My father's childless aunt, Annie Elizabeth, was his mother's older sister by about 18 months. She was a softly spoken, gentle woman, small in stature, with short, gray hair, parted on the right and fixed back on the left with a bobby pin. It was somewhat of a joke in the family that she enjoyed poor health and heart palpitations until the day she died at age 92--of a stroke.
When her husband, James Beaumont, passed away from asthma after twelve glorious years of marriage, the only photograph extant was of a thin, bewhiskered, stern-faced, nattily-dressed chap in a dark suit. He carried a derby in one hand and a cane in the other. Jim's photo in a silver frame was enshrined on her dressing table. She spoke to the photograph of Dearjim, bless him, almost every time she entered her bedroom, and it sometimes felt as if he had just left the tea table, and was expected to walk through the door at any moment. However, my mother told me that great uncle Jim had died many, many years ago, long before she and Dad had started courting in 1936.
After Dearjim, bless him, passed away, my great aunt moved back in with her widowed mother, and stayed with her until great grandma Slater died somewhere in the mid-1940s. After that, she lived with the Chattertons--her sister Emily and brother-in-law Thomas Ambrose, and it's around that time that my memories of her begin.
The Chatterton house was on Argie Avenue in Kirkstall, Leeds, and it was a pretty cottage with a garden full of riotously blooming roses of all hues and scents. The house itself smelled a little like a tap room with the faint odor of beer, cigar and cigarette smoke briefly surfacing from under the beeswax furniture polish. My grandfather liked a beer or two and a smoke when he read the evening paper. I loved that smell. When we went there, Aunty Annie was always ready to serve up a cup of tea, but I never knew her to imbibe anything more than the occasional small glass of sherry.
Of course, when Thomas Ambrose retired, and the Chattertons moved to Blackpool to be near the sea, Aunty Annie moved with them. They downsized into a small, white, row house with two rooms downstairs--a small kitchen/dining room and sitting room--and two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. In less than a year, my grandmother had roses blooming in the postage-stamp-sized front garden, and wandering over and about a trellis over the front door. At twilight, the perfume was a soft covering of pleasure on the way to the front door. Sadly, less than a year after he retired, Grandad Chatterton died of a coronary thrombosis. Grandma said that if she and Aunty Annie hadn't gone into the bathroom when they did, he would've died on the toilet. Fortunately, he was alive long enough to walk to the bedroom with assistance, and he passed away politely in bed. A few months later, I remember seeing Grandma opening up the wardrobe in her bedroom, dissolving into tears, and Aunty Annie holding her very close and murmuring, "Let it out, love. Let it all out. I'm here."
As a term of endearment, my father sometimes called Aunty Annie, Annie Lizzie. She would swat him lightly on the shoulder for taking such liberties, but her face suffused with smiles. I think it was the name Grandad Chatterton had often called her. However, when my cousin Brian, five years older than me, did so, she was not pleased, and told him not to be cheeky. But the die had been cast, so when she was not within earshot, she became Annie Lizzie, and that's how I think of her still.
My father also teased her at mealtimes. She had the appetite of a bird, but watched with satisfaction while the rest of us tucked in. However, as soon as a knife and fork was placed down on a plate, she was up on her feet to whisk it away, to stack it in the sink for washing. Dad complained that he never had time to ask for a second helping, and that there was nothing worse than a hovering woman. She would smile and make a great issue of ignoring him.
I spent one week each summer at Grandma's. My cousin Pat, 18 months younger than me, was there, too. We were good friends, and I looked forward to our stay. I don't recall Aunty Annie ever saying very much to us by way of conversation. Grandma was the presence in the house, but Aunty Annie went along with whatever was decided for the day, unless it involved walking farther than the tram stop at the end of the street. Claiming palpitations and holding her hand over her heart, she would demur and stay home.
Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, we all went on the tram to the Forget-Me-Not Club for old-age pensioners. All the members wore silk sprigs of blue forget-me-nots on their dresses or lapels. I always wanted one, but understood that there were strict rules governing the club. One had to be a pensioner and pay dues, and NO exceptions were allowed. Grandma went there to play whist, and Aunty Annie sat with a few other old ladies on the periphery, and played dominoes or simply sat and watched the game in progress. In her soft voice, Annie Lizzie spoke of us as "Our Pat" and "Our Barbara," a north country habit, and usually added that we were her well-behaved great nieces, and a pleasure to have in the house. As a result, we were petted and made much of by everyone.
We sat with Annie Lizzie and joined in the dominoes or maybe played two-handed knock-out whist. We knew to be quiet when the main whist game began. The players took the game very, very seriously. The president of the club, Mrs. Higginbotham, started out each meeting with the National Anthem, "God Save the King." The year he died, the words were changed to "God Save the Queen" but until everyone got used to it, it sounded like, "God Save the Kingween." She then offered a prayer for the ones "who had gone before," and if there were recent "gone befores" she read out their names and gave a short eulogy.
Sometimes, instead of whist, there were "turns," when members came up onto the dais and sang songs like "Knees Up Mother Brown," or "Roll Out the Barrel," or recited poetry such as "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck," or "The Charge of the Light Brigade." I was always asked to play the piano, and so at Grandma's instructions, I had a party piece ready. I loved the applause and my curtsey was rehearsed to perfection. After that, tea and biscuits were served, and then we all stood and sang, "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again." That was the second time I saw my Grandma weeping, and Aunty Annie holding her hand.
The sleeping arrangements were simple. One night, Pat slept in the double bed with Grandma and I slept in the three-quarter bed with Annie Lizzie. The next night, Pat and I switched places. There was a bed-settee in the sitting room, but that was only used by our parents. The foldaway cot in Annie Lizzie's room was "for spare."
Annie Lizzie's bed was very high and pushed against the far wall under the window. I suppose there were two thick mattresses on it. When I was alone, I would leap on it and roll around, but when Annie Lizzie was present, I climbed up carefully. There were three large pillows for her and one small one for me at its head. She claimed she couldn't breathe properly if she lay flat. When we were both in bed, I was wedged up against the wall in a claustrophobic valley created by the wall and her mountain of pillows. I always hoped that they would stay in place so that she could continue her respiration through the night.
I was always in bed before Aunty Annie. When she entered the room, she first closed the heavy curtains so that no light came in, and then she proceeded to disrobe in the dark. I could hear her garments fall to the floor one by one, and there seemed to be a good many of them. Then, when she had put on her nightdress, a long, white gown with a high neck and long sleeves, she turned on the bedside lamp under which her late husband's framed photograph resided, whispered, "Goodnight, Dearjim," pulled back the curtains a little, climbed into bed and turned out the light. It was at this point that I could engage her in conversation if she were so inclined. After tut-tutting that I should've been asleep ages ago, she sometimes shared with me her story about the time Dearjim took her to Ireland. It was the highlight of her married life, I believe. She explained that she had always wanted to see the Emerald Isle, she said this with a little lilt in her voice, and although his asthma continued to bother him, Dearjim was determined that she would have her wish. Despite the fact that he was very seasick both going and coming back across the Irish Sea, he was happy that he had been able to make her dream come true. I loved to hear that story, I knew it by heart, and it was evident that Aunty Annie enjoyed revisiting this precious time in her life.
One corner opposite her bed was used for storage. Boxes and suitcases were stacked against the wall and covered with a white sheet which used to gleam palely in the night. In the opposite corner to the storage was a large, dark-oak wardrobe. I liked to tap dance on the wooden floor in the space between them, and could often complete a couple of numbers before Grandma yelled up the stairs for me to stop as it was getting on her nerves and giving Aunty Annie a headache and palpitations. After several repetitions of this injunction, I was not allowed to visit Annie Lizzie's room unless I had a specific reason for going in to it, which did not include tap dancing, jumping on her bed or inspecting the articles on her dressing table. I could never think of anything else to do in there. Her wardrobe was off limits for exploration, and all my clothes were kept in Grandma's room. Only my pajamas were stored under Annie Lizzie's gargantuan pillows. (to be continued)
Dear. Love your voice.
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