The following summer, my father got a new posting to Italy and Sophie and I went to live with our Aunt Winnie so that we could stay at school in England. Both families made the usual pledges to keep in touch and Will and Monty implored Sophie and me to come and visit often, knowing our parents would be in Italy. I was reticent because of Simon, but whenever Sophie suggested the idea to Aunt Winnie something would always come up to stop us from going, until we gradually forgot all about the idea of visiting them at all. In the intervening years, I all but forgot about Simon until newspaper articles started to appear about him. Instead of taking on his birthright and his place at Pantiles, he had decided to go into business. At first the papers focused on his 'dazzling' entrepreneurial skills, his talent for business, his overwhelming affinity with numbers, but little by little I started to see hints of the old Simon. His initial love affair with the press began to dwindle and reports emerged which showed him in a very different light. The thousands of workers laid off from a manufacturing business. His unreasonable demands to the board of directors. The neglected and unloved state of his family seat. It seems he hasn't changed much over the years.
Aidan sits anxiously on my desk. He wants to talk about this latest development.
'Oooh, ducks. Imagine you growing up with Simon Monkwell.' He lifts one shoulder and makes a 'fancy that' face. 'Ooohh, I wonder if he's as bad as they say. I do hope so.'
'Hmmm,' I say, chewing on a fingernail.
'What was he like?'
'Nice until he hit puberty and then he became a younger version of what he is today.'
'Nasty eh?'
I nod. 'Yep. Pretty nasty.'
'How long were you on the estate for?'
'Em, about three or four years. We arrived when I was eight and left when I was eleven or twelve.'
'God, so quite a chunk of your childhood. You must have a few memories tied up with that place. It'll be strange to go back, won't it?'
I look up at him. 'Yes. Yes, it will be.'
C h a p t e r 4
'
A
unt Winnie, do we have to travel everywhere at a hundred miles an hour?' I nervously object as Aunt Winnie takes the racing line around a couple of sharp country lanes. We've been in the car ten minutes and for most of that time I've had my eyes closed in fear, making wincing faces which for some reason seem crucial if we are to reach our destination safely.
I normally drive up here with Dom. He passed his driving test on the third attempt and must have set a world record for the fastest fail ever when he said 'All right your way?' to the driving instructor on his first attempt as they pulled out of the test centre. But despite this, he's good enough for me not to have to worry whether I'm wearing matching underwear or not. It's been some time since I travelled with Aunt Winnie and it is a shock to the system. When I was a kid, it took me a while to work out that cows and sheep weren't actually smeared black and white shapes with startled expressions.
'Oh don't be such a boring old fart,' Winnie booms. Jameson stares over his shoulder at me from the even more alarming view point of the front seat and gives me the sort of look that suggests I should either put up or put out. Aunt Winnie sticks her arm out of the driver's window to tell everyone that we intend to turn left come hell or high water.
'Don't you have to retake your driving test at some point, Aunt Winnie?' I ask, hoping it might already be overdue. Then it would simply be the case of a word in the right direction and a possible lifetime ban. I fasten both hands on to the passenger headrest as we make the left turn so that at least the rescuers will find me easily in the wreckage when I'm still clinging on to it.
'IMPUDENCE!' she roars. 'I'm not that old, it's not due for years!' Jameson turns around and gives me another disdainful look from the front seat. I stick my tongue out at him. At least his seatbelt works. This car is so old that the seatbelts in the back are those you have to tighten manually. I might as well have tied myself in with a pair of tights and an Alice band.
I had opted to catch a train from Liverpool Street tonight along with the rest of the harassed Friday night commuters because Dom has the stag do to attend and I am coming back by train anyway after my meeting with Monty Monkwell on Monday. Aunt Winnie has just picked me up from the station and we are en-route to the supermarket to pick up some essential supplies.
Aunt Winnie dramatically swerves around a parked car and I smack my head on the passenger grip, which I realise I should be clinging on to instead. Jameson manages to get away injury-free as he leans automatically into the turns. I loosen one hand unwillingly from the head rest to give the bump a rub.
'Didn't you want to go to the supermarket?' I ask as we streak past it relentlessly on our way towards another roundabout.
'Bugger,' says Aunt Winnie. She then performs a highly illegal 180-degree turn without the aid of hand or indeed any other sort of signal and zooms into the supermarket's car park. I rather foolishly release my seatbelt before we come to a complete standstill and pay the price by getting lodged between the two front seats with my nose rather too close to God knows how many years' worth of crumbs, fluff and dog hair. Jameson gives my ear a couple of licks in sympathy.
'Jameson! Gerroff!' I mumble into the depths.
'Isabel! Stop messing about with Jameson! You'll get him over-excited,' says Aunt Winnie, seizing hold of my arm and giving a few hefty tugs. 'Evening, Mrs Roffe!' she shouts in response to a lady clipping by. My Aunt Winnie is nothing new to the residents of Stowmarket – a bright pea-green Mini with a rather large Labrador strapped in the front is always hard to miss – but you would have thought the sight of her tugging a tall brunette out from between the front seats might have raised a few eyebrows.
'Do you think Jameson could sit in the back for the return journey?' I ask, still wedged.
'Don't be ridiculous, Izzy, he's too big,' she puffs.
'What am I? A midget?'
'Obviously not. Come on, Izzy, make an effort! It's your ARSE that's the problem!' she bellows. Still no reaction from the good citizens of Stowmarket.
I wriggle bad-temperedly out. 'It is NOT my arse,' I say tartly, standing up and straightening my clothes.
'No danger of you suffering from osteoporosis later on in life?' Winnie says as she locks the car and starts striding across the car park.
'Oh, like you have a problem.'
She laughs and puts an arm around me. I relax and grin back and together we walk into the supermarket.
Aunt Winnie is pretty hard to ignore for many reasons, not least of which is her booming voice which is surprisingly loud given her short stature. Possibly due to her lust for fresh air and long walks, she has a nasty habit of talking to you as though you are a quarter of a mile away in a high wind. However, what she lacks in height she more than makes up for in attitude. I wouldn't go so far as to say she is rude, she's just … oh all right, she is rude.
For as long as I can remember Winnie has dressed from head to toe in varying shades of tweed, along with stout, plain shoes which add nothing to her height and finished off with a perky hat of some description from her eclectic collection. Today she's wearing a deer stalker with a couple of jaunty pheasant feathers sticking out to the side, which get stuck up us taller people's noses every time she turns around. Her hair is cut short and the look is completed by a pair of glasses hanging around her neck that have been repaired with a Mickey Mouse plaster.
Aunt Winnie has been my second mother for as long as I can remember. As children Sophie and I had the solid dependability and kindness of Aunt Winnie during term time and the extravagant parties and indulgences of my parents, wherever they happened to be, during the holidays. But it was Aunt Winnie who really brought us up. She is the one we run to. She is my mother's elder sister, but two such different siblings couldn't exist anywhere. Where my mother floated, my Aunt Winnie stomped. Where my mother tinkled, my Aunt Winnie guffawed. Due to an unfortunate love affair in her youth which, my mother informed me when I was older, was the reason Aunt Winnie had never ventured into marriage (and Must Never Be Talked About), my aunt had lots of room in her emotional and physical life for us. And fortunate for Sophie and me that she did. She is the sheltering harbour that we are always glad to be welcomed back into.
My parents were, and still are, completely vague. My father was too busy with his work and my mother too busy with her parties and guest lists to bother much with Sophie or me. It wouldn't surprise me at all if we had a couple more siblings wandering about that they simply forgot to pick up from school. I remember when I rang them in Italy to tell them my A level results of two Bs and a C. My mother waxed lyrical for a while about how marvellous it all was and then asked what the Bs and the Cs actually stood for. I told her they stood for Bloody Brilliant and Could Do Better, something she believes to this day. By contrast, people find Aunt Winnie enormously formidable. One of our teachers once asked her at parents' evening about her name.
'Winnie?' he remarked, 'how quaint. As in the Pooh?' She fixed him with a steely look. 'No. As in Mandela.' Unfortunately Aunt Winnie operates a shopping trolley in much the same fashion as a car. She charges along the aisles yelling at me to throw various items in but without slowing down an iota, so I end up half an aisle away trying to lob dog food tins into a target moving at about forty miles an hour.
The manager breathes a huge sigh of relief as we leave without injury to ourselves or anyone else. I climb back into the ancient car, clamber over the top of Jameson, who is doing his very best to ignore me by staring stoically out of the window, and settle down in the back. It's amazing how a car can collect years' worth of debris. In the back seat wells there are the compulsory sweet wrappers and discarded lists, but also the torn-off limb from a teddy bear that Sophie and I had a tug of love over, the various hair-bands and accessories of bygone ages and even a punk-like silver lipstick. Memories of my teenage years fill my mind.
Another great advantage of Aunt Winnie's parenting, although not wholly appreciated at the time, was the degree of discipline she exerted over Sophie and me, particularly when we were teenagers. This was due in part to the presence of her set of golf clubs, which still sit innocuously enough by the side of the front door. Legend has it within the family that Aunt Winnie actually killed someone with a golf club (although she maintains that she only knocked them out and it was a complete accident). Aunt Winnie's eyes only had to drift in their direction and Sophie and I would miraculously start behaving again. She's apparently tried this trick with the vicar when he won't put her white elephant stall in the best position for the village fête and she says it works just as well with him too. It wasn't until I was much older that I realised how much Aunt Winnie put herself out for us. Mealtimes were designed around our school timetable, trips and outings were arranged or postponed according to our calendars, the ancient Mini was rowed over as if it were our personal possession. When my mother asked Aunt Winnie to tell us about the facts of life, she spent hours teaching us to play poker and drink whisky.
We roar into the driveway of Aunt Winnie's house and screech to a halt. Jameson is let out of his front seat and runs barking down the garden to scare off any errant blackbirds that might have been taking advantage of his absence.
We take the bags from the boot and wander along a narrow path through the garden towards the house. A vegetable patch and a fruit cage stretch from the garage all the way to the back door and, as we always do, we stop now and then, content in our silence, to pick a strawberry through the netting or pluck an early pod of peas. The setting summer sun streams through the trees at the front of the house, giving it a welcoming warmth.
I stand and wait while Aunt Winnie grapples with the keys. With a hefty shove at the back door (it always sticks) she falls into the passageway.
As always, she mumbles to herself, 'I really must fix that door.'
'Hmmm,' I say noncommittally. Aunt Winnie and DIY are not natural bed-mates. For a long time I thought a hammer was actually called a bugger.
'Right,' says Aunt Winnie decisively, 'supper. And then you simply must tell me all about this Monkwell thing.' I had phoned her in a rush to ask if she could drive me there on Monday but I hadn't given her any details. 'Isn't it amazing that Mrs Charlesty would call Monty Monkwell like that? I didn't know she was still in touch with him after all these years. She must have known that Pantiles was having a ball and thought you would be ideal!'
She beams at me, obviously extremely pleased with this little bit of corporate match-making. I start levering open huge tins of dog food and Jameson does his best limpet impression by attaching himself firmly to my left side. Aunt Winnie busies herself with the rudiments of supper – we're having pâte on wedges of toasted fresh white bread from the local village baker, smeared with butter from a chipped old butter dish (no messing about with organic olive oil spreads for Aunt Winnie). Finally we're sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table.
'So?' she says eagerly.