THE UNOFFICIAL AUNT
Can there be any category of women more derided than the maiden aunt? Having missed out on marriage and motherhood owing to a post-war shortage of men, she is regarded as both comic and tragic. Prudish and easily shocked, suspicious of anything modern, fond of cats and the local curate, she is to be pitied but also mocked. She dithered in the margins of literature like Jane Austen’s foolish Miss Bates, until Agatha Christie raised up Jane Marple to be her heroine—the maiden aunt’s natural nosiness and apparent harmlessness making her an ideal detective.
But there is a new breed of unmarried women at large now—modern, educated women with money and careers of their own—and hard-pressed parents are reaping the benefits.
These women have the time and energy to be “unofficial aunts” to their friends’ or neighbors’ children. What could be more rewarding and mutually beneficial?
The young person acquires a wise counselor and confidante, unburdened by parental expectations. The childless woman enjoys a fleeting taste of the joys of parenthood and acquires a greater understanding of the younger generation. The parents gain some time for their own pursuits. Everybody wins!
* * *
The jaunty notes of Rondo Alla Turca filled the church of St. Mary le Strand, the vibrations from the piano rattling the flowers in the slender wooden plinth below the lectern. Left over from the previous week’s wedding, Jean thought, fanning herself with the printed program. They had walked through a mush of paper confetti at the entrance. Beside her sat Margaret, swinging her legs, encased in white socks and navy T-bar sandals, in time to the music. On her lap was a bag of toffees. Jean had taken the precaution of unwrapping them all beforehand so they wouldn’t rustle. Now, they had softened and fused in the heat, and were proving difficult to pry apart.
Her father had taken her to just such an afternoon concert when she was a girl. She hadn’t enjoyed the music much then—and didn’t now, in truth. It was the experience of a special day out with just her father that was precious to her in its rarity. A piano recital had seemed a good idea to inaugurate these outings with Margaret—something to encourage her in her music lessons—but she sensed the little girl was bored.
It was rather a long program and the pews were hard. The rest of the audience were mostly even older than Jean—regulars, perhaps—and there were no other children. She would probably rather be back home playing with the rabbit, Jean thought. Perhaps this is not a treat to her at all but an awful chore, to be suffered to please her mother. And yet when she had arrived at the house in Sidcup at midday to pick Margaret up she had found the little girl dressed in her best clothes, in a state of eager expectation.
Gretchen herself seemed almost equally excited on their behalf and Jean felt a momentary twinge of guilt that she was being excluded from their adventure.
“Will you be all right without me, Mummy?” Margaret asked as they were about to leave, her voice suddenly serious.
“I will try to cope as best I can.” Gretchen laughed, kissing her daughter’s shiny cheek.
“If you get lonely there’s always Jemimah.”
“Thank you, I’ll bear it in mind.”
There was a brief pause after the Mozart before the Rachmaninov while the pianist left the transept to gather herself together, perhaps, or have a drink of water. The air was dry and dusty; particles shimmered in the shafts of light from the high windows, catching in the throat.
“Is it over?” Margaret whispered over the applause in a voice that seemed to carry more hope than regret.
Jean stood up, gesturing Margaret to follow her, and they crept out of the pew and down the aisle, slipping through the heavy west door into the dazzling sunshine and sudden clamor of the street.
“I’d had enough, hadn’t you?” Jean said when they were safely away from the silent precincts of the church.
She had never walked out in the middle of a recital or any other kind of performance before and felt almost dizzy at her own daring. Even if you weren’t enjoying yourself it was still a waste, and therefore a sin against thrift—the only kind of religion Jean practiced.
Margaret nodded. “I liked that last tune but it was quite long.”
“You could play like that one day, you know.”
Margaret shook her head, screwing up her face in horrified denial.
“That woman in there was once just like you—learning her scales, doing her practice; she wasn’t born playing like that.”
“I don’t like playing in front of people. As soon as people start listening I make mistakes. I like singing. You don’t have to make the notes; they’re already inside you.”