April 12th Diary
I never imagined Id end up narrating the tangled life of my late Aunt Evelyn, but the memories keep circling back like stubborn moths.
Dont you see! That old woman is nobody to us! Evelyn shrieked, trying to convince her daughter that the littlehanded Lucy was a troublemaker. Lucy winced, as if on the brink of tears, then lifted her chin and declared, Then to me shell be the dearest Nobody in the world, and nothing will change that.
You see, in our sprawling Yorkshire farm the Lukes John and Margaret married off every daughter but the youngest, Mary. She was the quiet, meek one; no suitor ever appeared, or perhaps he got lost far away. Margaret would sigh, Maybe his fate is to wander. Mary stayed at home, a solid rock for her aging parents, while none of her citybound nieces ever bore children.
The first to ask for help was Victor, son of my eldest sister. He came bowing low, pleading, Aunt Mary, could you look after my little one? The nursery wont take her and my wife needs to get back to work. By then Mary was a grown woman, caught between duty to her frail parents and the fear of city life. Victor promised to tend to her own grandparents, to mend roofs and dig potatoes whenever he could.
My parents urged Mary to go, whispering that a city might bring a suitable match, even if they were past their prime. They didnt know wed already decided what would happen to Mary if she stayed alone. So Mary swapped her farm apron for a nannys smock. Victor found her a parttime job, and she kept feeding the family with what she earned.
Soon the older children of Victors family went to school, the younger arrived, and Marys parents passed away. She was no longer caring for Victors brood but for another nephews children, passing the baton of care from one generation to the next. It felt as though she had become a revolving door for chores, no longer needed but still summoned whenever a baby cried.
A few years before the house a cosy cottage beside a berryladen wood and a stream was sold by the sisters for a tidy sum, Victor suggested, Lets pool together and buy Aunt Mary a small flat. She shouldnt be living under a bush. The family chattered, worried about who would inherit such a modest home, but Victor waved it off, Whoever serves tea will have a share, or as Mary sees fit.
Victor never made it to fifty; a bout of gastritis and later a cancer diagnosis took him. With his death the extended family seemed to forget Aunt Mary. Her children were grown, the grandchildren no longer needed nannies, and she, now in her late sixties, found herself alone.
One rainy afternoon, while waiting in line at the local greengrocer, a young woman named Olivia approached me. Do you happen to mind looking after a child? she asked, her pale daughter clutching a little blanket. My little one just had heart surgery and cant go to nursery. I need someone kind, willing to stay.
Mary leaned down, smiled, and the girl whispered, Come, Ill tell you stories. Thus began a new chapter. Lucy, now twelve, blossomed under Marys care. The two shared a bright, airy room; Lucys parents worked long hours, so she spent most of her time with Mary, who, though uneducated, enforced breathing exercises, walks away from the smoggy streets, and a strict routine. Lucy thrived.
When night fell and Lucy asked, Mary, could you tell me a tale? the old woman spun simple, honest stories, even confessing a secret about a river cruise shed taken with a pregnant niece. That niece, a university student named Olivia, had boarded a boat to return home, left her newborn on the deck, and begged Mary to watch the infant. Take him, it seems God sent him to you, she said before disappearing into the night.
The baby, wrapped in a thin blanket, stared at Mary with a knowing gaze. She whispered to herself, If only I had that, and offered the child to Olivia, who hurried away, leaving the infant in Marys arms. Mary, though never a mother, instinctively swaddled the child, fed him from a thermos of warm milk, and sang a lullaby. The boat pulled away, and Mary felt a pang of loss mixed with a strange sense of purpose.
Weeks later, Victors widow came storming in, furious. Why are you keeping a strangers child when you have blood of your own? she shouted. The dispute escalated, and Mary was taken away, heartbroken that she could not decide her own fate.
Lucy, tears streaming, clutched Marys wrinkled cheek. Youre still my nanny, my dear, she whispered, and Mary, feeble but grateful, replied, Youre my child.
Soon after, Evelyn, ever pragmatic, suggested renting Marys tiny flat to earn a modest £150 a week, enough to pay for Lucys piano lessons. The old piano, covered in dust, finally saw keys pressed again. Years later, Evelyn inherited a share of a London flat from a distant aunt, and together they transformed Marys modest house into a decent onebedroom flat, owned jointly by Lucy and Mary. By then, the rest of the family had lost interest, and life settled into a quiet rhythm.
Lucy grew into a healthy, attractive young woman, finished school, and moved to Manchester to study. She gave Mary her savings to cover rent and even a little for a wedding dress. By that time Marys eyesight was failing; she shuffled around, shivering in an old coat, and wondered why Evelyn had taken her under her roof when her own mother lived miles away.
Evelyn, irritated, shoved Mary into a dark storage cupboard, calling her nobody. She snapped, For Gods sake, leave! The old woman, blind and frail, could hardly protest.
When Lucys fiancé, Andrew, came to meet the family, she rushed to the flat, expecting to see Mary. Wheres the nanny? she asked, panicking. Evelyn, evasive, said, Shes in the back, hidden away. Lucy opened the cupboard door, found a battered bed and a withered woman, and the sight broke her heart.
The next two hours, Lucy tended to Mary, fed her, and whispered, Youre my dear, my sweet berry. Mary, though blind, felt the love in Lucys hands and smiled. Lucy later presented Mary with a sachet of lavender and rosemary, filling the stale room with the scent of a summer meadow.
Behind the kitchen door, Evelyn tried to argue with Lucy, claiming caring for a blind old lady was a burden. Lucy, voice low, replied, If you closed me in a cupboard for forty years, would you understand?
Evelyn snapped once more, Nobody! but Lucy, remembering Marys words, said, Then shes my Nobody, the one who means everything to me.
The wedding plans were postponed, but Andrew agreed to meet Evelyn and Mary. They signed the papers for the flat, refurbished it with secondhand furniture, and moved in together. Lucy studied speech therapy, Andrew became an ophthalmologist, and Mary finally rested in a modest but warm room, surrounded by the faint fragrance of herbs.
Mary passed away peacefully at ninetytwo, her final year spent in silence but free from quarrels. She left behind a lesson etched in my heart: kindness, no matter how small or unremarkable, can become the cornerstone of many lives. I have learned that even those deemed nobodies may be the very ones who hold us together.
End of entry.
