A VISIT FROM AUNTIE FLO

1998-01-0031

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon as I sat on the well-worn wooden stile straddling the entrance to a field of tall grass. I was nine or ten at the time, and as I sat there my thoughts were disturbed by a courting couple who asked politely if they could pass by to go along the path that led across the fields towards our village about half a mile distant. As they started to walk through the
long grass they disturbed a skylark which swiftly soared upwards and away out of sight across the Weald of Kent to the hills beyond. What a lucky little bird that was, I pondered to myself, able to fly beyond those hills at any time and see sights I might never see. Those hills seemed so far away.

Suddenly my thoughts were disturbed yet again as I caught sight of the green single-
decker Maidstone & District bus as it rounded the comer by one of the local inns. I knew it would take it a full three minutes or so to struggle up the steep hill to the request stop conveniendy placed some 50 yards from where I was sitting. I leaped from the sule, hasdly snatching a blackberry or two from a thorny bush before making my way along a somewhat dusty road to the bus stop to meet the passenger who would soon be getting off.

I pulled up my grey woollen socks to just below my knees, brushing down my clothes with the palm of my hand, hoping that I’d look smart and tidy for this important guest who would soon be arriving. As I reached the bus stop, I heard the distinctive single ‘ding’ of the bell signalling the driver to stop. Aunde Flo would be stepping off at any minute.

Aunue Flo was my dear modier’s sister who was paying us another of her monthly visits all the way from Canterbury. She always looked so smart and elegant in her ‘Sunday best’, as she’d call it. She smiled and greeted me with a friendly wave as the bus drew to a halt. As she got off the bus, I could see that she was struggling with a well-laden wicker basket of freshly-picked apples from her garden

orchard, and as I bent to help her she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as the bus slowly ground away, leaving a cloud of exhaust fumes in its wake.

Between us we carried this basket along the road towards our small cottage that consisted of‘two-up, two-down, with a lavvy at the back’. Occasionally, along the way, we’d stop briefly to ‘change hands’ to even the load. During this short rest we’d peek at a now-deserted birds’ nest that had long been left empty, escaping the roadman’s sickle with which he’d keep the blackberry and hawthorn hedges which stretched along each side of the road for miles in trim.

Before long, we’d arrive at our green-painted back door where my mother would be waiting to greet us in her freshly-ironed summer frock and her shiny black shoes which she laced so evenly. After a few hugs and kisses, and a brief look at mum’s geraniums growing proudly in their pots on the window ledge, we’d go indoors quiedy after a gentle reminder from mum that “dad might still be asleep”. How right she was. There was dad snoring away in his armchair by the fireplace, his feet crossed at the ankles and resting gendy against the highly-polished brass fender, head leaning to one side and a half-empty glass of best bitter on the floor down by his chair. Across his lap would be the latest issue of the News of the World, displaying a few small black embers from his pipe which was now in the ash tray. As soon as Auntie Flo started to remove her coat, dad would emerge from his Sunday afternoon nap, and after giving his body a shake and offering his apologies, he’d rise from his chair to greet Auntie Flo, making a quick grasp at the newspaper to stop it falling into the fireplace, but letting the pipe ash fall among the tufts of the hand-made mg of many colours.

While dad and Auntie Flo were discussing the weather, the trip over from Canterbury and Uncle Sid’s allotment, mum would be putting on her best ‘pinny’, and with a proud look in her eye would quiedy raise the net cloth that covered the wondrous array of goodies on the kitchen table which she’d prepared for afternoon tea. On one plate were a few assorted chocolate biscuits bought from Woolworth’s the day before. An open Coronation tin contained a large slab of madeira cake with white and pink cream running through the centre if it had been bought from the Home & Colonial Stores, and there would be a very special treat on mum’s cut glass cake stand “because Auntie
Flo is coming” of six puff pastry ‘fancies’, bought from the Co-op man the day before when he’d called with our bread. I always kept my fingers crossed that no-one else would want the one and only cream horn among the selection, because I always had to wait until last, but somehow I always got it.

Could this have been the actual bus on which Auntie Flo made one of her Sunday visit, as described in the accompanying text? Searched out by correspondent Peter Johansson, of Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, the picture shows a Maidstone District 1938 Leyland TS8, with Harrington 34-seat bodywork. Commandeered by the war authorities, it was returned to the company after the war, refurbished and put back in service. It is seen as Friar’s Gate circa 1954.
Could this have been the actual bus on which Auntie Flo made one of her Sunday visit, as described in the accompanying text? Searched out by correspondent Peter Johansson, of Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, the picture shows a Maidstone District 1938 Leyland TS8, with Harrington 34-seat bodywork. Commandeered by the war authorities, it was returned to the company after the war, refurbished and put back in service. It is seen as Friar’s Gate circa 1954.

After washing down this Sunday treat with a cool glass of lemonade mum had made from some lemony sugar crystals I could go out and play with my mate John, who lived a few doors away, “providing I didn’t get dirty”. John and I would carry on from where we’d left off, swapping cigarette cards, exchanging comics or perhaps just having a quiet laze on the little patch of grass outside, reading our latest Beano or Dandy and catching up with the exploits of Desperate Dan or Korky the Cat. During this time Auntie Flo, mum and dad would be having a good old chat about the latest news, perehaps showing each other a photograph or two and keeping up to date with all the “happenings” in the family.

After an hour or so I’d have one rather important job to do. I’d have to go and sit on the grassy bank by the roadside and wait until I saw this man come round the comer pedalling his trusty old cycle with a large wicker basket at the front. As soon as he was in sight, I’d run indoors to announce: “Mum! The winkle man’sjust come around the corner!” His large basket contained winkles, shrimps,
cockles, prawns and whelks, and there was also a large tankard with a handle and a glass tumbler which he used for measuring out the tasty seafood. Mum would give me a china pudding basin and a glass bowl with a piece of paper noting her requirements. With her cautionary instructions to “be careful” I’d greet the winkle man who by now would have arrived at the bottom of the path and would be wiping sweat from his brow after his long pedal from the next village about two miles away- most of it uphill.

I’d give him the coins and the piece of paper, and stand fascinated as I watched him scoop up the shrimps and cockles and level them off with the top of the glass. He’d put the few whelks for dad in ajam jar containing a little malt vinegar, and after giving me some change he’d thrust three or four fat, juicy prawns in my hand saying: “Here you are, lad, just for you. Any chance of a drink of water?” I’d go indoors with the seafood and take him a glass of water down the path, being careful not to spill any. He would drink this hastily, and then, with a cheerful: “See you next week” he’d go on his way.

By the time I returned indoors Auntie Flo would be pouring boiling Lipton’s tea into mum’s best china pots, and dad’s large pint mug, while mum would be hastily spreading best butter over crusty slices of cottage loaf bread she would have bought from the Coop man the day before. This was kept fresh by being well-wrapped in a tea towel in a large earthenware crock. I always had the small golden crust from the top, which was sometimes almost black. Dad would hunt in the dresser for his ‘special pin’ which he’d soon be using to remove the cockles from their shells with twists of the wrist after first flicking out the little black eyes, some of which always found their way on to mum’s best tablecloth. After she had issued us with our own ‘nob pins’, all that could be heard for a while was the chink, chink, chink of empty winkle shells as they were tossed into one of mum’s old oval pie dishes which she would have placed conveniently in the centre of the kitchen table. After we’d had our share of cockles, mum and Auntie Flo would ‘top and tail’ the shrimps while dad would be in complete silence, chewing away merrily on his whelks – a sure sign that he was enjoying them. After this feast of delicacies had been washed down with a top-up from the teapot, dad would return to his armchair and begin to stoke up his pipe with Long Tom tobacco, sometimes Navy Cut, as mum and Auntie Flo cleared the table and prepared for washing up. Sometimes, Auntie Flo would have a brief stroll with me to our chickens, and we’d toss them the remnants from the tea table. They particularly liked the shrimps’ heads and tails, and I couldn’t help but notice Aunue Flo giving her wrist-watch an occasional glance.

Mum would be lighting the primus stove as we reached the kitchen, and when the large copper kettle had boiled we’d wash and dr)’ the dishes between us while dad was engrossed in the News of the World crossword, possibly dreaming of an early retirement. When this was all finished Auntie Flo, mum and I would take a walk out the back to admire dad’s immaculate vegetable garden and mum’s lovely massed flower garden, the air now filled with the perfume from the mixed flower border and the night scented stock, but this perfume was overtaken by that from the honeysuckle that clung to the w alls of the ‘lavvy’ where it grew up and over the slate roof to meet the mauve lilac tree growing at the other side, which was also in full bloom. Obviously the honeysuckle and lilac had been planted for a purpose many years before! On our way down the garden, we’d pause briefly to admire our rabbits spread out in their hutches on the fresh straw which I’d placed there in the morning after cleaning them out and placing the ‘residue’ around dad’s rhubarb. Some of the poor creatures were destined for the dinner table at Christmas time, now only a few months away.

As Auntie Flo and mum stood quietly exchanging gardening hints and tips I heard another distinctive ring from a cycle bell in the distance, but this one kept ringing and ringing, and I knew who it was then – the Wall’s ‘Stop Me And Buy One’ man with his ice box on the front of his cycle. He wore a white smock and a peaked cap that was always perched on the back of his head. Mum knew who it was, too, and asked me to “get him to wait a minute” as she smiled at Auntie Flo with a gleam in her eye. I shot off down the path to await the arrival of Auntie Flo and mum, who were whispering among themselves, and the ice cream man acknowledged them with a brief touch of his cap. Mum opened her purse and passed a few coins into my hand as Auntie Flo whispered
‘Obviously, the honeysuckle and lilac had been planted for a purpose many years before.’

something to the man. I chose my favourite, a triangular-shaped ice block in a cardboard sleeve, usually a lime-flavoured one when he came during those summer months.

It wasn’t until we’d gone back indoors that Auntie Flo presented me with a luscious ice cream comet “as a special treat for coming to meet me off the bus”.

While we had been down the road, dad had finished his crossword and was now lathering his face to have his shave with the ivory-handled cut-throat razor that he had now taken from the rack over the fireplace before making his way down to the ‘local’ for his Sunday night pint and a game of Euchre. We knew, by the time of this Sunday ritual, that it would soon be time for Auntie Flo to get ready for her journey home, so mum would be making a pot of tea as Auntie Flo had a wash and tidy-up in the scullery. By now, dad would be ready to go on his way, so with a quick kiss on mum’s cheek, and one on Auntie Flo’s, he’d go out of the back door for his 20-minute or so walk to his ‘local’.

While Auntie Flo was getting ready, mum would be picking a posy of flowers from her garden for her to take home, but little did Auntie Flo know that mum had also slipped a jar or two of home-made damson jam or
blackberry jelly into her basket as she was slipping on her coat.

All too soon it was time to go. Mum, Auntie Flo and I would walk quietly along once more to the bus stop on the other side of the road. As the bus came into sight around the corner, it was time for us to say goodbye with a hurried kiss or two. I had the important job of putting out my arm to signal the bus to stop, and as Auntie Flo slowly climbed the steps into the bus with her now somewhat lighter basket, I felt mum’s hand gendy tighten on my arm, trying not to notice the tear that was sliding down her cheek as the conductor rang the bell.

The bus drew away slowly, and as it rounded the corner to go down the hill and out of sight, we saw Auntie Flo waving from the rear window until she could see us no more.

As the sun began to sink slowly towards the hills as the day drew to a close, mum and I started our quiet walk home. We paused for a while at the wooden stile that I’d been sitting on several hours earlier, hoping to get one last glimpse of Auntie Flo’s bus as it left the village. We did – and at the same time I saw what I’m sure was the very same skylark returning to the long grass as we stood there. I wondered if the little bird had had such a wonderful time away over the hills as I’d had with my mum and Auntie Flo on that late summer’s afternoon. I doubted it very much.

David Jones

Editor’s note: Such warm memoriesfrom an expatriate in New Zealand will, Vm sure, strike a chord with many readers-which is why, in this case only, I have made an exception to the normal ‘Yesterday Remembered ’ 600-word rule.

More Stories

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A VISIT FROM AUNTIE FLO

1998-01-0031

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon as I sat on the well-worn wooden stile straddling the entrance to a field of tall grass. I was nine or ten at the time, and as I sat there my thoughts were disturbed by a courting couple who asked politely if they could pass by to go along the path that led across the fields towards our village about half a mile distant. As they started to walk through the
long grass they disturbed a skylark which swiftly soared upwards and away out of sight across the Weald of Kent to the hills beyond. What a lucky little bird that was, I pondered to myself, able to fly beyond those hills at any time and see sights I might never see. Those hills seemed so far away.

Suddenly my thoughts were disturbed yet again as I caught sight of the green single-
decker Maidstone & District bus as it rounded the comer by one of the local inns. I knew it would take it a full three minutes or so to struggle up the steep hill to the request stop conveniendy placed some 50 yards from where I was sitting. I leaped from the sule, hasdly snatching a blackberry or two from a thorny bush before making my way along a somewhat dusty road to the bus stop to meet the passenger who would soon be getting off.

I pulled up my grey woollen socks to just below my knees, brushing down my clothes with the palm of my hand, hoping that I’d look smart and tidy for this important guest who would soon be arriving. As I reached the bus stop, I heard the distinctive single ‘ding’ of the bell signalling the driver to stop. Aunde Flo would be stepping off at any minute.

Aunue Flo was my dear modier’s sister who was paying us another of her monthly visits all the way from Canterbury. She always looked so smart and elegant in her ‘Sunday best’, as she’d call it. She smiled and greeted me with a friendly wave as the bus drew to a halt. As she got off the bus, I could see that she was struggling with a well-laden wicker basket of freshly-picked apples from her garden

orchard, and as I bent to help her she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as the bus slowly ground away, leaving a cloud of exhaust fumes in its wake.

Between us we carried this basket along the road towards our small cottage that consisted of‘two-up, two-down, with a lavvy at the back’. Occasionally, along the way, we’d stop briefly to ‘change hands’ to even the load. During this short rest we’d peek at a now-deserted birds’ nest that had long been left empty, escaping the roadman’s sickle with which he’d keep the blackberry and hawthorn hedges which stretched along each side of the road for miles in trim.

Before long, we’d arrive at our green-painted back door where my mother would be waiting to greet us in her freshly-ironed summer frock and her shiny black shoes which she laced so evenly. After a few hugs and kisses, and a brief look at mum’s geraniums growing proudly in their pots on the window ledge, we’d go indoors quiedy after a gentle reminder from mum that “dad might still be asleep”. How right she was. There was dad snoring away in his armchair by the fireplace, his feet crossed at the ankles and resting gendy against the highly-polished brass fender, head leaning to one side and a half-empty glass of best bitter on the floor down by his chair. Across his lap would be the latest issue of the News of the World, displaying a few small black embers from his pipe which was now in the ash tray. As soon as Auntie Flo started to remove her coat, dad would emerge from his Sunday afternoon nap, and after giving his body a shake and offering his apologies, he’d rise from his chair to greet Auntie Flo, making a quick grasp at the newspaper to stop it falling into the fireplace, but letting the pipe ash fall among the tufts of the hand-made mg of many colours.

While dad and Auntie Flo were discussing the weather, the trip over from Canterbury and Uncle Sid’s allotment, mum would be putting on her best ‘pinny’, and with a proud look in her eye would quiedy raise the net cloth that covered the wondrous array of goodies on the kitchen table which she’d prepared for afternoon tea. On one plate were a few assorted chocolate biscuits bought from Woolworth’s the day before. An open Coronation tin contained a large slab of madeira cake with white and pink cream running through the centre if it had been bought from the Home & Colonial Stores, and there would be a very special treat on mum’s cut glass cake stand “because Auntie
Flo is coming” of six puff pastry ‘fancies’, bought from the Co-op man the day before when he’d called with our bread. I always kept my fingers crossed that no-one else would want the one and only cream horn among the selection, because I always had to wait until last, but somehow I always got it.

Could this have been the actual bus on which Auntie Flo made one of her Sunday visit, as described in the accompanying text? Searched out by correspondent Peter Johansson, of Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, the picture shows a Maidstone District 1938 Leyland TS8, with Harrington 34-seat bodywork. Commandeered by the war authorities, it was returned to the company after the war, refurbished and put back in service. It is seen as Friar’s Gate circa 1954.
Could this have been the actual bus on which Auntie Flo made one of her Sunday visit, as described in the accompanying text? Searched out by correspondent Peter Johansson, of Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, the picture shows a Maidstone District 1938 Leyland TS8, with Harrington 34-seat bodywork. Commandeered by the war authorities, it was returned to the company after the war, refurbished and put back in service. It is seen as Friar’s Gate circa 1954.

After washing down this Sunday treat with a cool glass of lemonade mum had made from some lemony sugar crystals I could go out and play with my mate John, who lived a few doors away, “providing I didn’t get dirty”. John and I would carry on from where we’d left off, swapping cigarette cards, exchanging comics or perhaps just having a quiet laze on the little patch of grass outside, reading our latest Beano or Dandy and catching up with the exploits of Desperate Dan or Korky the Cat. During this time Auntie Flo, mum and dad would be having a good old chat about the latest news, perehaps showing each other a photograph or two and keeping up to date with all the “happenings” in the family.

After an hour or so I’d have one rather important job to do. I’d have to go and sit on the grassy bank by the roadside and wait until I saw this man come round the comer pedalling his trusty old cycle with a large wicker basket at the front. As soon as he was in sight, I’d run indoors to announce: “Mum! The winkle man’sjust come around the corner!” His large basket contained winkles, shrimps,
cockles, prawns and whelks, and there was also a large tankard with a handle and a glass tumbler which he used for measuring out the tasty seafood. Mum would give me a china pudding basin and a glass bowl with a piece of paper noting her requirements. With her cautionary instructions to “be careful” I’d greet the winkle man who by now would have arrived at the bottom of the path and would be wiping sweat from his brow after his long pedal from the next village about two miles away- most of it uphill.

I’d give him the coins and the piece of paper, and stand fascinated as I watched him scoop up the shrimps and cockles and level them off with the top of the glass. He’d put the few whelks for dad in ajam jar containing a little malt vinegar, and after giving me some change he’d thrust three or four fat, juicy prawns in my hand saying: “Here you are, lad, just for you. Any chance of a drink of water?” I’d go indoors with the seafood and take him a glass of water down the path, being careful not to spill any. He would drink this hastily, and then, with a cheerful: “See you next week” he’d go on his way.

By the time I returned indoors Auntie Flo would be pouring boiling Lipton’s tea into mum’s best china pots, and dad’s large pint mug, while mum would be hastily spreading best butter over crusty slices of cottage loaf bread she would have bought from the Coop man the day before. This was kept fresh by being well-wrapped in a tea towel in a large earthenware crock. I always had the small golden crust from the top, which was sometimes almost black. Dad would hunt in the dresser for his ‘special pin’ which he’d soon be using to remove the cockles from their shells with twists of the wrist after first flicking out the little black eyes, some of which always found their way on to mum’s best tablecloth. After she had issued us with our own ‘nob pins’, all that could be heard for a while was the chink, chink, chink of empty winkle shells as they were tossed into one of mum’s old oval pie dishes which she would have placed conveniently in the centre of the kitchen table. After we’d had our share of cockles, mum and Auntie Flo would ‘top and tail’ the shrimps while dad would be in complete silence, chewing away merrily on his whelks – a sure sign that he was enjoying them. After this feast of delicacies had been washed down with a top-up from the teapot, dad would return to his armchair and begin to stoke up his pipe with Long Tom tobacco, sometimes Navy Cut, as mum and Auntie Flo cleared the table and prepared for washing up. Sometimes, Auntie Flo would have a brief stroll with me to our chickens, and we’d toss them the remnants from the tea table. They particularly liked the shrimps’ heads and tails, and I couldn’t help but notice Aunue Flo giving her wrist-watch an occasional glance.

Mum would be lighting the primus stove as we reached the kitchen, and when the large copper kettle had boiled we’d wash and dr)’ the dishes between us while dad was engrossed in the News of the World crossword, possibly dreaming of an early retirement. When this was all finished Auntie Flo, mum and I would take a walk out the back to admire dad’s immaculate vegetable garden and mum’s lovely massed flower garden, the air now filled with the perfume from the mixed flower border and the night scented stock, but this perfume was overtaken by that from the honeysuckle that clung to the w alls of the ‘lavvy’ where it grew up and over the slate roof to meet the mauve lilac tree growing at the other side, which was also in full bloom. Obviously the honeysuckle and lilac had been planted for a purpose many years before! On our way down the garden, we’d pause briefly to admire our rabbits spread out in their hutches on the fresh straw which I’d placed there in the morning after cleaning them out and placing the ‘residue’ around dad’s rhubarb. Some of the poor creatures were destined for the dinner table at Christmas time, now only a few months away.

As Auntie Flo and mum stood quietly exchanging gardening hints and tips I heard another distinctive ring from a cycle bell in the distance, but this one kept ringing and ringing, and I knew who it was then – the Wall’s ‘Stop Me And Buy One’ man with his ice box on the front of his cycle. He wore a white smock and a peaked cap that was always perched on the back of his head. Mum knew who it was, too, and asked me to “get him to wait a minute” as she smiled at Auntie Flo with a gleam in her eye. I shot off down the path to await the arrival of Auntie Flo and mum, who were whispering among themselves, and the ice cream man acknowledged them with a brief touch of his cap. Mum opened her purse and passed a few coins into my hand as Auntie Flo whispered
‘Obviously, the honeysuckle and lilac had been planted for a purpose many years before.’

something to the man. I chose my favourite, a triangular-shaped ice block in a cardboard sleeve, usually a lime-flavoured one when he came during those summer months.

It wasn’t until we’d gone back indoors that Auntie Flo presented me with a luscious ice cream comet “as a special treat for coming to meet me off the bus”.

While we had been down the road, dad had finished his crossword and was now lathering his face to have his shave with the ivory-handled cut-throat razor that he had now taken from the rack over the fireplace before making his way down to the ‘local’ for his Sunday night pint and a game of Euchre. We knew, by the time of this Sunday ritual, that it would soon be time for Auntie Flo to get ready for her journey home, so mum would be making a pot of tea as Auntie Flo had a wash and tidy-up in the scullery. By now, dad would be ready to go on his way, so with a quick kiss on mum’s cheek, and one on Auntie Flo’s, he’d go out of the back door for his 20-minute or so walk to his ‘local’.

While Auntie Flo was getting ready, mum would be picking a posy of flowers from her garden for her to take home, but little did Auntie Flo know that mum had also slipped a jar or two of home-made damson jam or
blackberry jelly into her basket as she was slipping on her coat.

All too soon it was time to go. Mum, Auntie Flo and I would walk quietly along once more to the bus stop on the other side of the road. As the bus came into sight around the corner, it was time for us to say goodbye with a hurried kiss or two. I had the important job of putting out my arm to signal the bus to stop, and as Auntie Flo slowly climbed the steps into the bus with her now somewhat lighter basket, I felt mum’s hand gendy tighten on my arm, trying not to notice the tear that was sliding down her cheek as the conductor rang the bell.

The bus drew away slowly, and as it rounded the corner to go down the hill and out of sight, we saw Auntie Flo waving from the rear window until she could see us no more.

As the sun began to sink slowly towards the hills as the day drew to a close, mum and I started our quiet walk home. We paused for a while at the wooden stile that I’d been sitting on several hours earlier, hoping to get one last glimpse of Auntie Flo’s bus as it left the village. We did – and at the same time I saw what I’m sure was the very same skylark returning to the long grass as we stood there. I wondered if the little bird had had such a wonderful time away over the hills as I’d had with my mum and Auntie Flo on that late summer’s afternoon. I doubted it very much.

David Jones

Editor’s note: Such warm memoriesfrom an expatriate in New Zealand will, Vm sure, strike a chord with many readers-which is why, in this case only, I have made an exception to the normal ‘Yesterday Remembered ’ 600-word rule.

More Stories

Cork-board background Bottom