. She also tended to be a bit heavy handed with the make-up and, close to, her face revealed its network of powder-caked wrinkles. It was hard for us not to stare but, for the most part, we remembered our manners and stifled any awkward giggles as she bent to kiss us, overpowering us in a cloud of musk-heavy scent.
By contrast, Aunt Lil seemed wishy-washy in her plain pastels and restrained style of dress. She was of average build but her sister-in-law diminished her somehow, making her seem smaller than she actually was. What she did have, however, was an amazing head of thick black hair that she wore swept up and coiled round on top of her head like a sleeping snake. Amy had once asked her if it was real and Aunt Lil assured her that it was, every last strand of it, and her natural colour too. Mother had coughed at this point and changed the subject, as though embarrassed. Amy and I exchanged meaningful looks. That is, as meaningful as such looks can be between a seven and a nine year old. Later we would get a stern lecture from Mother about asking personal questions. Amy was plainly mystified by this instruction and insisted on some clarification, at which point Mother got impatient, muttered something to the effect that “elderly ladies sometimes get a little confused and don’t remember things accurately.” Once Mother had gone downstairs I translated this for Amy.
“What she means is that Aunt Lil was fibbing about her hair.” I explained.
“You mean, it’s not really black?” Amy gasped, appalled that a grown-up member of our family might be caught out doing such a thing.
“Dyed,” I pronounced knowingly, “it’s probably grey underneath.”
“Is she very old, then?” Amy obviously expected me to be able to come up with a figure so I had to do a quick calculation.
“Well,” I hedged, “she’s one of grandmother’s sisters so she must be about sixty, at least.” I could tell from Amy’s expression that she was well impressed. That was old.
“She’s nice, though,” Amy decided, and I had to agree. Of the two aunts, I liked Aunt Lil best.
Lunch was normally a pretty formal affair. Mother presided over the vegetable dishes, handing things round to ensure everyone got a fair portion and frowning at Amy or me if either of us dared take too much or too little of anything. Father’s duty was done once he’d finished carving up whatever roasted joint or poor unfortunate bird graced our dining table. Conversation was minimal, both aunts tucking in as though they’d just broken a religious fast. Their clean plates were, Aunt Daisy unfailingly declared, a testament to the excellence of the meal. Amy and I knew that her remark was at least partly directed at us as we each pushed our now cold carrots and sprouts around, hoping we’d be excused without having to force the rest of them down to satisfy Mother that we, too, appreciated our good fortune. Pudding was invariably trifle or fruit fool in individual sundae dishes. No one left any of that.
Afterwards, Father ushered the aunts into the parlour where, in winter, the fire had already been lit and the room had had time to warm to a comfortable temperature. Because it’s window faced north, it tended to be a cold room so Mother had chosen deep russet upholstery and orange-gold velvet curtaining to make it feel more cheerful, enhancing the effects of the open fire. While the four grown-ups relaxed with their glasses of sherry, Amy and I played with our dolls on the hearthrug or behind the enormous overstuffed sofa, catching snippets of the general conversation and exchanging our own whispered comments. That scene is like a stage set in my mind, the colours rich, the atmosphere bordering on cosy, allowing for a modicum of formality — the code of good manners and social niceities afforded to guests of a certain age and genteel bearing.
One particular Sunday, Aunt Lil arrived with a cold. Her nose glowed, red and sore-looking, it was the brightest thing about her and she constantly dabbed at it, sniffing and sighing, her eyes watering as she sucked on mentholated cough drops. She hardly touched her lunch and kept apologizing to Mother for the waste, desperate to assure her that her lack of appetite had nothing to do with the quality of the repast, as she put it. As normal, we all trooped into the parlour afterwards and father settled the aunts while Mother cleared the table, rinsed the crockery and stacked it by the sink ready for a proper wash-up later on. Unthinking and unsupervised by Mother, Father poured the customary sherries and handed them round. Aunt Daisy sipped hers as usual while Aunt Lil, unable to taste anything much, tossed hers back in two gulps. The effect of the alcohol on an all but empty stomach, combined with whatever cold-relieving medicines she’d been taking, had an almost immediate effect. Her eyes became glazed and she lolled back on the sofa with a half-smile dimpling her now pink cheeks.
Aunt Daisy wasn’t paying her any attention, being deep in conversation with Father. It was Amy who noticed Aunt Lil slide purposefully forward and reach for Aunt Daisy’s sherry glass, still three quarters full, swallow the contents and replace it with the exaggerated precision of someone aware that things are getting a bit fuzzy round the edges. Amy gave me a swift nudge with her foot so that I, too, witnessed the episode. Then we took it in turns to watch, trying not to make too obvious our interest in her quickly deteriorating condition.
Father, always the genial host, noticed the empty glasses and refilled them while he continued to listen to what Aunt Daisy was saying. By the time Mother put in an appearance, Aunt Lil had already polished off three generous-sized sherries and was apparently trying to focus on, and judge the distance to, Aunt Daisy’s nearby glass. Amy and I sat spellbound by the drama unfolding before us. Mother sized up the situation quickly and shot Father a cross look before leaning over Aunt Lil’s semi-prone figure.
“Aunt Lil,” she paused then tried again “Aunt Lil,” while shaking her shoulder gently.
“Yes, dear. That was very nice. Thank you.” Aunt Lil slurred, her eyelids fluttering. Then she belched loudly and began to giggle.
“Lillian!” Aunt Daisy’s tone was outraged but controlled. “Really! Remember where you are!”
“Oh, buggeroff Daisy — God, you’re an awfully prissy old windbag sometimes!”
There followed a horribly uneasy silence. Aunt Daisy stood white-faced and pop-eyed with shock. Mother and Father simply looked at each other, both obviously at a loss to know how to handle the situation. By this time, Amy and I had retreated behind the sofa, staying absolutely quiet and hoping no one would realize we were still in the room. We didn’t want to miss a thing.
“Lillian,” Aunt Daisy was almost tearful now, “I really think it’s time we went home.”
“Why? We don’t usually go so early.” Aunt Lil sounded belligerent now, adding “You go, if you want to. I’m stopping where I am.” She wrestled a cushion into position and sank back against it. “That’s a very nice drop of sherry” she nodded towards her empty glass then looked at Father. The hint was unmistakeable. He glanced at Mother who was now biting her lip, her eyes roaming the room.
“You” Aunt Daisy accused, pointing a visibly shaking finger at Aunt Lil, “Are tipsy!”
Aunt Lil smiled crookedly up at her. “Yes, I am a bit — not a crime, is it? You’re always so critical — have you looked in the mirror lately? You wear too much war paint and you’re always putting on airs and graces, thinking you’re better than me. It’s about time you loosened up a bit and let yourself enjoy life. Have another sherry!”
“You’re a disgrace — you have no idea how to behave — I’m not surprised Harry left you!” Aunt Daisy had gone red under her powder, in contrast her voice was now cold with contempt.
“He wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t introduced him to that tart Doris Taylor!” Aunt Lil blazed back as a loosened pin fell from her hair and the freed strands gave her a wild, rebellious look. I thought I could see a few telltale grey roots. The aunts glowered at each other, pausing, as if to reload for the next exchange. Mother took the opportunity to usher us both from the room.
From upstairs, we weren’t able to hear very much of what followed. There was undoubtedly a lot more said — judging from the high pitch of the voices it was a real humdinger of a family row. Eventually, we heard the aunts leave and the front door close behind them. Curiosity overode caution and we tried to get some answers out of Mother but she became snappy and wouldn’t tell us anything about Uncle Harry and Doris Taylor. Amy sulked for days.
More than twenty years later, at Aunt Daisy’s funeral, I asked Mother about the frail elderly man who sat beside an equally frail Aunt Lil in the church.
“Oh, that’s your great uncle Harry,” her voice gave nothing away, “Aunt Daisy’s brother.”
I was digesting this piece of information when Amy piped up “Wasn’t he the one who ran off with Doreen something-or-other?”
“Doris Taylor” I corrected, remembering the dramatic set-to on that long-ago Sunday afternoon.
“So what’s the story?” Amy insisted, obviously feeling an explanation was long overdue.
Mother sighed, still apparently reluctant to dredge up old family gossip. “It was a bit of a scandal at the time, I suppose. Uncle Harry and Aunt Lil eloped because the family didn’t approve of the match — he was almost ten years younger than her and that didn’t go down well in those days. Anyway, Aunt Daisy was the real problem because she was very protective of her younger brother and thought Aunt Lil wasn’t good enough for him. She tolerated Aunt Lil for Harry’s sake. Harry wasn’t much more than a lad, was quite handsome and had an eye for the ladies so he was easily led astray. Aunt Daisy talked some aquaintance of hers, Doris Taylor, into getting him drunk and seducing him. Then she made sure Aunt Lil found out about it. Aunt Lil threw him out, Doris Taylor took him in because she was quite fond of him, in her own way. He probably just wanted a roof over his head. Afterwards, Aunt Lil went a bit unhinged, took to drinking to drown her sorrows and, perhaps because she felt a bit guilty, Aunt Daisy did the good sister-in-law act and helped her through it. Aunt Lil never actually divorced Harry. Doris Taylor got TB and died quite young, leaving Harry her bungalow because she didn’t have any other family. For security rather than as a genuinely Christian gesture, Aunt Daisy invited Aunt Lil to live with her. A sort of companion-cum-housekeeper arrangement. Then, sometime later and quite by chance, Aunt Lil and Harry bumped into each other again and they began meeting. No one let on to Aunt Daisy and they continued the affair secretly for some years. It was all quite bizarre.”
“So, that Sunday Aunt Lil got drunk in our parlour was when all this came out, presumably?” Amy pressed.
“Yes, more or less. From what I can remember of what was said, Aunt Lil threatened to leave Aunt Daisy and go off and live with Harry, who had been trying to persuade her to do just that for some time. Once Aunt Daisy had taken in the fact that Harry had been seeing Aunt Lil behind her back, and for all those years, she swore to disinherit him. She got the family home when their parents died and he would have benefited following her death. It all got very ugly and I thought they might come to blows at one stage.” Mother sighed, frowning with the effort of recall, then continued “They calmed down eventually and your father persuaded them to go home and sleep on it — although in Aunt Lil’s case it was more like sleep it off.”
“So, what happened, then? I can’t remember seeing either of them since because they didn’t come to Sunday lunch again, did they?” I looked from my Mother to Amy for confirmation. They both shook their heads.
“No,” Mother went on, “Your father and I decided we wouldn’t take sides which meant we couldn’t really invite one without the other. We heard that Aunt Lil had moved out to be with Harry then, within a matter of weeks, Aunt Daisy was taken ill. She collapsed and went into hospital. They found quite a lot of things wrong with her, including diabetes and a heart problem — a faulty valve that needed an operation. Afterwards, Aunt Lil moved back in to look after her while she was convalescing. Aunt Daisy never really got better, became an invalid and Aunt Lil nursed her right up until the end. She still spent time with Harry, Aunt Daisy knew that but they never talked about it.” Mother lapsed into silence and the three of us stood contemplating the irony and perversely romantic twist in this strange tale.
I looked across to where Aunt Lil and Harry seemed locked in their own private world. She looked almost girlish at this distance although I calculated she must be in her late eighties. Her hair, now allowed to be its natural silver grey, was swept up and neatly pinned, her pale lilac twin set looked tasteful and quietly dignified. It was dawning on me just what her life must have been like and what a caring, loyal and unselfish person she was — our favourite aunt.