Monday is Washday

Dear Diary, Autumn has arrived. It was almost cold this morning, which caused me to search through my wardrobe for my fleecy housecoat, and fluffy slippers. I know they are somewhere! After all it has been six months or more since I wore them last.

I know many folks love Monday's; I do, once I have been up for a couple of hours. Niece is definitely old fashioned in her ways and demands the beds all be stripped and bedding washed on a Monday. Sometimes I expect to see her lighting the copper, not that she has one, and setting up a tub with blue impregnated water for rinsing. Nor would I put it past her to starch pillow cases! She is over zealous at times.

Dutifully, remembering our moment of tenderness and kindness yesterday, I pulled the duvet back, stripped of the sheets and the pillow cases, and carried them to the laundry. Already Niece was busy. The washing machine was making those swirring noises associated with hard work, and the laundry basket sat in the centre of the floor with tea towels and table cloths, that require laundering first. I thought about asking why we needed to keep to the old rules as regards washing when we have automatic washing machines that empty out after each cycle ... but ... I decided against it.

What I love especially is when the lavender bushes are flowering and Niece throws the sheets over them to dry. Such a delightful perfume in the bed; so conducive to a restful sleep. There is nothing more pleasant on this whole earth than sleeping in freshly laundered bedding perfumed with lavender!

Sometimes, when I remember; sadly my memory does have those moments of forgetfulness, which I am often reminded is due to the 'aging process' ... what a ridiculous phrase for maturing ... after washing my hair under the shower I will tip a jug of rosemary scented water over my head for the final rinse. Often I forget. It is only when I am drying my long tresses that it suddenly dawns, I should have rinsed with rosemary!

Niece casually mentioned that she intended going into town later in the morning, for a little shopping, and perhaps a visit to the local Museum, which was holding a special exhibition. Would I like to go? Dear Diary, when have I ever turned down an invitation to an outing? In response to her generous offer I picked up the clothes basket, pulled on the peg apron, and helped peg out the wash. The sooner that is on the line swaying in the strong breeze the sooner we leave for town. Dear Diary, Niece also mentioned lunch at a delightful eating-house. Today has the makings of a great excitement!

A Cheerful Day

Dear Diary, for those fortunate enough to be a Mum, today is their day. For me it is simply sad. I remember Darling Bobby Junior, and think of what could have been. But, I must not dwell on the long distant past. Especially when the future looms largely in my life ... it is just one huge map book with no index.
The day is spent quietly, but extremely pleasantly. Dear Niece tapped gently on my door this morning. I bade her enter, and hastened to open the door for her as I could ascertain that she was having a struggle on the other side of the entrance. Looking slightly flustered she carried a tray to my little table. A small lace cloth draped the tray that held goodies.

A delicate crystal vase held three small roses with a spray of maidenhair fern to highlight their pink blushness, a teapot cum cup, a bowl of fruit topped with cereal and yoghurt, plus a round of toast spread with my favourite ginger marmalade and cut into triangles were all arranged delectably on the tray. Niece bent over and kissing me gently on the cheek, murmured, "Happy Mother's Day Dear Aunt Alice".

I must have looked as surprised as I felt, as such an unsolicited act had never before been attempted.

She carried on, "Dear Aunt, you are more a Mother to me than an aunt!" And with that uttering, she turned and hurried out the room, but not before I noticed a tiny tear running down her face.

I chased after her. This was unprecedented Dear Diary! A show of sentiment from Niece is unheard of.

"Niece!" I called.

She turned, and I taking my opportunity, gave her a huge hug, thanked her for the wonderful gesture, and murmured that I too considered her as close to a daughter I could ever have.

The morning has gone so well. It is just amazing how a moments kindness lightens the heart and soul of an elderly aunt ... and I suspect that Niece is feeling as cheerful as I.

My Bedroom

Dear Diary, it is only now that I feel able to sit and write; the mouse, Harold, Niece, all combined to upset my equilibrium no end.

So often we hear how a cup of tea is the cure-all for everything. It fails to work for me. Earl Grey, my favourite for afternoon tea, of the posh variety; English Breakfast, strong and black, or herbal teas simply left me cold over the last bleak days.

After the mouse episode, Harold, no doubt realising his display showed a lack of back-bone, of manly courage, said a hasty 'Bye' to me, gave Niece a hug, and exited the house. I am left wondering if perhaps Harold looks up to Niece's considerable stamina regarding unwarranted visits by rodents, or whether he is sucking up [not a nice word I know, but so suitable for this occasion] to Niece, in the hope of being on the receiving end of her morning teas. I have an inkling he is not adverse to a little gossip, which is another sign of his lack of genteel breeding.

At the moment my room is my haven, my shield from the uncouth acts of the outside world, the only place where I can be alone with my thoughts and indulge in a little nostalgia.

'My room', is hardly an apt description of my space in Niece and her man's house. Their home is a blend of past and present; the rooms are large and airy, yet not cold in winter. It was built as a family home for a wealthy banker who kept a maid for household chores, his wife being actively involved in civic matters. The maid was fortunate in that she occupied, what today would be classed as a Granny Flat within the home. Her quarters are my quarters. I have a small sitting room with a patio, where Harold and I sat and played Scrabble, and where he attempted to teach me Canasta, from where I can stroll out into the garden or wander further to the shade house where tomatoes, basil, and other herbs grow abundantly. The patio is sheltered from the prevailing winds that sometimes whistle through, as they journey from the interior towards the coast.

I have a bedroom with deep recessed windows with a window seat covered in delicate blue and pink and cream flowery cushions. It is in this spot I sit and read, or watch the myriad of birdlife that flock to the trees bounding the garden. My bed is gracious; a four-poster with cream drapes that are hooked back with blue ties; the quilt covering the Queen Size bed is in similar shades to the cushions. It is at this point I must applaud Niece's considerable efforts in her decor ... she crafted the cushions, and the quilt, and they are magnificent.

Off the bedroom lies a small bathroom, and a huge walk-in wardrobe with a twin-drawer dresser along one side. There is ample space for me, and my treasures.

Confidentially Dear Diary, as I lie awake in those long hours after mid-night, when my mind twirls and swirls with the deeds of the day, and the past, I do sometimes wonder why a banker and his wife found it essential to offer such luxury to a maid. Rumours, which I hasten to say are barely akin to gossip, have it that the only son of banker and wife, is in fact the son of banker and the maid. Of course one should hold no credence to rumours, but you know the old saying, 'where there is smoke, there is fire'.

Antics in the Bedroom

Dear Diary ... I hardly know where to begin. I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any!

Well, Harold followed me along the passage way that Niece has decorated to resemble a Portrait Gallery; not of long dead relatives, but of her endless forays into gardening. She has had a cacti garden; a water garden which came to a quick end ... the sprinkler system switched itself off whilst we were all away on a two-month visit to my sister, Niece's Mother, in the 'old country'. Nothing but dry wizened plants on our return! She dabbled in roses, decided the thorns were too brutal to tender hands; she turned her hand to orchids; and even planted out a vegetable garden after watching a re-run of The Good Life on TV. The whole effect is overwhelming; gardens of all varieties the length of the passageway!

Harold and I sat down comfortably. I was in half a mind whether to show him the old photos, or whether we should simply play Scrabble, though that idea I quickly relegated to the back of my mind when that word 'Canasta' flitted across my half closed eyes like a flickering old black and white movie. Harold began a long rambling conversation about a car he had owned when a teenager. Dear Diary, I know nothing about cars. I do actually ... they take one from Point A to Point B.

My mind was wandering to the long country drives I had with Darling Bobby, and I was smiling to myself as I recalled how we stopped to picnic in a secluded glade, where I suspect Bobby Junior was conceived ... I could feel the blush rising to my cheeks and hurriedly changed the pathway of my thinking. My eyes were closed. It is easier to travel into the past when the present is not visible.

Suddenly I felt something on my arm. In the beginning I assumed it was Harold trying to be amorous ... he has embarked on strange conversations regarding loneliness, and how lovely it would be to have a companion to live with. I ignore those comments! The tickling began again, but it did not feel like a human hand. My eyes shot open. I screamed. There, running down the front of my cardigan sleeve was a mouse. I screamed again ... loud and long! Harold jumped up, and upon noticing my distress, climbed onto the bed in an effort to dodge the mouse.

Dear Diary ... until this moment I considered Harold a gentleman, a gentleman who would rush to the aid of a lady in distress. Dear Diary Harold is a wimp!

In chorus we let out an ear-splitting scream, Niece ran into the room, noticed the cause of our agitation, and grabbing a nearby broom proceeded to chase the mouse out of the room. Whew! Dear Diary, I badly need another cup of tea!

A Surprise Visit

Dear Diary, There was a gentle knock on the front door around mid-morning; Niece, who was busy making a doll for a small relative for an upcoming birthday, hurriedly placed her work on the work table to see who was visiting. To my amazement I heard her ushering the guest in before she called to me to come into the kitchen for a cuppa. Obviously this guest was someone whom Niece knew well! It has been her habit to invite guests into the dining room, where she sets the table with bone china cups, and lays a spread of crackers and cheese, sweet biscuits, and invariably a home-made cake, though that man of hers often raids the cake tin on his way to the office ... he has a sweet tooth.

Hurrying along the passage it was possible to hear the conversation being held. Harold had popped in! Seems that he feels guilty about his sudden departure the other day, and there was I thinking I had been a little strident after the mishap with poor Greensmith and Redshaw. [Hearing that little tidbit gave me a clue as to how to react when I walked into the room. Forewarned is forearmed!]

I tapped at the kitchen door, in a show of genteelism; and ladylike, walked in.

"Harold, my dear!" I gushed. "How lovely to see you." I place a kiss on his cheek, noticing he had used Old Spice aftershave before leaving home.

Harold blushed at my effusive welcome, though restrained himself enough not to kiss me back. I had hoped he would; Niece would have had something to tell that man of hers after work when I was safely ensconced in my room.

Niece played Mother, pouring tea, offering milk and sugar, and passed around the well-laden cake plates. Give Harold his due; he must have come out without eating breakfast as he sampled every offering, praising Niece for her wonderful baking.

It was obvious that I wouldn't get a word in this morning; Niece and Harold were deep in conversation while I gazed around the room looking for a means of escape.

"Harold," cooed Niece, " how long have you lived in Newtown? Are you a widower? How do you fill in the days of your retirement?"

I sat, waiting anxiously for the question 'How much money do you have in the bank?' Niece did display some decorum as she enquired of Harold if he read much. I breathed a sigh of relief. This morning tea was becoming an inquisition. There had to be some way to divert Harold's attention.

"Oh Harold," I said, "Would you like to come and see how Greensmith and Redshaw have settled in after their upset the other day?"

Harold grasped the opportunity to leave the conversation that had become too personal, and together we headed to my room where the goldfish awaited inspection.

Dear Diary, you have to admit that inspecting goldfish is an improvement on the old line, come upstairs and view my etchings!

Photos

Dear Diary, Life has settled down again ~ thank goodness. All the excitement of the past few days left me breathless, which is not a good state for a lady of a genteel nature to be in. For one thing, if I am breathless I am unable to communicate; by speaking. A quiet Aunt Alice is a rarity!

In an effort to keep myself quietly occupied I searched the bottom of the wardrobe for the tins of photos. I really must take scrapbooking classes and learn how to store photos of not only my childhood, but also photos of great grandparents. Once Niece asked me about family history, but when I began relating what is a rather long genealogical line her eyes became glazed over; I quietly ran the conversation to an end without telling her any of the exciting events prior to either of our births.

She has yet to learn that great, several times over, grandfather, was a whaler and sealer, how his parents were Australian convicts; she does not know the trials and tribulations other ancestors had after leaving the hills of Scotland to embark on a life as farmers on farms that were not broken in. How their lives slowly became better, how their crops and animals held the family on the land, nor of how they carved a niche for themselves in a foreign land.

Perhaps I could make a scrapbook relating some of these fascinating stories, and include photos that are stored in the old biscuit tins in the bottom of the wardrobe?

Dear Diary, I wonder how the women managed with no shops? They would have sewed garments by hand, they grew gardens, and raised large families by today's standards. Some lived to an old age, which I guess does show that hard work never killed anyone. Then again, maybe I won't mention that last fact to Niece ... she might take that as an invitation for me to consider helping around the house!

Harold hasn't been in touch since yesterday's fiasco Dear Diary. In fact the day is dragging. I am beginning to wonder if I prefer a life of excitement to the sedate life of an elderly lady, not that I am that elderly, but I am a Lady.

An Over-abundance of Water

Dear Diary, Harold and I sat out on my little patio where I was being educated in the rudiments of Canasta. I fear my life education is sadly lacking. Cards never played a part in my formative years; in fact my parents looked down their noses at 'others who gambled', and that included cards. Hearing Harold speak in such glowing terms of what he considers a social activity, I allowed myself to be persuaded to learn Canasta. What a difficult game it is! I found the hand of cards he dealt me almost too large to hold, and as for fanning them out ... I have a lot to learn. Frankly Dear Diary I prefer Scrabble, but to humour Harold I will persevere for another day or two.

We we sitting out on the little patio, a teapot nearby, when I heard Niece entering my room. I had, wrongly I now know, assumed that my room was MY ROOM. She was poking around, moving my treasures ... I know the sound of my Lladro ballet dancer being slid across the shiny wooden surface of my display shelf ... that particular figurine was a present from an admirer over 20 years ago.

Not being pleased at an invasion I flung open the door with its stained glass picture of a red rose on its upper half; frightening Niece in the process. She dropped the ballet dancer, which thankfully didn't break. It did knock against the aquarium that I inadvertently had balanced too close to the edge of the table underneath the display shelf, and sent the aquarium crashing to the floor. Poor Greensmith and Redshaw! They lay, gasping out of water, on the carpet, which was dripping wet in the vicinity of the accident.

Horrified, forgetting to read the riot act to Niece for her unwarranted intrusion, I bent down to retrieve my dear goldfish. Niece look suitably subdued! Serves her right! She set about mopping up the water before I reminded her that my fish were without a home. Chastened she hurried out of the room, and bringing back a bucket of water, filled the tank enabling me to return Greensmith and Redshaw to their rightful home.

Perhaps Niece will keep to her own domain in future. Harold departed rather promptly as the incident progressed. I do hope I wasn't too strident in my retorts to Niece!