Aunty Lily Read online

  Or just when Father sat down to read the Sunday paper, the front doorbell rang and there she was cup in one hand and Bible in the other. Even the most holy of holies, after dinner nap time, was considered fair game. On this particular Sunday, it was my turn to be head masseur and hair comber. I had done my job well and Father was fast asleep and snoring contentedly. I could tell I was going to be trapped for a very long time, but I happened to look down and there by the side of the chair was Mother’s bag of hair rollers. So, as a way of passing the time, I decided to give my father curly hair, and it wasn’t long before his head was a helmet of large, pink, spiky rollers. I had just put the last roller in when the front doorbell rang. Father woke with a start. “Who’s that?” he roared. John ran to the window. “It’s Mrs. Weaselbum, Dad.”

  “Don’t be rude!” Though it was my father who had coined the term “Weaselbum” on account of the fact that with her sharp, pointed nose and black, beady eyes set too close together, she looked remarkably like a weasel. Whenever he called her “Weeeeeaselbum,” we were supposed to laugh uproariously, but whenever we said it, we were being rude.

  “Right oh,” said Father struggling to his feet, “I’m going to put an end to that woman’s sanctimonious interference once and for all.” He stumbled into the hallway, took hold of the doorknob, and pulled at it ferociously. Now, that door was a stubborn door and usually refused to open, but today it decided to cooperate and when Father pulled at it, it flew out of his hand and crashed into the hallway wall with a violent bang. “Arrrhhhh!” Father let out a roar of surprise and glowered down at Mrs. Whistlebotham from beneath the halo of large, pink, spiky hair rollers. The effect on Mrs. Whistlebotham couldn’t have been more dramatic if Father had been wearing ladies’ underwear!

  “EEEEEEEeeeeek!” She took an involuntary step backwards, dropped the china cup she was holding, and the bright red pages of that day’s Bible texts fluttered around my father like flaming tongues of fire. Father must have thought she was ill or something of the sort, for he lunged towards her—ready to catch her should she faint. The sight of a middle aged man wearing hair rollers and lunging towards her was too much for Mrs. Whistlebotham’s Christian sensibilities. She began to scream in earnest, turned on her heel, and scampered off down the garden path. Ignoring the gate completely, she leaped over the decorative hedge at the bottom of the garden, scampered across the street, and disappeared into the safety behind the white, lace curtains. A somewhat bemused but definitely delighted Father stumbled back into the living room. It wasn’t until he scratched his head that he realized what all the commotion was about. I thought he might be angry, but not a bit of it. He started to laugh, a great roaring belly laugh that required several knee slappings before it subsided. Then, he dug into his pocket and gave me a half a crown for giving him the best laugh he’d had in weeks. I became a bit of a hero after that, for Mrs. Whistlebotham, convinced that Father’s moral decline was complete and that he was beyond redemption, gave up her campaign and never darkened our doorstep again.

  We were glad of it, no one more so than Father, and we settled back expecting the regular rhythm of our blissful Sundays to be restored. But it wasn’t. Somewhere out there in the cosmos, the disturbance continued and—like the ripples on a pool of water—got larger and larger and things were never the same again.

  Father lost his job. With four children to feed and clothe we were usually living hand-to-mouth. Without a job, it wasn’t long before the situation became desperate. One Sunday we sat down to a dinner of rabbit. We didn’t know it was rabbit and we certainly didn’t realize it was our pet rabbit. If we had cleaned out the cage ourselves instead of leaving it to Mother, we would have found out sooner than we did. When we did discover the awful truth, John refused to put Billy Buttons, the hamster, in his cage but carried him around in his pocket.

  “What have you got there?” Father demanded one day.

  “Nothing,” said John backing away, but Father rummaged in the bulging pocket.

  “Eh up,” said Father looking sadly at the twitching nose and whiskers, “it’s not enough to fill a bloomin’ sandwich.” John heaved a sigh of relief and put the rejected lunchmeat back in his cage. Before my proud father was forced to turn to public assistance, he managed to find a job, but it was so far away he had to live away from home for two, sometimes three weeks at a time. Without his presence, we clanged around like empty vessels—out of step with ourselves and the world.

  And all this happened in the year in which Mother became forty-three. On the day of her birthday, since Father was not home, we agreed to postpone the celebration until he was. However, we never did celebrate that birthday, for he had to come home early because he was ill. Mother, who always managed to find something to smile about, moved quietly about the house, her face pale and serious. Dr. Whitelaw was called and Father was taken immediately to hospital. Everybody panicked! “Eh up,” Father often joked, “you have been at bloomin’ death’s door before the National Health Service’ll take you into hospital.”

  It had only ever been a joke, but as it turned out, it happened to be true. Father went into the hospital on Thursday, and on the following Sunday he died. The heartbeat that had sustained the rhythm of our lives, the heartbeat that had created the sacred music to which we danced, was silenced. And just as that Romany gypsy so long ago had predicted, to all intents and purposes, my mother’s life truly did come to an end.

  It was some time before Mother felt able to return to her church. But eventually she did and when she came home that Wednesday night, it was with a gentle smile playing about her lips. As soon as she walked through the door, we wanted to ask, “Did you get a message? Did you get a message from Father?” But we didn’t for fear of bringing the tears to her eyes. In our silence, she read our thoughts. “The message I received was forget-me-nots.” They had been Father’s favorite flower. She had placed a small bunch of them on his coffin as it was lowered into the ground.

  Early the following Sunday morning, there was a commotion down in the kitchen. Suddenly, from the bottom of the stairs we heard, “Eh up. Grub’s up!” For the first time ever, Mother had cooked the Sunday breakfast, “the works:” eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, and fried bread! We trundled down the stairs and gathered around the sacred altar. There was an empty place at the head and Mother sat at the tail. Just before we started to eat, Mother looked toward the empty place and smiled. And for a moment, time itself was suspended. There was no doubt in our minds that she could see Father smiling back at her. In the warmth of that smile, once more we knew we were blessed. Once more we felt the beat of my father’s presence, and with it we knew we must create a new kind of rhythm and that one day we would dance to the echo of his song.

  * * *

  8 Cookies

  Home Delivery

  I PICKED UP THE TELEPHONE and dialed long distance. My mother would have a heart attack—it was mid-week and usually I called her from the States on a Sunday morning. She would immediately panic and jump to the conclusion that something was wrong.

  “Hello, Mum.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing! I’m just calling to say I love you.” There was a loud snort at the other end of the phone.

  “The truth is I have this project to do for my master’s program. I need to find out the story of my birth.”

  Personally, I thought the project was a waste of my time; since my mother was rhesus negative this meant that for safety’s sake, just like my brother and sister, I had been born at Bond Street Hospital.

  “I’m sure it’s a boring story,” I continued. “Contractions, pack the bag, and off to the hospital, where I expect Dad went to the waiting room and puffed on his Woodbine cigarettes until it was all over. End of story!”

  “Well, that’s how much you know,” she said with a slightly superior attitude.

  Then, for the next thirty minutes, I listened in amazement as my mother told me this story.

  I remember it was
a bitterly cold night and your dad and I were huddled in front of the stove, which didn’t seem to be throwing out any heat at all. Your dad was asleep in the easy chair, and I sat on the sofa doing some knitting—a little pair of bootees for you, I should think. Anyway, the labor pains started, but I ignored them for a while. There was no need to wake your dad too soon. I remember looking around—at the old sideboard and the worn, wooden table in the middle of the room. We didn’t have much, just hand-me-downs we’d begged, borrowed, or stolen, but as your grandma used to say “Poverty is no excuse for slovenliness!” I’d made sure that everywhere was clean and tidy, so when Nurse Chadwick came, she would have nothing to complain about.”

  It wasn’t long before the pains increased in intensity and were settling into a regular rhythm. I looked at the time; it was ten o’clock. I hated to make your dad go outside on such a miserable night, but I had no choice.

  “Al!” He didn’t move a muscle. He was so tired, poor man. “Al!” I said it a little louder. He woke with a start and one eye sprang open.

  It’s time.

  His other eye opened slowly, and without any sense of urgency, which was just like your dad, he pulled himself to his feet and went to the stove. He’d put two house bricks in the warming oven earlier, and he wrapped them in newspaper like two neat packages. “These will warm the bed for you, Barbara.”

  It didn’t take him long. I heard him check on Richard and Katherine before he returned in his raincoat and cap. The raincoat was thin and insubstantial; it was nothing against the biting cold of the January night.

  Have you got your scarf?

  To set my mind at rest, he pulled open his coat—the scarf was like a brightly colored snake winding around his chest. He was a big man as you know—had a chest as big as a barrel—and the inadequacy of the woolen snake to keep out the chill just broke my heart.

  He gave me a kiss and offered to put the water on to boil before he left, but I told him it was too soon, that I would have it ready by the time they got back.

  Then, he disappeared into the cold night. He had an old bicycle—it was an antique affair that had belonged to his father—but it was sturdy and I’d filled the tires with air earlier in the day. I watched him out the window.

  He gripped the handlebars tightly and lowered his head against the cold rain that had begun to fall, and then he disappeared up the street. Soon, the rain turned to ice, and I could imagine how it stung his cheeks—not that he was a stranger to bad weather. Working in the building trade, he had become hardened to it.

  He told me later that the streets were deserted, and he saw no sign of man nor beast for the three miles he had to travel to Nurse Chadwick’s house. When he got there, he took hold of the door knocker and gave it a hard rap, but there was no answer. He rapped even harder but there were still no signs of life. He admitted that he panicked a bit then and felt his heart thumping like a drum in his chest. He was about to throw rocks at the bedroom window when the door opened, and he said a woman appeared clutching her bath robe tightly at the neck. She didn’t look like the midwife.

  As you know, Nurse Chadwick was a sizeable, bonny woman with a riot of blond curly hair and plump cheeks. According to your dad, she was built like a small tank and had a bosom large enough to weep upon. This woman, he said, was pinched about the cheeks and looked as if she could do with a shoulder, possibly two to cry upon.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked in a brisk, almost bossy voice, and your dad recognized the midwife instantly. He told her who it was and she became all business.

  “Come in, Mr. Blount. I’ll get dressed and get my bag,” she said briskly. “Won’t take me a minute!”

  When she returned wearing her navy blue uniform with the starched white apron, your dad said her bosom seemed determined to present itself in a more capable light. However, it wasn’t until Nurse Chadwick was wearing her district-nurse-hat that he began to feel better.

  Then, they set off on their bicycles for the three mile ride home. Your dad used to make me laugh so much! He said when they reached the bottom of Sandpit Lane, that steep hill you kids loved to ride your trolley’s down, poor Nurse Chadwick started to gasp and blow like an old steam engine. She told your dad he’d have to push her if she was to make it to the top, which was no easy task. Well, as he was struggling, who should come along but Patrick Hughes, the local bobby. He was a timid soul for all that he was a policeman. It probably frightened the poor man to death hearing all the puffing and blowing in the dark. But to give credit where it was due, as soon as he realized who it was, he abandoned his bicycle and pushed Nurse Chadwick the rest of the way up the hill—your dad said it was a primitive sort of police escort.

  Without any other mishap, they arrived at the house. I could hear them in the kitchen whispering and bustling about. The next thing, they came upstairs—your dad leading the way with the boiling water. When Nurse Chadwick came in, I was shocked! She looked deathly ill.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Blount. Mr. Blount has agreed to help.”

  “Do what?” I was confused and couldn’t imagine what use he might be in a delivery room.

  “Nurse Chadwick says I must help with the instruments and such and make sure she doesn’t faint.” His face was so stricken, poor man, I had to laugh.

  Then, Nurse Chadwick took control and seemed a little more like her old self. She sent your dad off to wash his hands and get the prep’ box. She said the prep’ box was very important especially with a rhesus negative mum and positive baby. Your dad groaned in response to this. When he came back he handed her the box and whispered, thinking I wouldn’t hear, “Between you and me, I wasn’t happy her having this one at home. Neither was her doctor, but she’s that stubborn!”

  With an imperious tone, she answered, “That’s because she knows I’m a first class midwife. Why, you wouldn’t doubt my capabilities would you, Mr. Blount?”

  It was a rhetorical question—he wouldn’t dare!

  Then, she set to work. She timed the contractions and did a quick examination to see how far I’d progressed. The contractions were about five minutes apart, so it wouldn’t be too long.

  Your dad did everything Nurse Chadwick told him and more: he mopped my brow with a wet face flannel, massaged my shoulders, and passed her the instruments she needed. I was amazed; he went and found more pillows and propped me up into a more comfortable position and seemed to know exactly where to rub my back to ease the pain. Then, when Nurse Chadwick told me I could push, he kept muttering words of encouragement and gave me his hand to squeeze. Just little things, but it was so comforting having him there.

  Nurse Chadwick told me that the head was beginning to crown, and she told your dad to take a look. He looked scandalized, as if she has made an indecent proposal.

  “Go on, man, it’s your wife. It’s your baby,” said Nurse Chadwick and she couldn’t help laughing at him, but as she stepped aside, she let out an anguished cry. Clutching her side, she collapsed onto the chair. Well, I panicked but not your dad.

  “It’s all right, Barbara. Everything is going to be all right,” he kept saying, “I’m right here.”

  It was some time before Nurse Chadwick could answer. “Your husband’s quite right. I’ll just sit here and rest for a while. You and your husband will do the rest,” she said, “Mr. Blount, you just get ready to catch that baby when it arrives!”

  I wish you could have seen him, Jen. As if he’d been doing it all his life, he bent down and cupped those big, work-hardened hands of his like a cricketer ready to catch a low flying ball. I couldn’t help but smile, but then the contractions came hard and fast and all I could do was push. Like an expert, your dad put his hand firmly on my belly as if guiding you toward the light. He told me to push gently. “That’s right!” he kept repeating. “That’s right, Barbara. I can see more of the baby’s head. It’s coming, Barbara. It’s coming!” He was getting carried away by the moment, Jen, and sounded like an excited school boy waiting for his first ride on a
train.

  Then, with one last push, you finally arrived. You dropped like a little curled package into your dad’s waiting hands. He’d never seen a baby like this before—covered in white paste and blood, and I wasn’t sure how he would react. I needn’t have worried, because he simply gazed down at you as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Then, he started breathing in great gulps of air and his whole body trembled. When he looked up, I could see his eyes had filled with tears and a sobbing sort of laugh escaped him. He always said that apart from me, he’d never seen anything quite as beautiful as a perfectly smooth, unblemished plastered wall. But I think now as he held you, he knew differently.

  “She’s beautiful,” he whispered, and somewhere deep inside, my heart simply broke with love for this dear, good man.

  My mother stopped for a moment, and I knew she was shedding some silent tears, but it wasn’t long before she continued her story.

  Suddenly, Jen, there was a great honking sound, which made us all jump—you included. Nurse Chadwick was blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes, but she pulled herself together and said briskly, “Come along, Mr. Blount, there’s more work to do.” She showed your dad how to cut the umbilical cord and then he gave you your first bath. She tended to me and it wasn’t long before your were nursing contentedly. Your dad went to make a cup of tea—I told him to put a drop of whiskey in his and Nurse Chadwick’s—they both looked as if they needed it.