When I heard that we were being treated to a rare visit from my mother's sister, I wasn't exactly overjoyed. In fact I positively dreaded the prospect, even though Aunt Doreen was just passing through, on her way to stay with a friend in Canada, and we would only have to put up with her for some twelve hours or so. She was catching an early-morning flight, and we lived quite close to the airport. It wasn't my mother's suggestion that Aunt Doreen come down on the train the day before and stay over; characteristically, she had invited herself, phoning up to inform my mother of her imminent arrival. That was Aunt Doreen for you.
Undeniably, for ordinary people like us back in the early 1970s, in many respects more innocent and less clued-up than today, Aunt Doreen's life did seem glamorous. Childless, husbandless, she was the closest thing we knew to the sort of people you saw on glossy TV shows, seemingly never doing an honest day's work but still, from somewhere, finding the money to buy expensive coats, jet off abroad, eat elaborate foreign food and sip fine wines in fancy restaurants. But this aura of high living served only to exacerbate my parents' disdain for Aunt Doreen. Every mention of her name brought forth dark murmurings, censorious looks, primly pursed lips.
My mother more than once referred to Aunt Doreen as a "man-eater", a term which, to my eighteen-year-old mind, had certain sinister connotations. Particularly since Aunt Doreen had a disconcerting way of looking at you as though she could see right into your mind and read off all your deepest secrets. She seemed to possess some kind of scary, unsavoury power. Yet I couldn't for the life of me see how she had earned this reputation for snaring helpless males at every turn, and concluded that her man-eating days were well and truly behind her. A good decade older than my mother, and taller even than my father, with a thin-lipped slash of a mouth, suspiciously white and even teeth that, I felt sure, were dentures, hard little eyes forever crinkling up in private amusement, half a ton of inexpertly-applied makeup and brutally short-cropped jet-black hair, grey at the roots, Aunt Doreen wasn't exactly your Lamb's Navy Rum calendar girl. She drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney and her laugh wasn't merely unladylike, it was downright obscene. She would invariably inquire whether I had a girlfriend and then relish my embarrassment, laughing as she stared right into my soul. A previous visit, at Christmas several years ago, had left me with the unpleasant memory of the worst so far of her habitual goodbye kisses, which had left me in a queasy haze of alcohol and dirt-cheap scent. No, Aunt Doreen didn't figure at all in my fantasy life. I was a timid, virginal kid, small and scrawny - "sensitive", according to my mother - always buried in a book, or ensconced in the bathroom with the door securely bolted, masturbating to invented scenarios involving the most physically spectacular of the sixth-form's female contingent, or my modestly sexy Latin teacher, Miss Dunham. I was drawn to older women as I felt they would be more forgiving of my multitudinous inadequacies. But I firmly drew the line at my formidable aunt.
So it was with considerable foreboding that I came home from school that Monday afternoon, knowing Aunt Doreen would be there. I'd worked out a strategy of avoidance, aimed at reducing contact with this unwelcome relative to an absolute minimum. I would take my evening meal up to my room, pleading a homework backlog. With luck, I would even find a way of ducking out of the dreaded goodbye kiss.
Approaching the open kitchen window I heard voices, and immediately recognised my mother's soft tones, along with the hoarse, inelegant rasp that was Aunt Doreen's vocal trademark. Instinctively, I halted. I have never been able to resist an opportunity to eavesdrop.
"Say what else you like about me, but you can't deny I've got a decent pair of tits." Aunt Doreen's words rooted me to the spot. Had I heard her correctly?
I peeked through the bamboo blind. They were sitting at the table, nursing cups of tea. My mother sat with her back to me. Aunt Doreen sat opposite, cigarette in mouth. Her blouse was partially unbuttoned, displaying breasts which more than lived up to their owner's boast. Her white bra could barely contain them. Amazingly, I had never before noticed how blessed she was in that department. How could I have missed them? But then, I hadn't seen Aunt Abigail since I was ten or eleven, and at that time, the contents of women's bras hadn't featured anything like so prominently among my interests.
My mother was nodding her head. Being supportive, as usual. Her antipathy toward Aunt Doreen, as with most of her dislikes, was reluctant, erratic and continually subject to revision. In an ideal world, my mother would be good, solid friends with just about everyone.
My heart was thumping. Aunt Doreen was looking straight at me. A cold shiver ran down my spine. For it was as though, with that preternatural vision of hers, she had spotted me there at the window. She didn't appear startled, or shocked, or offended. I even thought I saw her eyes crinkle with amusement. Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she yawned and stretched, raising her arms, and as she did so one large, rosy nipple popped into view. Aunt Doreen's eyes continued to bore into me, and it took an effort to free myself and step back out of sight.
Going into the kitchen as though nothing had happened was out of the question. One look from Aunt Doreen and I would be blushing furiously. As it was, my cheeks already felt hot. I stood outside the house, wondering what to do. Should I go to a friend's for the night? I thought of waiting till it was likely that Aunt Doreen had gone to bed, phoning my mother in the meantime so she wouldn't get worried, shinning up the drainpipe and climbing in through my bedroom window, or even sleeping out in the garden shed if necessary. Anything to avoid the embarrassment and humiliation of coming face to face with my aunt.
I started violently as the phone on the kitchen wall began to ring. What should I do? I stood there, in a quandary. Had Aunt Doreen intended to shame me? If so, she had succeeded. I felt terrible. Yet also wildly excited.
I almost jumped out of my skin when the back door swung open and my mother emerged from the house. I made as though I had just this moment entered the gateway and was walking up the path. My mother was in a rush. A midwife, she was responding to an emergency call. Hurriedly, she explained that my father had had to extend his business trip and wouldn't be back until Friday. For dinner there was the remainder of yesterday's shepherd's pie, which should easily be sufficient for myself and Aunt Doreen. I was also warned not to stay up too late - school tomorrow, remember. My mother then made some kind of joke about trusting me to entertain my aunt. She waved a hurried goodbye and good luck to Aunt Doreen through the kitchen window, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then ran across the gravel to her car.
Horror of horrors, I had been left alone with Aunt Doreen for the entire evening. And I had no choice now but to go in and face her. Feeling in grave danger of fainting, I stepped into the hallway, and told myself to take the evening hour by hour, minute by minute, to postpone the inevitable confrontation with my aunt for as long as was humanly possible. I would just have to play it by ear and hope for the best, pray for some miracle to deliver me from death by embarrassment.
To the best of my knowledge, she was still in the kitchen. I hadn't looked in through the window while walking past for fear of finding her staring back at me. I tiptoed past the closed kitchen door and was halfway up the stairs when Aunt Doreen's nicotine-ravaged voice stopped me dead in my tracks.
"Well ain't you going to say hello to your favourite old aunty?" It was always startling to hear her speak so fondly, with such softness, a lioness mewing like a kitten.
I came back down the stairs and mumbled a greeting. My cheeks were burning. I didn't dare meet her eyes. She stood in the living-room doorway, puffing on her cigarette. All those acres of cleavage were still on display. She wore a black skirt, inadvisably short. Her big long chunky legs were bluish-white. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted vivid red. Something else my mother had mentioned more than once about Aunt Doreen: she liked to go around barefoot. My mother had made it sound almost like leaving off your knickers.
"Come here." Aunt Doreen stepped up to me, stooped down - she was several inches taller than me, even without shoes - and planted a kiss on the tip of my nose. "Happy birthday, my love. Not till tomorrow, I know, but don't know if I'll see you. Got to be leaving really early, before five. Now would you like a cup of tea? Let me make you a nice cup of tea. Had a good day at school?"
So she'd decided to spare my blushes. For the time being, at least. But I knew I couldn't keep the guilt and fear out of my face. I considered taking the bull by the horns and mentioning the incident myself, alluding to it in a casual, jokey fashion, then delivering a sober apology. Struggling to summon the courage, I followed Aunt Doreen into the kitchen. She filled the kettle, then turned and leant against the draining-board.
"So you're what? Eighteen? Can't believe how time flies." She flicked her cigarette butt into the sink. "Only seems like a couple of years ago I was bumping you up and down on me knee and helping your mum with you, giving you a bath, washing your little bits and pieces."
I gritted my teeth. So much for sparing blushes. This was going to be every bit the ordeal I had anticipated. It had always tickled Aunt Doreen no end, seeing me blush. She was toying with me, and enjoying herself immensely.
"Tell you what, why don't we forget about the cup of tea and just have our dinner. I'm starved. How about you?" She bent down, the black skirt taut across her broad behind, and opened the oven, slid out the shepherd's pie, scooped up a bit with her finger, tasted it, nodded approvingly, shoved it back inside, slammed the door and switched on the gas. "You could always rely on your mum in the kitchen." Her tone was faintly disparaging, as though, in her book, domestic prowess was scarcely the measure of a woman. "As for me, well, I did try to whip up an omelette once. Ended up having to chuck it away."
