The church was full. She would have approved of the flowers. She had trained the ladies on the church rota well.
The vicar droned on about how she had always given back to the village she loved,
"Abigail or Lady Abigail - though she disliked using her title, was the only sister of the Duke Of Woodfleet. She never married. Her beloved home, the gatehouse of the Manor, was always a haven for those in need. Her generosity was legendary. She was much loved despite never finding love or the fulfilment of married life for herself."
I think the vicar was trying to intimate that my aunt was a virgin. Spinster of this parish she may be but a virgin? I started to chortle but managed to disguise it as a little cough. My husband held my hand and smiled reassuringly.
Despite her sensible appearance, my Aunt Abigail was a true free spirit. A wild child for four months of the year for three decades. The rest of the year and for the last decade of her life, she had been the spinster everybody knew, in her gatehouse tending the sick and doing good works.
Yet, she was a goddess every summer, living a life of debauchery and passion. Countless young men had lost their virginities to her, and she had trained them to please. Lonely widowers had cried as they held a warm and willing woman once again. Young men full of passion but with no regular girl to share it with had enjoyed her charms.
I should never have known about that part of her life. I was visiting an old school friend's flat in Devon. The travelling fair was in town, and we went to have some fun. It was a traditional fair with a coconut shy and all the best fairground rides.
My attention was caught by the retreating view of a woman taking a man by the hand to her caravan at the far end of the showground. He stumbled in his eagerness. There was something about her stance that struck a chord with me. She glanced back and smiled at him. Despite the unfamiliar long red fiery hair and the flowing clothes she wore, I saw my Aunt Abigail's face.
Aunt Abigail left our village on the first of May every year. She returned on the first of September. No one questioned it. Her travelling to visit various old friends for four months of the year was just her norm.
I left my friend and wandered towards the caravan I had seen Abigail enter. This van was high-sided with steps. The windows were too high to see anything, but as I sat on the steps of her van and heard the passion within, in no doubt that my aunt was giving the eager young man a wonderful time.
A woman came out of the neighbouring caravan and stared hard at me,
"What are you doing? Gail don't entertain any lady callers. Only gentleman callers, be off with you."
"She's my aunt. I've come to visit."
"You must be Lucy then," she said to my amazement. "I'm Meg. She said you were a pretty one. Best wait in the van until she's finished her fun."
I sat in Meg's van sipping hot sweet tea while waiting for Aunt Abigail. The van was spotless; every surface gleamed. Eventually, Meg disappeared after what seemed like an age and returned with my aunt.
She stood, her hair red, wild and unkempt. Different from the tight brown French pleat she always wore. Her silk wrap fell from her shoulder as she self-consciously pulled it back up. She was sensual and beautiful.
"Lucy, I'm so sorry; promise me you'll listen before you judge."
I nodded and tried to give a reassuring smile as she carried on.
"It started almost thirty years ago, long before you were even born. I was just twenty and engaged to a friend of your father's. I loved him, and in those days, nice girls waited till their wedding night. He was from a very good family and it was essential to have heirs. His mother insisted I undergo medical tests before the wedding to establish my fertility. My role as a broodmare had to be ensured, you see.
