We called her the Fairy among ourselves. Small and round, she always wandered the courtyard with a white poodle named Button on a leash, pulling out treats from a glittering bag. If more people were like her, the world would glow with sunlight, because she was sunshine herself.
We played gentle games in the sandpit, pretended to be daring pirates and wandering rogues, launched tiny boats in puddles. As the old song went, We were bold buccaneers, fearless sailors of the misty sea.
When I drift back to childhood, the yard is always drenched in golden light: wooden blocks, toy cars, plush bears. We were one for all and all for one. The newspapers never whispered headlines like Teenagers gouge a kittens eye or Dog burned alive. Kindness floated in the air. Perhaps a sour soul existed, but everyonepeers and grownups alike taught it manners, and shame hung heavy on bad deeds.
And then there was Aunt Lily.
Petite as a child, just a head taller than us, with lavishly brushed hair and dresses blooming with flowers. She adored rainbow beads. Each afternoon she stepped into the yard with her curly white dog, Button. When we tossed aside our toy cars, paper planes, and stuffed bears, we all rushed toward her. Aunt Lily was the benevolent spirit of our twostorey Victorian terrace. Parents left their youngsters in her care while they slipped off to work. She fetched us from the nursery, weaving stories as she went. Her knitting was flawless. We strutted in multicoloured caps, scarves and socks that Aunt Lily suppliedback then they would have been called signature items.
She wasnt a blood relative, yet we called her aunt. Her kin lived far away in the hills of Wales, sending her crates of sweets. Back then there was scarcity; now you can buy anything with a click of a card in pounds sterling.
What did Aunt Lily do? She handed out everything. Shed sit beside us, and wed shyly extend our palms, receiving strangeshaped candy wrappers, the taste of rare, refined confections. Today strangers are warned not to give children anything unknown, lest they be hurt. But Aunt Lily was no stranger; she was ours.
Why are you giving them away? a thinlipped neighbour from the second block asked. They have parents, theyll have food. Youre barely getting by; your husbands ill and needs medicine. Hide those sweets for yourself! Theyll never thank you; theyll grow up and forget.
We overheard this with our friend Olive. The words stuck, though we understood little. Aunt Lily replied:
Zara, youre absurd. These are children, little ones. In these lean times their mums and dads cant afford candy. My relatives keep sending me treats; let them remember the taste of good sweets. Why hoard them? Share! See their eyes sparkle, feel their hugs, smell the happiness of children mingling with sea breezes, milk, watermelon. God, how lovely they are! Its a shame we have no children or grandchildren of our ownhere you are, my own family! She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
The neighbour sneered, Youre a fool, feeding strangers. I wont give a thing to those not my own! She turned and stalked away.
We emerged from behind the hedge, shouting:
Olive! Daisy! Come here, what are you doing? Come, children, I have a bright red apple! Aunt Lily held out the fruit.
What do fool and silly even mean? Olive blurted.
For a heartbeat the neighbours face flickered like a shadow, then softened into a smile.
You heard little girls. Pretend you didnt hear, okay? And remember: if anyone says something nasty, dont let it cling to your heart. Brush it away, let it drift like a feather. People are varied, but the good outnumber the bad. I love you all very much! Now give me a hug. She pressed us close.
One morning Aunt Lily didnt appear in the courtyard. We asked mothers, Wheres Aunt Lily? She might be resting or unwell, dont worry, they answered. On the second day we gathered, four girls and four boys, and set off as a little delegation to her flat. We brought gifts: Kelsey had drawn a sun and sky; Sam carried his favourite marker; Ellen and Tom molded a little clay dumpling; Olive brought a potted flower; twins Mary and Paul offered jam, and I carried pancakesmy mothers legendary, buttery, cloudsoft creations that seemed to flutter midair before settling back onto the plate.
Take these to Aunt Lily, Mother tugged my braid. She feeds us, we must return the favour.
We knocked on the halfopen door of a narrow hallway. Aunt Lily, in a faded housecoat, hair in a loose bun, pale but brightening at our sight, opened slowly.
Ah, my dears! From where have you come? All my kin are here! she cooed, pulling us into the cosy room.
The house was modest: two beds, rainbow curtains, a wobbly table, a battered cabinet, an old television, and countless knitted blankets. From the bed rose a greyeyed, silverhaired man, his smile tentative, his balance wavering.
Thats my husband, James, she introduced. Hes ill, cant get out much. Ive taken a turn for the worse, too. Come, have some candy!
We can help! shouted Kelsey, chin lifted. We could shop, sweep the floor, take out the rubbishanything!
Sit, sit, dear, on my little bed, Aunt Lily urged.
Ellen placed her clay dumpling on the table. The others followed suit, laying out jam, flowers, and the apple.
We sang, recited poems, and ate sweets. The pallor left Aunt Lilys cheeks, and even Jamess face softened. Aunt Lily even tried a clumsy round dance with us, laughing as we spun.
She whispered to me, Ask your mother for the pancake recipe. Theyre dreadful good! Ive never tasted anything like them. Im terrible at cooking; everything burns.
Later my mother invited Aunt Lily over. She would wash her hands, marvel at fluffy slippers, squint while putting them on, then settle on the kitchen sofa. Her legs never touched the floor, and shed chatter with them while munching pancakes with condensed milk, licking the sticky sweetness from her fingers, blushing and asking for a towel.
She told us James had been sick for years, unable to walk, and she found joy in caring for him and us.
Aunt Lily loved all creatures. Each morning and evening she filled a bucket with oatmeal or macaroni and fed stray dogs she met on the streetsthere were no shelters then. A pair of ragclad pups wagged their tails whenever she offered a morsel.
Golden woman, giving herself to everyone, my mother would say to my father.
Gold as in the colour of a Christmas ornament? Aunt Lilys skin is fair! Id wonder.
Mother would hug me and explain that a golden person is simply a very good soul.
I recall Aunt Lily walking home with her bucket, blocked by two rough women.
You, dear, stop feeding your mangy dogs. Stop calling children to you. Were fed up with your shouting, your candygiving. Youre a beggar playing rich! they shouted in chorus.
The man is alive, though ailing. He needs care. The children are small, let them play and laugh. Silence can be frightening, Aunt Lily whispered, clutching her bucket tight.
A voice cracked, Think of yourself! Your crippled husband will never recover! We wont give you a penny!
A woman I cant name roared, Dont touch my Vicky!
I felt a surge, You must not speak to Aunt Lily like that! Otherwise Ill show you! I lunged forward, shielding her.
A hissed You little brat! Well slap you! and a woman seized my hand, dragging me away. Aunt Lily tried to intervene, then a whistle blew. Kelsey and the rest burst in, freeing my wrist. Forming a circle around Aunt Lily we declared in unison:
Never hurt her, never speak ill! Otherwise youll answer to us! Aunt Lily is ours!
The women hissed Youre just naughty children! and fled. Aunt Lily embraced us again.
We werent bullies; we were one for all and all for one. With childlike hearts we sensed the pain wed caused Aunt Lily.
Now many gentle soulsthose who feed birds, give to the homeless, share the last loaf when they cant afford breadare treated as fools. Power, impudence, and rudeness are prized; kindness is scorned. People trample over tears and suffering, delighting in mischief.
The world sighs silently, the planet weeps, its balance broken. We must learn to live together.
A year later Aunt Lily left town; James passed away, and her Welsh relatives took her in. We wept in the courtyard.
Before she went, she handed out wafers, kissed each of us, and gave a large box of candy wrappers. She asked us to make secret pockets: wed bury a wrapper, a flower, a shard of bottle glass, then dig it up laterbeautiful little mysteries. She also gave us a group photograph to keep rotating.
Ill return in a year to check, she waved, dragging a suitcase larger than herself, with Button trotting behind.
She never came back. We guarded the secret pockets, but no one remained to show them. No one called us children or fed us sweets. We grew, learned, laughed, and sometimes a pause would rise, tears welling when we thought of Aunt Lily
We agreed to meet again a year later in the old yard. By then, the terrace had been replaced by a sleek new block of flats. In an expensive suit, under puzzled gazes, Kelsey knelt in the garden, turning the soil.
What are you looking for? Olive asked, smiling.
The secret pockets, Aunt Lilys, he whispered. It hurts my chest that theyre gone. I search for her, sometimes seeing her in meetings, handing me a candy, her foreign wife sending sweets I cant eat. I just want that one childhood candy, the best one. He sighed, pulling a faded photograph from his coat.
Same here. She was kind, or maybe not, Olive murmured.
I remember she always said that even when we grow up we should keep a childs wonder, else the elves get angry and life turns dull, I added.
The women who once shouted at her were wrong. Were older, but we still remember her. If ever darkness claws at my soul, I hear her voice:
Dont be sad, dear. Have a candy. Everything will be alright.
