Lucy Oakley was tall for a lady, being slightly above six fee, and quite broad in comparison. It was the last Sunday in June 1994 and a week from her seventy-fifth birthday.
“Look Auntie,” said the rather plump man of forty sitting opposite her. “I would never do anything to hurt you. Neither would anyone in the family, really they wouldn’t.”
He glanced around at the large room, reminding him of a mansion, containing a grandfather clock and an enormous book case, and then back at the somewhat handsome figure of his elderly relative. Her face was intense and her grey eyes stared hard at him. Even her long ashen hair seemed to radiate a strange charm.
“Max,” she said. “You think of me as a non descript. It gets back to me what you have been saying.”
He trembled. He could have said, if he possessed more confidence, that he was aware what she had been saying. As it happened, he was very timid when in her presence.
About a year ago he had moved to Winchester from London. The change of environment had not helped him at all. As he sat facing Aunt Alice, he made it obvious that she was dominating the scene. Even his tight tweed jacket, ruffled ginger hair and roughly shaven face echoed something a little inadequate.
“I did everything to treat your three boys the best I could,” she said.
“I love treating people, but they simply do not appreciate it.”
“Auntie, I don’t think they meant any harm.” he answered. He had three sons: Alan, aged fifteen, Graham, aged twelve, and Nigel, aged ten. They had earned her sore displeasure. They had been named by her respectively Awful Alan, Grubby Graham and Nutty Nigel. She had bought the eldest, when he had started at the secondary school, a remarkably good book on ancient Greek history. As fate would have it, when she was going home one wet night, she found it in a puddle outside the townhall. She had bought the middle one a train set and found later than he had sold it to one of his school friends. She had bought the youngest, when he was aged eight, a kaleidoscope and later found that he had smashed it and expressed, in baby talk, that the silly old squiggles were daft.
“Your three little offspring have not helped me to love them very much,” she said.
“I know, he said in a rather nervous tone, “but you have to admit, Auntie, that you have done much the same thing yourself.”
“Max,” she almost gasped, “what they bought for me was plain silly. Your son Alan bought me a large packet of cigarettes when he knows that I only smoke black Havana cigars.”
“Max tried to suppress a twinge in his stomach. He detested anything to do with tobacco and cigars made him feel like vomiting. “I bought you a brooch Auntie,” he reminded her.
“Yes,” she snarled, “and it wouldn’t do credit to the wrinkles on my left boob.”
His blood pressure rose. There was a limit to what he would tolerate from her. “Anyway Auntie,” he went on, ‘How about forgetting all this bad feeling and coming to Helen’s celebration next Wednesday?” Helen was his Italian-born wife and was the one thing which could have won Aunt Alice’s admiration. She love anything Italian, at least in the immediate sense, although she was a nordic type herself. She strained her face a little in a mood of indecision. “I know that things have not been very good for you lately,” Max said, “but perhaps the future will be brighter.”
He hopes that a little sympathy would help the situation. She had lost her common law husband, partly due to her own fault, and only a fortnight ago had nearly lost her beautiful cat, Gorgon, which she had treasured very much. To make things worse, she had lost an Old Red Indian pipe of peace which she regarded as a god luck charm.
“Poor Gorgon,” she muttered. “I though that he had wandered onto the goods train and been taken to another part of the country.”
“Auntie, you must not dwell of hypothetical circumstances.”
“Really Max,” she said, her voice taking on an acid tone, “you can hardly call the loss of the old pipe a hypothetical thing.”
“Auntie, how about the celebration. Everyone will be pleased to see you. Come along.” After about five minutes of debate, she decided to accept.
The party on Wednesday went fairly well until later in the evening. Sad to say, Aunt ALice nearly choked on a piece of lemon, nearly gave in to a fit of nausea and banged her head on the lavatory pipe. She left in a fit of vile humor. The unfortunate Max felt that,once again, he had failed to achieve his objective. There was nothing left to do. He made up his mind to have no further association with his cantankerous aunt. He had tried to treat her and it had ended with dismal failure.
On the next Friday evening however, in spite of his strong resolution, he was in her large sitting room once again, speaking to her with great zeal, saying in a rather husky tone: Auntie, perhaps we are wrong in what we have done, but we all wanted to buy you presents for your birthday.”
“You like to treat me, do you?”
“Of course, Auntie.” He showed her his present. It was a large Red Indian smoking pipe. She produced another one.
“This is the one I thought I had lost, Max.” She then began to examine the one he had bought. Her grey eyes flashed. “Max, this is better than the one I’ve had for years.”
He then showed her the presents which his sons had for her. His eldest had managed to get a bottle of rare Italian wine. The middle on had a small Greek statue made of brass.
“This is splended,” she gasped.
“Auntie,” he said, now feeling very nervous, “my youngest insisted on my getting something for you. Even though he is only ten, he thought it the right thing and I didn’t think it right to refuse.”
“What is it then?”
“A gold plated dust bin,” he answered. His whole body was now dripping with sweat. Aunt Alice began to laugh. She went to the other side o the room and leaned against the grandfather clock. When she came back to the settee, where Max was sitting, she had just been able to control her mirth.
“Auntie, you’re not cross are you?”
“No Max, of course not. I would never laugh at anything stupid. This is too sensible. This is the present that I would really enjoy.”
“I am so glad,” said Max, now feeling much more relaxed. “I am so glad that you like it.”
“Max,” she said, “have you got a match on you.” She produced one of the smoking pipes---we can only speculate which---and he could see that it was filled with black tobacco.
“Auntie, you can’t be serious,” he said. Max now felt that was going to give way to a seizure. “It’s bad enough for a refined lady like you to be smoking cigars, but not a pipe.”
“Nonsense,” she growled. “I know that you’ve a terror of smoking. You think that it’s an offense to the nose and harmful to the eye and...”
“...resembling a pit that is bottomless,” he finished for her.
“If anything is bottomless, Max, it is meaningless,” she said, “and cannot be a problem for anybody.”
“Auntie, I know that tobacco in small amounts is good for brain activity and is good for constipation but...”
“Max,” she almost thundered, “my birthday is in two days time. It is not too late for me to plan a little party. You are all very welcome, even young Nigel.”
Max said that he would be delighted to accept the invitation.
The party went better than could possibly be imagined. Helen laughed hilariously at Aunt Alice smoking her old indian pipe and so did Alan, Graham and young Nigel, who came to the early part of the evening. Max could not hide an ugly frown. His eyes watered and teared, possibly due to disgust and disappointment, but also possibly due to the smoke. he wondered whether he had won his fight or lost it. He could only comfort himself with the thought that in victory there can always be defeat, and in defeat victory. But there the story must end.