The Aftermath

Dear Diary, I suppose we can be appeased with cakes, but surely for only so long? Niece had a tasty array on the bench, cooling on their wire racks, icing decorating the mud cake. Decadence! Phil had a head start on me; he didn't wash his hands; hygiene is important to me!

Expecting to see a plate of goodies on the table, or the bench, I was surprised the wire trays were the only signs of the baking marathon. Wasn't it only a few minutes previous Hester had called us in? Knowing, as we did, she had spent much of the morning baking, was it abnormal for us to expect a small sample?

Instead Phil stood near his wife, a look of helplessness across his features. Glancing towards him I opened my mouth to enquire what was wrong when suddenly I noticed tears rolling down Niece's cheeks, running into a rivulet on her chin, and dripping onto the bodice of her dress. No sound erupted from her; just the tears which showed no sign of abating. Phil shrugged his shoulders inferring he had no idea what the problem was, and indicating he didn't know what to do. Men! So often they abdicate the real emotions of life. It was plain to me. Niece had a particularly emotional week or two, culminating with the showdown at Mrs Over-the-Street's afternoon tea soiree. I could have informed him that women can hold themselves together in times of family crisis; often it is a matter of having to! Once the dust settles the 'little woman' allows herself to relax, and it is at that stage the happenings of the recent past flood the mind and tears are needed to wash the hurt away. But I didn't tell him. He wouldn't have understood.

Instead I flicked the electric kettle on, suggested Phil find cups and coffee, or tea, and perhaps put a couple of those delicious gingernuts on a plate and take the lot into the dining room. We would sit at a table; we would work through this situation. Phil realising he was roped in to an emotional moment, abdicated faster than a greyhound at the final post. He grabbed his cup, placed two biscuits on the saucer, and headed out to his shed; his escape.

Oh well, Dear Diary, it seemed that this morning was one for the girls. I steered Niece into the dining room, placed the biscuits in the centre of the table, moving the crystal bowl full of apples and oranges and bananas to the far edge, returned to the kitchen for a tray with milk and sugar, the tea pot and two good cup from the tea set. This morning was not going to degenerate into a slap-up cuppa.

Niece pulled herself together, as I knew she would. She played mother, pouring the tea with aplomb, and smilingly passed a cup and saucer to me that I accepted with thanks. There are occasions, Dear Diary, when a display of culture over-rides the most painful of life's experiences. Why tea and biscuits falls high in that category I have no idea.

Niece sipped on the tea, nibbled on the biscuit. "Go on Hester," I said, "dunk it!"

She looked shocked! Dunking gingernuts had not become commonplace in this household! It was funny Dear Diary, but Niece dunked those biscuits like an old hand! To my mind it appeared she was an old hand at dunking! Each day brings a new discovery!

Later, completely recovered, Niece haltingly tried to explain her tears. I halted her explanation, assuring her that recent days would make anyone weepy. She reached over the table and clasped my hand ... there was no need for further words.

Household Chores

Dear Diary, While Niece has not mentioned yesterday's afternoon tea party, my mind is still swirling at the injustices those women tried to heap upon her shoulders. As I tossed and turned during the night, sleep evading me until after midnight, I composed pithy speeches in retaliation to those nosey questions. Slowly sleep crept over me, and upon waking this morning I realised the best action was no action. To throw hasty words around willy-nilly only adds to the situation. Best we let them wonder and in their wondering, perhaps they might come to the conclusion that we had acted as reasonable women, when we could have shown a nasty side.

We pottered around tidying up. I contemplated taking out the tricycle, but the wind was cool, and really my heart was not in an outing; I have no wish to come across those women today!

Niece decided she would fill the cake tins. No doubt the lack of a proper afternoon tea prompted that decision? She had read a recipe for Mini Banoffee Pies that promise to add inches to the waistline. I did think a few taken over the street might be nice, but Niece considered my comment facetious! Hester has a few of her wonderful gingernuts in the biscuit barrel; these would form the base for the mini Banoffee pies. As shortbread is my weakness she added that to the list, and thought perhaps a mud cake; surely enough to last a few days.

Two women in the baking kitchen is one too many!

Knowing the garden needed tidying; those gum leaves continue to fall distracting from the petunia flowers that have come into their own since two minor rainfalls. Grabbing the rake I moved many of the leaves. The petunias are glorious! Never had I attempted to grow petunias before, thinking them too delicate. How wrong I was! Before I planted seedlings I did mix, in the wheelbarrow, a bag of compost and half a bag of cow manure, and spread it all over the flower gardens, and roughly dug them in. The results were worth the effort.

Not realising how quickly the time flew, it seemed only moments before Niece was calling Phil and I in for a cuppa ... I wonder which treat she will serve us?

A Tea Party

Dear Diary, Niece and I arrived the customary ten minutes after the official starting time for the afternoon tea. We were last! There was a silence as we walked into the room of Mrs Over-the-street's living room.

Women, of the mature generation, sat around in oversized chairs, small occasional tables scattered around and pens and paper in an organised pile in the centre of the room. I am not a fan of off-white shag pile carpet. This room had off-white shag pile carpet. A large red rug under the larger table made a blood red blotch to the decor! Chairs were upholstered in apricot chintz, which it must be said, clashed terribly with the red rug. Later I managed a sneak peep under that rug. This house must have had someone with a dreadful flu as I am positive the orange stain, covered carefully by the rug, was vomit that disdained all attempts at eradication.

Niece and I looked around, smiled our welcome, and were directed to a small two-seater couch that stood forlorn under the window. We did as bid, sat down on what was a saggy sofa bed! Obviously the other guests had been there before!

A plate of hors d'oeuvre was passed around. Hester looked at me in surprise. We anticipated afternoon tea with scrummy sandwiches and cream cakes, perhaps a centre piece of mud-cake. Tiny glasses of some alcoholic beverage, we guessed, were to wash the angels on horseback down. We nibbled and sipped.

Conversation, so voluble as we entered the house, was stilted. Dear Diary it felt like a false calm before a terrible storm. I am not physic, but that room had a 'presence'; a presence that did not impress me one little bit.

Not being one to arrive at a destination for a particular reason only to find no evidence of the occasion does not feature in either Niece or my book. In another quiet moment, of which there were several where no one appeared to engage in conversation, I enquired of Mrs Over-the-Street which charity she intended to support.

"My dear," she gushed, "no decision has been made yet. That is up for discussion."

"Really!" Hester interrupted as if astounded. "Then I suggest the local school committee."

A peal of laughter echoed around the room. Hester flushed. She had not intended to be the object of such laughter.

"Oh Hester, we don't support schools!"

At least that outburst loosened tongues. A babble of voices vied with each other for attention. Quite frankly Dear Diary, some of their suggestions were hardly charities! I had no idea that women in our neighbourhood were such snobs.

Miss Smythe-Jones, who lives around the corner pushed her horn-rimmed spectacles up her nose, and in a confidential way queried Niece as to whom her visitor was earlier in the week.

"Such a striking girl! She does so resemble you Hester, but we all know that you and Phil, that is your husband's name isn't it, have no children."

I opened my mouth to reply, guessing at how embarrassed Niece must feel. This afternoon tea party was an inquisition! The nosey old women! How dare they interfere with other people's business!

Before my dumbfounded brain had time to assemble a suitable retort, Niece stood up, picked up her handbag and tugged me to my feet.

"Aunt", she intoned in a hurt voice, "we are going home."

I was not arguing Dear Diary! This afternoon tea was rigged!

Hester continued, "I wish to inform you ladies, though why I use the title lady I cannot imagine, because you are definitely not, the young girl of whom you are so curious is my daughter. She is a wonderful young lass. We may not have had much contact over the years, but blood is blood. Who her father is does not concern you. Now I wish you all a good day, and am sorry that this meeting was convened for the wrong reasons."

Dear Diary we never did find out what the pens and paper were for! Perhaps theyintended playing beetles?

A Telephone Invitation

Dear Diary, Breakfast was hardly finished when the telephone rang. Niece, the closest, picked up the receiver and intoned, with quite a posh accent, "Goodmorning, You are speaking with Hester". When did she change her mode of replying on the telephone? I had never heard her say anything different than, "Hello", which I think tells the listener nothing. Did they reach the right number, had they misdialed? However, this new greeting did have a certain ring about it!

A smile crossed her face. Obviously the call was good news. I knew she was slightly anxious whether Karen and Jake reached home alright, but as I had informed her, rather shortly I guess, but that girl does worry so, that no news was good news. Young folks today don't think to phone home, and Karen had not been in the habit of letting Niece know her whereabouts. Not that I added that little piece of information! I do have some grey matter under my hair. More words were exchanged with smiles and nods at this end.

There is one thing about the telephone Dear Diary. Unless one is engaged in the conversation, or has one of those phones with a speaker attached [new fangled inventions!] then a listener has no idea who is speaking about, or of whom. I had to wait for enlightenment.

Niece finally replaced the receiver, and announced with glee, that we were going out for afternoon tea. I looked surprised. It wasn't often we gallivanted around. I couldn't recollect anyone to whom a returns visit was in the offing.

"Where to?" I enquired.

"Over the street wants us to pop over for a cuppa mid-afternoon," she replied. "She is hoping to start a charity afternoon tea, and has invited ladies of the neighbourhood to the inaugural meet in the hope of forming a group. With winter being upon us, she thought it would be a charitable idea if several in the area hosted an afternoon tea, those attending contributing a gold coin to be donated to a charity, to be decided upon, at the end of the winter."

I thought the suggestion excellent, though I had reservations as to how the money would be collected and where it would reside until the conclusion of the colder months. Not wishing to put a damper on our outing, I kept my thoughts to myself. The small print could be hammered out later in the day!

The morning disappeared in a flurry of excitement. What to wear? Should be go casual, or dress up a little? Personally I plumped for treating it like an occasion, and after gentle persuasion Niece agreed. Just popping across the street for afternoon tea dressed in housework slacks and a T-shirt would make the occasion ho-hum. Paying gold coins for a ho-hum excursion didn't fit with the idea of an afternoon tea for charity.

The Morning After

Dear Diary, Peace reigns throughout! Bliss! Pure bliss!

Once the household settled down Niece and I tidied the spare room, stripped the bed and washed the bed linen. The morning was warm with a slight breeze; the sheets soon dried, were folded and put away in the linen cupboard. We sat at the bench for a quick coffee discussing the past days. While Niece was overjoyed to meet her long lost daughter, she admitted the experience was quite traumatic.

"Aunt Alice", she confided. " That baby never truly left my thoughts, but when she was born there were no alternatives but adoption. Today young mothers-to-be have so many options. I actually feel envious of their choices; they don't need to experience the heartbreak in losing a child. It is how I imagine a still-birth might feel. There is a baby; then there isn't. Every year, on the date of her birthday I would go to a quiet place, often in the park, where I would wonder where she was, what she looked like, did she know her birth mother, did she ever think of her; you can imagine what raced through my thoughts Aunt. That was the only day of the year I allowed myself to wallow a little. Otherwise I kept my mind occupied with things; keeping a home, and just moving from day to day."

I felt small Dear Diary. In all the years I had lived with Hester and Phil I never guessed her secret. A sudden rush of emotion surged through me; spontaneously I reached out and hugged her. Poor Niece!

She smiled tremulously, opened the biscuit barrel and offered me one of her home-made gingernuts, which are 100% tastier than the purchased ones. Taking my cue from her, I suggested we have a second cup. We decided, in the interests of our susceptibility to caffeine addiction, to have a small half cup.

The day had hours of sunshine on offer; too lovely a day to spend indoors and especially today when maudlin feelings were on the surface. I suggested a trip to the shops. We didn't need any groceries, we didn't need anything much, but an outing seemed sensible.

Quickly sprucing ourselves up we headed down the path, deciding a walk would be beneficial. We had two free hours; lunch was on the cards, and perhaps a look around the new shop that recently opened at the far end of town. By all accounts a new couple to town had opened a bazaar type shop. Items from far-flung places were set out in a large white space. Oriental rugs, baskets full of English lavender, cotton clothes from India, and an array of scented articles whose perfume wafted throughout. The white walls allowed the stock to be displayed to full advantage.

I ran my fingers over some Egyptian cotton bed linen, admiring its pure feel. Nudging Niece I commented that polyester is but a poor relation to cotton. She smiled in agreement. Small posies of dried flowers scattered on the shelves added to the ambience, while clear glass bowls holding either interesting shapes of pastel coloured soaps, or delicate sea shells made the place equal to a wander around the park.

The time moved on quickly Dear Diary. We were delighted to find a small area at the rear of the shop opening onto a courtyard where tea and sandwiches were served. There seemed no sense in looking for another eatery; this place was restful, the coffee aroma drifted invitingly; we accepted its invitation.

I do believe, Dear Diary, that this quiet little outing provided the correct antidote to Hester's hectic past weeks.

Au revoir

Dear Diary, This morning I woke to the sound of people clattering around, the banging of car doors, and voices. It sounded as though it were Karen and Jake! What was happening?

I dressed hurriedly, and on my way into the kitchen almost ran into Karen as she bounced into the room they occupied.

"Morning Karen," I greeted.

"Hi Aunt Alice", she warbled back.

Honestly Dear Diary, she is becoming more like her mother every day. Perhaps as she ages she will develop Niece's figure as well? What is the old wives tale? Look at the mother when choosing a wife. Never a truer statement! I remember a skinny young girl whose mother was buxom. I always imagined the girl would grow up to look like her father, a morose, skinny, and not possessing a sunny character, unlike the mother. In fact they were a couple so unalike that one had a tough job imaging how they met. Anyway, I met the daughter many years later at her mother's funeral, and there she stood; a photo image of her mother! I was astounded Dear Diary. Do you think I should whisper in Jake's ear a small word as to the future? No. Perhaps not. After all Niece is similar in body shape to most women of her age.

"You're up early Karen!"

"Oh Aunt, didn't you know? Jake and I are heading off shortly. But we will be back in time for the wedding, when we set a date. I have Mother's wedding dress and hope to find a suitable dress for an attendant in a similar style. It shouldn't be too difficult? And I need shoes and headgear to keep the style of the era. You know Aunt, this will be a lot of fun sorting out exactly what is right!"

I must have looked as blank as I felt. Only the other day there was no talk of departure. When I gave the matter a little thought I realised that Karen and Jake were doing the wisest thing. This house had enough excitement to last for weeks, or even months. Niece did need time to settle down; to become used to having a daughter; and most of all time to think through the wedding preparations, and how she could best help without being over-powering and a hindrance.

"Karen, I have so enjoyed meeting you and Jake, and your company. I look forward to your return!"

I was magnanimous in my short speech. Not for me the ruffling of the family pond.

Stretching up I hugged Karen's tall frame, planted a gentle kiss on her cheek, and as Jake entered the hallway at that moment, I extended my hand to him, and wished them both well.

Dear Diary, a respite from the endless merry-go-round that life had become.

Welcome Home

Dear Diary, Turning into our street my eyes opened wide; I almost lost my balance, and thanked my lucky stars I was riding a three-wheeler, as a two-wheeler would surely have turned me onto my tail. The street was a hive of activity. Mrs Over-the-street, wearing a quirky apron with apples appliquéd along the bottom their leaves forming a hem [I bet that took a lot of work], and an apple shape for the pocket, hurried from Niece's home, her face red from exertion, or was it embarrassment or anger? Not hearing any foul language I hoped it was only from her fast running gait, which was abnormal as Mrs Over-the-street usually ambled along in complete oblivion of cars that may drive faster than the speed limit along our quiet street.

The window cleaner chap who lives at the end of the street had his ladder perched up the jacaranda tree that grows just inside Niece's gate; the tree that I simply adore when it is in full bloom with its unusual shade of blue flowers, and the tree that Niece's man detests as he insists it drops leaves onto the lawn clogging up the lawnmower. Men are not content to admire an object for its beauty; they must bring some boring practical side-line into the equation. Niece stood inside the gate her distressed features staring into the tree. Karen and Jake were not in sight.

Dear Diary, perhaps Karen had climbed the tree in an effort to find a little peace and quietness away from Jake's perpetual complaining. He wasn't the first man I had seen with a pulled leg muscle, but I am positive no others ever moaned like he did. I feel certain he is angling for an Oscar!

This place was where I live, and I had every right to turn into the driveway! Ignoring stares from those who didn't recognise me on my new machine, I nonchalantly strolled over to Niece.

"What's going on?" I enquired.

"Aunt Alice," she gasped. "I am so pleased you are back. I do hope you won't be angry!"

Angry? What was she speaking of?

"Why should I be angry?" I replied.

"Aunt," she began, "I don't know how to tell you. But the neighbour's cat [that pesky cat that forever sneaks into the house when our backs are turned] jumped into your room through the partially open window, pranced onto the table where those goldfish are [obviously Niece has forgotten those goldfish have names ... Greensmith and Redshaw ... but I let that slip by. Who was I to stop her in the middle of an explanation?], put its paws into the water and in the process of trying to take those fish out of their tank, knocked the aquarium over, spilling water all over the carpet."

"What happened to Greensmith and Redshaw," I asked, in a rather shaky voice. This little tale was not boding well for my pets.

"That's part of the problem," Niece mumbled, suddenly realising she was to be the bearer of bad news. "That cat ate them both! I heard the commotion, ran up the hallway, but the cat scuttled past me out the back door and ran up the tree, and now it can't get down."

In a calm voice I asked where was Phil's gun! There was only one outcome of this fiasco; the cat had to be shot before it caused any more problems.

Niece looked horrified. "Aunt, you wouldn't ... would you?"

I would! Commonsense took over. We live in a built-up area. Guns are forbidden unless one has a licence, and had I thought for more than half a second about it, I would have remembered that Phil did not own a gun.

"Is that why the window cleaner is up his ladder?" I asked.

Niece looked embarrassed. Oh no Dear Diary. Hester in a rush of sudden silliness had called the only person she knew with a long ladder, the window cleaner from the end of the street, to rescue a cat that had killed and eaten my pets!

I marched over to the base of the tree.

"Window cleaner!" I bellowed. "Come down instantly! That cat can stay there until it dies of starvation, or it can find it's own way down."

The window cleaner, give him his due, looked baffled, his shifty eyes sliding from Niece to myself. Niece had shrunk in size under my commanding tone.

He knew who was calling the tune now, and hurriedly began his descent. The cat was high in the leafy canopy, but edging its way towards the fence through which it had arrived. There was no doubt about its intentions; to evade captivity, and what fate I might dream up, in haste.

Dear Diary, I was not happy. Had I not put the deposit on a new aquarium for my dearest fish? I suppose there is only one solution, though whether I dare suggest it to Niece, remains a quandary ... I would phone the Pet Shop, cancel the order, and enquire as to the availability of a puppy, one that would be trained to chase cats!