We call her the Fairy among ourselves. Aunt Lily is short and round, always walking a white poodle named Button on a leash while pulling treats from a bright little sack. If there were more people like her, life would glow with sunshine, because she herself is the sun.
We spend our days in the sandpit, playing knightsandbandits, sailing toy boats in puddles. As a song goes, We pretended to be daring pirates and brave wanderers on the high seas. When I think back to childhood, I always picture a courtyard bathed in light, filled with blocks, toy cars and wooden dolls. We look out for each otherone for all, all for one. Back then the papers never ran headlines like Teenagers gouge a kittens eyes or Dog set alight. Kindness hangs in the air. Sure, there are occasional grumps, but everyonechildren and adultskeeps them in check, feeling ashamed of their misdeeds.
Aunt Lily is a little taller than a child, with a cascade of fluffy hair and dresses forever patterned with flowers. She loves bright beads. She steps into the courtyard with her curly white dog, Button. When we toss aside our cars and planes, we rush to her. Aunt Lily feels like the gentle spirit of our twostorey Victorian terrace. Young parents leave their tots with her while they work, and she picks us up from the nursery, weaving stories on the way. She knits marvelously. All of us parade in colourful caps, scarves and socks that Aunt Lily makestoday wed call them her signature line.
She isnt any of our blood relatives, but we still call her Aunt. Her family lives far away in Wales and sends her boxes of sweets. In those days, everything was scarce; now you can buy whatever you want.
What does Aunt Lily do? She hands out everything she gets. She sits with us, and we shyly extend our palms for the odd coloured wrappers, the taste of homemade toffees, the delicate, refined flavours. Nowadays strangers never give children anything, fearing theyll be harmed. But Aunt Lily isnt a strangershes one of us.
Why are you giving them away? a thinlipped neighbour from the second block snaps. They have parents; theyll have food. Youre barely getting by, your husbands ill, you need those sweets for yourselves. She warns us not to spoil the children, that theyll grow up and forget us.
Lucy and I overhear the exchange. We catch only fragments, but the words stick. Aunt Lily replies, Petty, youre talking nonsense. These are kids, theyre starving for a bit of sweetness. My relatives keep sending me treats. Let them remember the taste of good candy. Im not hoarding; Im sharing! Look at their bright eyes, the way they hug me. It smells of childrens joy, sea breezes, fresh milk and watermelon. Bless them, even if I never have my own children or grandchildren. At least here theyre my family. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.
Fool! the neighbour retorts, Theyre just noisy brats. I wont give them anything. She huffs and walks away.
We step out from behind the hedges. Molly! Bella! Come here, what are you doing? Aunt Lily calls, holding out a shiny red apple.
Who are fool and brat? Lucy blurts.
The neighbours face flickers, then she smiles. You heard little girls. Just pretend you didnt. And remember: if anyone says something hurtful, dont take it to heart. Let it drift away. People are different, but good ones outnumber the bad. I love you all very much. She squeezes us close.
One day Aunt Lily doesnt appear in the courtyard for two days. The first day we ask the mothers, Wheres Aunt Lily? They answer, She might be resting or feeling unwell. Dont worry about her. On the second day we gather, four girls and four boys, and set off to her flat. We bring gifts: Kesh draws a sky and sun, Sam brings his favourite marker, Emma and Tom mould a little clay ball, Lucy carries a potted flower, twins Hannah and Paul bring homemade jam, and I bring pancakes that my mum flips with effortless flairgolden, buttery, melting in the mouth.
Take these to Aunt Lily, mum says, patting my braid.
We knock on her door, a narrow wooden one. She opens slowly, wearing a loose cardigan, hair in a loose bun, looking pale. The moment she sees us, she brightens. Oh, my dears! Where have you come from? My sweet family! Volodymyr! she exclaims, pulling us into a hug and leading us inside.
The flat is modest: two beds, colourful curtains, a wobbling table, a battered TV, and piles of knitted blankets. A greyeyed, elderly man sits up in a chair, smiling weakly. Thats my husband, Volodymyr. Hes ill, cant get up. Ive caught a cold myself. Aunt Lily rushes to the kitchen. Ill treat you to sweets! she declares.
We can help! Kesh says, chin up. We could run errands, sweep the floor, take out the rubbishanything.
Sit down, dear, on my bed, Aunt Lily chirps, handing over the treats. Emma places her clay ball on the table, and the rest follow suit. We recite poems, sing songs, and watch Aunt Lilys pallor fade as laughter fills the room. She even leads us in a clumsy circle dance.
As I leave, she leans in, Ask your mum for the pancake recipe. Theyre the best Ive ever tasted! She later writes the recipe on a scrap of paper, joking that her own attempts never turn out right.
Aunt Lily often visits our house, washing her hands, admiring her fluffy slippers, then settling on the kitchen sofa. She cant reach the floor with her legs, so she dangles them while eating pancakes with condensed milk, licking the spoon with childish delight and then asking for a towel.
She tells us her husband has been ill for years and can no longer walk, but she finds joy caring for him and for us. She also loves every animal she meets. Each morning and evening she carries a tin bucket of porridge or pasta to feed stray dogs she finds on the streetsthere were no shelters then, and the streetdogs wag their tails when she arrives.
My golden lady, my mum says to my dad, She gives everything away!
Goldenlike the colour of Christmas ornaments? I ask, confused. Mum pulls me close and explains that a golden person means a truly good soul.
One afternoon, two women block Aunt Lilys path as she carries her bucket home. You shouldnt feed those mutts any more, and stop calling the children yours. Theyre noisy and youre cheap, pretending to be rich, they jeer. Dont you think youre a bit of a liar? they continue, shouting about a drunk neighbour they once tried to support at his funeral.
Aunt Lily whispers, A childs life matters. The mother is penniless, the little ones should just play and laugh. Silence can be frightening. She clutches her bucket tighter.
A third voice shouts, Your invalid husband will never get better! We wont give you a penny! Another woman, name forgotten, screams, Dont touch my boy Volodymyr! The air feels heavy.
I cant stay silent. Dont speak to Aunt Lily that way! I shout, stepping in front of her. One of the women lunges at me, grabbing my arm. Aunt Lily tries to intervene, but a whistle blows as Kesh and the others sprint in, pulling me free. We form a circle around Aunt Lily and chant, Never hurt her, never speak illif you do, youll answer to us. Aunt Lily is ours! The women hiss scornfully and retreat.
Aunt Lily embraces us tighter. We arent troublemakers; were a band of oneforall and allforone. We feel the sting of the pain she endured.
Today, many kind souls still sufferthose who feed birds, give to the homeless, share their last loaf when they cant afford more. Theyre called eccentric, even mad, while society now prizes arrogance and rudeness. People trample over each others tears, delight in cruelty, and ignore the balance of harmony that should hold the world together. We ought to live together, kindly.
A year later Aunt Lily moves away after her husband passes. Her relatives in Wales take her in. The whole courtyard weeps. Before she leaves, she hands us wafers, kisses us, and gives a large box of candy wrappers. She tasks us with making secret keeps we collect a foil piece, a flower, a shard of bottle glass, bury them, then dig them up later. She also gives us a group photo to keep rotating.
Ill be back in a year to check, she waves, dragging a suitcase larger than herself, Button trotting behind her.
She never returns. We guard the secret keeps, but soon theres no one left to show them to. No more strangers hand us sweets or call us darlings. We grow up, study, laugh, and sometimes a pause brings tears as we remember Aunt Lily.
We promise to meet again in the old courtyard a year later, but the street has been replaced by a sleek new block. In an expensive suit, our former neighbour Ingram, now a bank manager, kneels in the garden, digging. What are you looking for? Lucy and I ask. The secret keeps of Aunt Lily, he sighs. Its been years, but it still aches in my chest. I try to find hersometimes she appears in meetings, handing me a candy, her wife abroad sending sweets I never eat. I just want that one childhood candy, the best one. He pulls out the photograph he kept, breathing heavily.
She was good, Emma murmurs. Or at least she tried, Lucy adds.
And remember, I say, she always told us that even when we grow up we should keep a childs heart, otherwise the elves get angry and life becomes dull.
The women who once scolded her were wrong. Weve grown, but we still hold Aunt Lily in our minds. When sadness claws at my throat, I hear her voice: Dont be sad, love. Have a candy. Everything will be alright.
