We used to call Aunt Lily the fairy. She was short and round, always strolling with her white poodle, Button, on a leash, pulling colourful treats out of a bright little sack. If there were more people like her, the world would be bathed in sunshine, because she *was* sunshine.
Our sandbox adventures ranged from building sandcastles to playing cops and robbers and launching paper boats in puddles. As Bulanov might have sung, We were reckless pirates and bold wanderers of the high seas. Looking back, childhood always appears as a sunlit courtyard, full of rattling building blocks and tiny cars. We were all for one and one for all. Back then you never saw headlines like Teenagers gouge a kittens eye or Dog set alight. Kindness hung in the air. Sure, there were a few nasty characters, but everyone peers and adults alike kept them in check. Shame was the punishment for misbehaviour.
Then there was Aunt Lily.
She was barely taller than a child, with a tumbledry hairstyle that puffed out like a cloud and dresses that always burst with flowers. She loved garish beads. Every afternoon shed appear in the yard with Button, and wed abandon our toy cars, aeroplanes and stuffed bears to rush to her. Aunt Lily was the benevolent spirit of our twostorey Victorian terrace. Young parents left their totters with her while they went to work; she fetched us from the nursery and told us stories on the way. She knitted like a champion. We all strutted around in colourful caps, scarves and socks that Aunt Lily made today theyd be called her signature line.
She wasnt a blood relative, but we called her that anyway. Her actual family lived far away in Wales and sent her parcels of sweets the kind of abundance you can only imagine now that everything is so pricey. Back then there was a genuine shortage.
What did Aunt Lily do? She handed out everything. Shed sit down beside us, and wed shyly hold out our palms. Shed sprinkle us with glittering wrappers, hand us a bite of a rare, exquisite chocolate. Those days you couldt accept candy from strangers they might be after you but Aunt Lily wasnt a stranger. She was family.
Why are you giving them away? the nosy neighbour from the flat above would gasp, lips pursed. They have parents who could feed them. You can barely afford a proper meal yourself. Your husbands ill, isnt he? Hide those sweets! Youll need them longer than theyll ever remember you. She lectured us, her voice as thin as a quill.
We caught the exchange with our friend Olive. We didnt understand much, but the words stuck.
Aunt Lily shot back: Nonsense, dear. These are children, little ones. In a shortage, where will their mums and dads get sweets? I get parcels from my relatives; they havent forgotten me. Let them taste a proper candy. Why hoard it? Share it! Look at their eyes sparkle. They hug me, they smell of happiness, seaspray, milk and watermelon. Oh, how precious they are! Its a pity weve no grandchildren of our own. At least here, everyones my kin. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
You fool! Youre feeding strangers! I wont give a thing to anyone else! the neighbour snapped, shaking her head.
We emerged from behind the hedges.
Olive! Emma! Come here, whats that youre doing? Ive got a shiny apple for you! Aunt Lily held out a bright red fruit.
Aunt Lily, who are fool and bloke? Olive blurted.
The neighbours face darkened for a heartbeat, then she smiled.
You heard that, little ladies. Just pretend you didnt. And remember, if anyone says something harsh, dont let it get to your heart. Brush it off, wave your hand, and let the bad stuff drift away. People are varied, but the good outnumber the bad. I love you all, really! Now, give me a hug. She squeezed us tight.
One weekend Aunt Lily didnt appear in the yard. We asked the mums, Wheres Aunt Lily?
Maybe shes resting, or a bit under the weather. Dont worry about her, they answered.
The next day we didnt wait. All eight of us four girls and four boys gathered a little expedition to Lilys flat. We knew the way.
We werent emptyhanded. Kelsey drew a sun and sky, Sam packed his favourite felttip pen as a gift, Jane and Dave moulded a little dough ball, Olive carried a potted flower, twins Molly and Peter brought jam, and I baked pancakes. My mum made them so light they seemed to melt on the tongue, flipping them with a flourish that sent a pancake soaring and then landing back on the pan.
Take these to Aunt Lily. She treats us, now its our turn, Mum tugged my braids and we set off.
The door was a narrow wooden hatch, halfametre wide. We knocked. Lily opened slowly, wrapped in a faded housecoat, hair in a loose bun, looking pale. The moment she saw us, colour returned.
Oh, my dears! Where have you been? Come in, my darlings! Harry, look, my precious little ones are here to visit Aunt Lily! she cooed, kissing each of us and ushering us inside.
The flat was modest two beds, multicoloured curtains, a wobbly table, a battered cabinet, an ancient TV, and everywhere knitted blankets. A greyeyed, silverhaired man rose from the bed, smiling shyly, trying not to lose his balance.
Thats my husband, Harry. Hes unwell, cant get out much. Ive caught a cold myself. Youre here, loves. Let me treat you to some sweets! Lily fluttered about.
We can help! Want us to run to the shop? I know where the best biscuits are. Or we could dust the carpets, take out the rubbish were handy! Kelsey, the most sprightly of us, declared, puffing out his chest.
Dont be daft, dear. Have a seat on my bed, Lily said, shooing us to the worn mattress.
Jane, ever the quiet one, placed her dough ball on the table.
Soon we were reciting poems, singing songs, munching on candy. The pallor lifted from Lilys face and Harrys cheeks brightened. They laughed too. Lily even tried leading us in a clumsy round dance.
As I left, she whispered in my ear, Ask mums recipe for the pancakes theyre horrifically good! Ive never made anything like that myself, they always end up a bit burnt. She later handed me a crumpled note with the recipe. Ill try again, but honestly, theyll never be perfect! she joked.
Mum began inviting Lily over more often. Lily would slip in, wash her hands, admire her fluffy slippers, squint at them, then plop down on the kitchen sofa. Her legs never quite reached the floor; she loved swinging them while eating pancakes with condensed milk, like a child. Occasionally shed lick the milk off her fingers, blush, and ask for a towel.
She talked about Harrys long illness, how hed soon be unable to walk, and how she delighted in caring for him and bustling about with us.
Lily adored all creatures. Morning and evening shed fill a tin with mash or pasta and feed stray dogs shed found. There were no shelters then, and the mutts on the street wagged their tails when she offered a bite.
My golden woman, she gives herself away to everyone! my mum would say to my dad.
Golden? Like the goldcoloured baubles on a Christmas tree? And Aunt Lilys skin is pale! Id exclaim.
Mum would hug me and explain that a golden person is simply a very good soul.
I remember Lily returning home with her tin, only to be blocked by two gossipy neighbours.
You, dear, stop feeding your mangy dogs. Stop calling the children yours. Theyre a nuisance! Feeding them sweets? Youre a pauper playing rich. Well make your life miserable! they shouted in chorus.
The poor mans family is already struggling. The children are just kids, let them play and laugh. Silence is scary, Lily whispered, clutching her tin to her chest.
A small woman, perhaps named Mrs. Finch, snapped, Your disabled husband will be dead soon! We wont give you a penny!
Lilys voice trembled, Dont touch my Harry!
I felt a surge of protectiveness and shouted, Dont speak to Aunt Lily that way, or Ill
A neighbour grabbed my arm, Youll be smacked, you little brat!
Lily tried to pull me away. Suddenly a whistle cut through the air as we, the brigade of children, rushed in. My grip loosened, and the women scattered, muttering, Youre just childish hooligans!
Lily embraced us tighter. We werent troublemakers; we were a band of oneforall and allforone, and we sensed that Aunt Lily had been hurt.
Today, many kind souls still get the short end of the stick. The people who feed the birds, give spare meals to the homeless, hand out the last biscuit they have, even though they cant afford a loaf themselves. Theyre called soft or naïve, but their gentleness is a strength. Meanwhile, arrogance and brashness are now the currency of respect; the meek are bullied, ridiculed, and asked why theyd waste their last pennies on a neighbour.
Aunt Lily left the town a year later; Harry passed away and her Welsh relatives took her in. We wept in the courtyard.
Before she went, she handed out wafer biscuits, sobbed, kissed each of us and gave us a huge box of wrappers. She taught us a secretkeeping game: wed bury a coloured wrapper, a flower, a shard of bottle glass, then dig it up later it felt magical.
She also gave us a group photograph to rotate custodianship.
Ill be back in a year to check on you lot, she waved, strolling off with a suitcase that seemed larger than herself, Button trotting behind.
She never returned. We guarded the secret spots, but no one was left to show them to.
No one called us sweeties or handed out candy any more. We grew up, went to school, got jobs, laughed, and sometimes a pause would bring a tear when we remembered Aunt Lily.
The last promise was to meet a year later back in the old yard. By then, Ian had become a bank manager, Olivia was a translator, and the rest had scattered. The old terrace was gone, replaced by a sleek new block of flats.
Kenny, now in a designer suit, knelt on the communal garden patch and started digging.
What are you after? Olive laughed.
The secrets. Aunt Lilys secrets. Its been ages and my chest feels tight. Where is she? Is she still alive? I keep seeing her in meetings, handing me a candy, her wife from abroad sending sweets I cant even eat. I just want that one childhood candy, the best one. He sighed, holding up the photo.
It was the same, Olive whispered, She was kind, or maybe just
We all remember she said that even if we grew up, we should keep a childs wonder inside, otherwise the elves get angry and life becomes dull, I added.
Those neighbours who once scolded Aunt Lily were wrong. Weve grown, but we keep her memory alive. Whenever life feels heavy and my heart feels like a cat clawing at the inside, I hear her voice: Dont be sad, love. Have a sweet. Everything will be all right.
