Little by little, we managed to hook up Aunt Margarets place to running water, and eventually, even gas. After that, we tackled every possible home improvement project you could imagine. Later, I stumbled across Aunt Margarets house listed on an estate agents website. Charming, really.
My seventy-eight-year-old aunt has two sisters one of whom happens to be my mum. Aunt Margaret was married at least ten times she could have had her own TV series. Her last husband shuffled off this mortal coil about a decade ago. Aunt Margaret never had children of her own. For years, she and her various husbands lived in a decrepit house with none of the modern conveniences. Two rooms, and the loo was out in the garden practically medieval!
Aunt Margarets late husband was, as they say, a character. We popped round for visits regularly. Her younger sister lived in Sweden. The sisters maintained contact mostly through lengthy, baffling phone chats.
After Uncle Johns death, we took on the role of designated family helpers, driving over more often. Using our own pounds, we bought coal and firewood for her every winter. We even pitched in to create some semblance of order in her vegetable patch. We never took anything from her not even a cup of tea. We suggested countless times that she come and stay with us in the city, but she claimed she was far too country for all that urban nonsense.
Bit by bit, we brought her house out of the Victorian era. Water, then gas, then all manner of mod cons followed. We built her a new bathroom out back, changed the roof, and did whatever else we could to make her life in the village comfortable. In gratitude, Aunt Margaret declared shed leave the house to our children when the time came.
We dropped by anytime she hollered. Then, one day, we discovered shed packed her bags and moved to Sweden to live with her younger sister. Funny how two siblings who barely spoke before suddenly blossom into best mates once you add Scandinavian air. And the house? Leave it for now! was her only comment.
I also thought that, however things played out between the sisters, maybe Aunt Margaret would come back. Her Swedish sister has her own family husband and grown-up daughter. They all live together, like one big, slightly dysfunctional sitcom cast.
Since we still had the keys, we decided to head over one weekend to check up on the house. Naturally, our key didnt fit anymore shed changed the locks, and to top it off, there was a massive sign on the front gate in white paint: For Sale.
When we got home, I toyed with my laptop and spotted Aunt Margarets house on the property website, bold as brass. I rang the estate agent. Turns out, the place had already sold. For just under £200,000. I didnt ring Aunt Margaret. I was absolutely miffed.
If it werent for all our hard-earned money sunk into renovations, the house would hardly fetch more than a fiver. A month later, Aunt Margaret rang and cheerfully informed me shed sold the house, and gifted the money to her niece that is, her Swedish sisters daughter. Now I have absolutely no idea how to look my husband in the eye, because all those pounds vanishing into Aunt Margarets old batty house were his, too.
