My aunt died in August. I loved her a lot. She was unconventional, kind and not hindered by the unofficial laws of social norms.
She was beautiful, my aunt. Totally beautiful to me. As a child, I was drawn to her. She was interesting to be with. Always forgiving. Ever knowledgeable. And nothing I ever did made her cross. She even gave me a present when I got her dog run over in the street. That floored me, I can tell you.
My aunt was the one I’d have lived with, if I found myself suddenly orphaned. She was my godmother, too.
I miss her.
But I’ve missed her for years. For totally understandable family reasons, she relocated to Cornwall a while back. Since then, I’ve not spent much time with her. Now she’s gone.
I think, though, it was her time. She’d been a daughter and a mother, an aunt, a sister, a very involved grandmother and great-grandmother, and her family was very important to her.
My aunt liked singing hymns in choirs – sometimes she even sang solos. Shy – but not retiring. She loved flint-walled downland villages and old men. She was tall, and heavy-boned – but broke those bones frequently. She had a penchant for sudoku, and a liking for mental spaniels that ran under cars. She was an expert in guinea-pig husbandry, a scientist and a chatterbox. She would literally talk to the walls.
My aunt did not like cooking. She had better things to do. She didn’t go out of her way to look after herself with diet, and when it came to seeking medical advice, she wouldn’t rush. I don’t think she placed her health high on her list of priorities. When her tooth fell out a couple of years back, I simply couldn’t believe she was so calm about it. You need that! I wanted to shout. But she seemed to accept that she’d manage her last few years without it just fine, and the gaping chasm in her smile was totally befitting a woman of her age. She was the least vain person I know.
When she fell over in the summer, she wasn’t to recover. To say she went downhill fast is not just a figure of speech, it’s totally true. By then she was so frail, she was almost unrecognisable from the statuesque, buxom, cardigan-sporting woman of yesteryear. And when she went into hospital, she never came out. She fell into a kind of stupor apparently – like an acceptance of fate. From what I’ve been told, she was comfortable and having jolly hallucinations about being at the donkey sanctuary on the Isle of Wight. She wasn’t distressed; in fact, she rather enjoyed her “trip” to the island and a short time later, died with her granddaughter by her side.
Her funeral was a quiet affair. My aunt wasn’t one for ceremony. Lucky really, because there were only seven of us there. And although funerals are generally awful, this one had a touch of magic to it. It felt as if Heaven and Earth merged that day, and my aunt’s onward path was paved with the golden tint of early autumn sunlight. We bade her a peaceful farewell.
Amongst the seven mourners that day was my Other Godmother, who also lives in Cornwall. And as she stoically drove us across the moors to Truro for the funeral, I noticed a placename I’d heard before: Altarnun.
The Vicar of Altarnun became familiar to me only this summer. I was seduced by the shiny cover of a Du Maurier novel in a charity shop – Jamaica Inn, and I read all about Jem and Joss Merlyn’s antics (and that awful vicar of Altarnun!) whilst staying by the sea in August. Tales of wreckers and wild coastal storms really got into my psyche. “That inn is a real place!” my friends told me. And vow to go there I did.
I didn’t realise my aunt’s funeral would be the catalyst, but on the way back from Truro and the funeral, my Other Godmother pulled off the road and took us – my mum and I – to toast my aunt at Jamaica Inn.
There is was in all its Olde Worlde glory. Bigger than I thought, with a gift shop to boot, it looked somewhat different from the inn in my head. But with a little imagination, I could easily picture a dark, wet, cold night and Mary Yellan yomping off in her skirts to rat on her bad uncle, whilst her doomed, nervous aunt twisted her fingers by the fading hearth inside.
We drank a toast to my own aunt there in the sunshine. Having read Daphne DM’s book, I know all about how inhospitable Bodmin Moor can be, but on this glorious September afternoon, it felt like we were on top of the world. There I was, raising a glass to my aunt – my godmother, with my Other Godmother and my actual mother there beside me. I took stock of life. I counted my blessings.
They say the only certainty in life is death – and there is nothing that hammers that home more than a funeral. Despite there only being a very small congregation at my aunt’s service, it didn’t matter. The vicar did her proud with his mesmeric, gentle voice and wise words, and it was obvious not only that my aunt was loved, but that she was heading off for her next adventure, where missing teeth and frailty are problems she won’t even have to consider.
Truro. Bodmin. Altarnun. Jamaica Inn. Godmothers. A chance encounter with a second-hand book, a funeral and a fitting tribute. I often wonder how these things sometimes come together. Maybe it’s luck, maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s nonsense. But whatever it is, it’s comforting. x
(I never realised I was so ginger – must be that golden tint of early autumn sunlight.)
P.S I learned a new word at the funeral. I now know what a bier is.
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