JESSIE ELLIS WAS AN UNASSUMING lady who you underestimated at your peril. Quiet, reserved, and with a hair-do akin to Ena Sharples (one of the most popular characters in Coronation Street during the sixties and seventies), she would often be heard telling amusing stories around the dinner table, found completing newspaper crosswords as often as possible with her sister, Kathleen – always with a cup of tea by her side – and, when the occasion allowed, thrashing the unsuspecting and unwary at a game of cards. Nobody could pinpoint where Auntie Jessie had honed her considerable skills and aptitude for the likes of Rummy, Newmarket and Fives, but develop them over the years, she had, until she was acknowledged by everyone as the undisputed, card-wielding powerhouse of our family. Even my mum yielded to her superiority – and for that to happen, she had to be someone who possessed special qualities.
Since I had arrived in Cottingham, I hadn’t seen her anything like as much as I had wanted. Indeed, the trip to Harrogate being the exception, I really hadn’t seen much of her at all. But today, the last Wednesday of my brief fortnight would be different: Auntie Jessie would be visiting all day, and there would be ample time to enjoy her company, have a bit of fun – and listen to some of her incredible stories about bygone times.
After eating my breakfast and then getting dressed, I didn’t have long to wait to be in her presence. Kathleen and Jessie were creatures of habit, and Wednesday mornings were reserved for their regular three-mile round trip to Grandways, the local supermarket, which was situated down the Lane, on the invisible boundary between Cottingham and Hull. It took a good thirty minutes to reach while walking at a brisk pace, so, an early start was always required if the intrepid siblings were to be tucking into their dinners by midday.
At nine-thirty precisely, and right on cue, there was the rustle of movement outside the front door. Sweep detected it first and fired off a howl that any self-respecting banshee would have been proud of. As his barking quietened, the brass knocker rapped out a passcode befitting of a skilled Bletchley Park telegraphist – dat-dar-da-dat- dat, dat-dat. The noise confirmed Auntie Jessie had successfully negotiated the bus trip from Goddard Avenue and had arrived at her destination in good fettle.
“Hello, love,” I heard her familiar voice call out affectionately, as the pale blue door was opened and Auntie Kathleen eagerly ushered her inside. “It’s a peach of a day and, by gum, we’ll need to set off sharpish if we’re not going to fry in the sun.”
No sooner had her words faded than there was an almighty commotion. I would learn later that Geronimo, the fearsome trolley Auntie Jessie took with her almost everywhere, had been lifted into the tightly-packed hallway prematurely, jamming the two sisters together. Both were large ladies and as they tried their utmost to manoeuvre themselves away from one another, there was a howl of pain as Geronimo collided with the unprotected flesh of Auntie Kathleen’s pale white legs.
“Oy, Jessie, you clumsy apeth; goodness gracious, mind what you’re doing,” yelped an alarmed Auntie Kathleen, as their futile attempts to avert a full-on coming together failed spectacularly. For a second, a peace of sorts descended on the front of the house, suggesting matters had been resolved. Alas, this proved not to be the case.
“Oooh, you’ve only gone and put a hole in my bloody tights, Jessie. I’m now going to have to change them,” yelped Auntie Kathleen, her frustration clear for everyone to hear. “I can’t go down the Lane with a gaping hole exposing me to the elements. What if I bump into a neighbour? I’ll be the source of gossip for the rest of the week. Sister, go and make yourself a tea, and have a chat with Tony, while I go and get myself ship-shape once again. I will be with you as soon as I can.”
As an unimpressed Auntie Kathleen stomped up the stairs, Jessie’s flushed face peered around the door. “Is there room for one more at the table?” she quipped as if everything was normal and I couldn’t have possibly heard any of the drama that had just unfolded. “Tony, I am in desperate need of a cuppa so let’s be having you.”
After she’d made herself comfortable, and ladled a couple of steeped spoonfuls of sugar into the cuppa I had made her – ‘the finest of brews,’ as my mum used to say of the Yorkshire Tea variety – great aunt and great nephew talked animatedly about anything and everything for the next five minutes, including debating one of my favourite subjects: the best place in Hull where you could buy a Knickerbockerglory? For the uninitiated, such a delight is the pinnacle of desserts, being a culinary concoction comprising vanilla ice cream, mango, raspberries, blueberries, pistachios, and anything else that catches the eye. It is usually presented in a foot-tall glass, complete with Hundreds and Thousands sprinkled on top. Throughout the glorious seventies, this represented the height of sophistication to a youth who freely laughed aloud at the impressions of Mike Yarwood and the risqué jokes of Stan Boardman.
Like her younger sibling, Auntie Jessie had the knack of knowing how to get me in a good mood, and this process invariably involved talking about puddings and dangling a huge incentive in front of my nose.
“If you are a good lad today, I’ll have a word with Auntie Kathleen and see if she’ll let me take you to the Wimpy restaurant in the centre of town before you go back home. I have asked around and been told it’s here that you’ll get the best Knickerbockerglory in Yorkshire,” she declared. “Mind you, Tony, from what I hear, there’s every chance I won’t have to spend a single penny on you, as it seems you have got yourself into a few scrapes during the last few days. Whatever have you been up to?”
My shoulders slumped. Bad news travels quickly, and I quickly tried to find the right words to confess my all. But before I could account for my actions and misfortunes, Auntie Kathleen reappeared. Irritation continued to be written on her face, and after looking at her legs I could see why: she was now wearing a resplendent pair of bright red tights, the kind that provokes an almost physical reaction when you are forced to look at them. There was no sign whatsoever of the skin-coloured variety that had covered her legs a few moments earlier. Funnily enough, in a strange kind of way, even though they were so garish, they proved the near-perfect partner for her equally grotesque dress, that was daubed in what I later found out were supposed to be shapes that resembled tangerines.
“Come on, you two dawdlers,” she boomed, her malfunctioning wardrobe one of the reasons she seemed so peeved. “There isn’t time to be sitting down and having a leisurely chat. There is shopping to be done, and we haven’t got all day. So, let’s be having you – and you can take your eyes off my tights, Tony. These are the only pair I could find, and in times of emergency, beggars can’t be choosers.”
Auntie Jessie and I exchanged knowing looks, with the faintest of smiles momentarily appearing on our faces. They were soon wiped away after another sudden and scolding verbal broadside from Auntie Kathleen, who sensed she was being silently ridiculed. Her words certainly had the desired effect as we were on our feet and marching out of the house in next to no time.
“You really are the clumsiest of people, Jessie,” she said brusquely as she locked the back door and yanked Sweep’s lead, bringing the uncooperative mutt to heel. “That damned trolley of yours will be the death of both of us one day.”
With her frustrations vented, off we scooted. Within a few seconds, we were into our stride; up the Avenue and all the way down the Lane to Grandways. For people like aunts Kathleen and Jessie, it was still a treat to go to the new generation of shops. From here, they could buy almost everything under one roof. Grandways, and Jacksons before it, were the pinnacle of the shopping experience in Cottingham and Hull, and my two aunts always looked forward to indulging themselves whenever they could. From start to finish, it lasted approximately an hour. By the time we left the supermarket, Geronimo and Auntie Kathleen’s equally robust four-wheeled fortress was overflowing with tins, bottles and bags of produce. In three heavy duty bags was the overspill – bags of sugar and rice, and enough cereal to keep everyone fed for a month, never mind a week! As a ‘treat’, I was given the responsibility of carrying them.
On our way back, we made two important detours. The first was to a newsagent at the Hall Road crossroads, from where Auntie Kathleen collected her copies of The Dandy and The Beano , two comics that continued to bring unbridled happiness into the lives of two aunts. She had been buying them for as long as anyone could remember, keen to discover what dastardly deeds the likes of Dennis the Menace, Bully Beef, Roger the Dodger, the Bash Street Kids and Billy Whizz had been up to. I loved them too, and pored over these national treasures from cover to cover when I had the opportunity. As I anticipated what was to come, my mind was taken off the dead weights of the three shopping bags. I was certain my arms had grown at least a couple of inches since we had left Grandways.
I found myself regularly checking the comics hadn’t fallen from Auntie Kathleen's trolley, as she took us on a fast-paced march to the mobile fish van that came to this part of Cottingham and parked up near Keswick Gardens (a long avenue featuring two lines of uniform semi- detached houses). From here, Auntie Kathleen’s stash of haddock fillets and roll mop herrings were purchased every week. Freshly caught, the haddock (as well as some homemade chips and mushy peas) would be the centrepiece of tonight’s tea. For some unfathomable reason, or perhaps because my family liked to be different from everybody else, Wednesdays were the regular ‘fish nights’ at Auntie Kathleen’s, and everyone looked forward to savouring her fodder. The roll mops, meanwhile, would provide tasty sustenance for whoever fancied a taste of the pickled delight when their stomachs rumbled. Such was their popularity, there were rarely any left in the pantry within twenty-four hours of them being bought.
When we got back home, we were running late. It was almost twelve-thirty – ‘dinnertime’ as Yorkshire folk like to call it. It took a good fifteen minutes to pack away all the food in the pantry and overfill the other cupboards that made this particular scullery bulge with culinary delights. As I stood by the doorway to the front room, surveying the scene, I could see both of my aunts were thoroughly worn out. A combination of the heat and the exercise had left them low on energy and in need of some much needed kip, which would most surely follow after we all had a bite to eat.
“Can I read the comics?” I requested as my aunts started making the dinner. “I promise I will look after them and put them back on the table once I have finished.” This was a vital consideration because both of my aunts had to have their weekly dose of The Beano and The Dandy immediately after lunch, shortly before they undertook another daily routine: their afternoon nap. And for them to do that, they needed to be close to hand.
After tucking into a tasty salad, consisting of succulent chicken breasts, cucumber, radishes, lettuce, pork pie, tomatoes and spring onions, washed down by an obligatory cup of tea, my aunts appeared to be contented. They eased themselves into the comfy chairs in the front room and quickly became absorbed in the comics. For a good thirty minutes, they digested every morsel of mirth and merriment, regularly breaking the peace of the afternoon with a sudden hoot of laughter. Then it was time for them to close their eyes.
“We’re just going to have some time to ourselves now,” said Auntie Kathleen. “Why don’t you go into the back garden and be a good lad by cutting the lawn? Uncle Jim’s lawnmower is in the shed. By the time you’ve finished, we’ll be as good as new, and ready to take you into town for a walkabout and, if you’re a good lad, that Knickerbockerglory treat you’ve spent all day thinking about.”
Before I could respond, they had both tilted their heads onto the plump cushions behind their necks, closed their eyes and made it plain to me that they did not wish to be disturbed. There was little doubt I had been left to my own devices for the next half an hour. On recent evidence, this could have been a dangerous time for anyone in the surrounding streets. But, after the episodes of recent days, I had vowed solemnly to be a good lad, and I was determined to be true to my oath. I went to the shed – the one bought several years earlier to replace the unfortunate wooden fortress that had been devastated by Uncle Fred’s firestorm – and found a rust-encrusted contraption, nominally known as a ‘lawn mower’. It had clearly seen much better days and looked as if its blades would not be up to the job, as Sweep’s paws (and other body parts) had turned Auntie Kathleen’s lawn into something akin to a moon landing strip. I freed it from under a pile of junk, wiping away a dense covering of cobwebs and dust as I did so. I shook my head in despair: there was no way this was going to work. But looks can be deceptive, and after spending a few moments giving it a thorough clean and testing the blades, I chanced my arm on the green patches that constituted a lawn. At first, the mower struggled. It’s engine misfired and it seemed to find the terrain not to its satisfaction. But I persevered, and soon the wheels started to gain greater traction. Soon it was eating up the long grass and firing on all cylinders, bringing a degree of respectability to Auntie Kathleen’s pastel green clusters. After I had completed the final cut, I stopped, wiped some beads of sweat from my brow, and admired my handiwork (as all males like to do). I decided I was happy with the fruits of my labour.
It was at that moment I heard it – a shriek full of absolute pain and anguish.
At first, I thought somebody had fallen and hurt themselves, or worse. I looked to see where the sound was coming from. But I couldn’t see over the tall fences that separated the garden of one house from that of another, and because it was another warm summer’s day, many windows were wide open, allowing the sounds of everyday living to prevent me from pinpointing the source of the noise. By the time I heard a fourth loud groan, I started to panic. It sounded dreadful, as if somebody was really in agony. I had no option: I had to awaken Auntie Kathleen.
“Whatever is it?” she asked groggily, as I disturbed her well-earned slumber by prodding her shoulder repeatedly. “Whatever it is, Tony, you had better have a good reason to wake me up. I’ll have you know I was just having a very pleasant dream until I felt you jabbing my arm.”
I immediately told her what I had heard.
“That’ll be Jack, Mr Payne to you” she responded with gentleness in her voice. “He lives at number seventeen. The Japanese did for him in the war, and he has never been the same since he came home. Sadly, there’s nothing anyone can do to help him. He fought with your Uncle Jim in Burma, but he was captured and forced to build a railway in terrible conditions that ruined his body, and he has never truly healed. He’s now bedridden, and every day he feels the agony of the suffering and torture he experienced. All he can do is release the pain in the only way he knows how. But although you have heard his cries, be in no doubt that he is a very brave man.”
Even though I had lived in the Avenue for much of my young life, and visited regularly ever since we had moved away, I had never met Mr Payne. I had heard his name mentioned on numerous occasions, as he and his wife had been neighbours seemingly forever, and I often said hello to his two daughters. But of the man himself, I knew absolutely nothing. I decided there and then that I would try to find out more, albeit I would have to bide my time, as Auntie Kathleen was eager to put a stop to the conversation.
“Those were dreadful days, Tony,” she said in a near whisper. “You can’t imagine what people experienced and were forced to do during those terrible times. It’s not something to be talking about right now. Maybe sometime in the future. Let’s get ourselves ready to go into the city. Perhaps you’d like to go and knock on Auntie Maureen’s door as see if she would like to bring your cousin, Emma, out for the remainder of the afternoon.”
My disappointment at not being able to talk about Mr Payne and the war years was instantly forgotten. It was a subject that had fascinated me ever since my grandad had shown me his war medals, earned when he fought Erwin Rommel’s formidable Afrika Korps. Like so many things in life, there would be an opportunity at a more convenient time. Right now, a trip into Hull, with a ride on a double-decker bus and the lure of a Knickerbockerglory, was an important matter – one that had to be pursued with the utmost vigour.
We had been sitting in the Wimpy restaurant on King Edward Street for almost an hour, and I was getting impatient. I had eaten my beef burger with gusto; even the pickled gherkin had been consumed, barely touching the sides of my mouth as it was propelled into the abyss that is my stomach. The same fate befell the portion of chips that accompanied it. This American-style fare had been captivating the good people of Hull since the sixties when the fast-food chain first opened its doors in the city. More than a decade earlier, the place had been sparkling clean; a go- to haven, with long queues of wannabe diners queuing round the clock at the weekend. Fast forward a few years and there was a faded sign hanging in the window, appealing for participants in ‘the great Womble competition’ – a reference to the strange, furry creatures that dominated our tellies at the time, singing a bizarre range of pop songs and starring in their own children’s series on the BBC. Tired and well past its best, the restaurant seemed to be the living embodiment of the city I loved, one highlighting the extent of its current decline. But I couldn’t have cared less about the state of my surroundings that particular day, although for fifteen minutes, or so, my threadbare patience was sorely tested. For what seemed like an an intolerable amount of time, I had been forced to listen to the conversation of my three aunts, who were talking about things no young male should ever have to listen to, namely the latest twists in the plots of Coronation Street and Emmerdale Farm , and hairstyles for ladies of a certain age. And when their banter started getting slightly stilted, my baby cousin piped up, her howls silencing my aunts instantly and forcing annoying infantile gushing noises out of all their mouths.
My mood improved considerably at four o’clock precisely, when I spied a waitress walking briskly. She was carrying a tray. On it was a tall Knickerbockerglory – and they both seemed to be heading in my direction. My aunts ceased their chit-chat as the waitress approached our table, and smiles broke out on their faces when she asked: “Is there someone called Tony sitting at this table?” All their eyes turned to me. My excitement knew no bounds, and I could barely speak. For a few precious moments, I forgot everything, and life went by in a blur as I tucked into the nearest thing there has ever been to culinary perfection. I was dragged out of my trance-like state only when Auntie Maureen warned: “Be careful, Tony. If you scrape the sides any harder with that spoon, you’ll be eating shards of glass.”
I looked at the distinctive bowl. Where a few minutes ago there was something equally as valuable as the Jules Rimet Trophy standing in front of me, there was now just an empty vessel, soiled by the occasional trace of whipped cream and strawberry sauce. My encounter with paradise was fleeting, tasty and thoroughly worthwhile. But it was now definitely over, and the experience had lasted less than one hundred and eighty seconds.
“Well, look at the time,” said Auntie Jessie, winking mischievously to me with her right eye. “We need to make our way back to Cottingham. Jim, Fred and Archie will be wondering where we have got to – and they’ll soon be complaining that their stomachs need filling. Afterwards, there’s the small matter of a game of cards before I make my way home. So, let’s be having you all. On your feet, ladies and young Master.”
The journey back to number thirteen proved to be very uneventful, except for a heavily sweating man, who chose to sit next to Auntie Maureen for the duration of the journey. Bald, fat and with a swarthy complexion, his ample folds of flesh in the midriff area of his body seemed to envelop some of Auntie Maureen’s smaller frame. As a result, her face had been a picture of controlled disgust. Thankfully, the discomfort she had experienced ended when our bus stop came into view and we were all able to disembark. As the double-decker rumbled down the road, pulled onwards by a diesel engine that toiled hard, she decided to share her feelings about the experience with anyone who’d listen. Her acerbic and funny comments provoked howls of laughter from my aunts, who I had heard saying on many occasions ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’. If it was, the unfortunate wretch who sat next to Auntie Mo was likely to find himself engulfed in flames as soon as he met Saint Peter at the pearly gates!
Dinner was a concoction: rollmop herring and a bit of salad for those who wanted it, there was also Brussels pate and toast, which was Auntie Jessie’s number one choice; and there was Uncle Jim’s favourite: haddock and chips.
“You can’t beat a plate of chips that have been fried in beef and pork dripping,” he said, after leaning back in his chair and loosening his black leather trouser belt. “And when the fish is fresh from the docks, you will be eating a meal that’s fit for a Queen. Isn’t that right, Kathleen?”
Hearing her name, my aunt turned her head away from the conversation she was enjoying with her sister and looked directly at Uncle Jim. With an expression akin to a mother appraising a child that has repeatedly been asked to sit on the naughty step. “Yes, Jim,” she said. “But thank goodness we don’t put that statement to the test and we are able to eat different meals. For I think you would be the first to start complaining if I did serve you fish and chips every night for your tea.” The comment brought a touch of rouge to the face of Uncle Jim, and his embarrassment was further heightened when he started coughing uncontrollably and had to dash to the toilet, where he eventually brought things under control.
“Men do say some daft things, don’t they?” stated Auntie Jessie, seemingly forgetting I was still at the table. “They utter the first things that come into their heads, and it’s usually a load of tripe. My Jack was a lovely soul, but he was also prone to saying many a daft thing. He didn’t mean anything by it. I just think it was the way he was made, and every man I have ever met seems to be afflicted with the same condition. Rather than keep their mouths shut, they feel they have got to say something no matter how daft it is. They really are strange creatures.”
Auntie Kathleen nodded her head in approval, while I pretended I hadn’t heard a word.
With tea done and dusted, my aunts quickly embarked on the nightly clean-up operation, which saw me employed as chief dryer-up, and Uncle Jim, who had made a full recovery from his coughing fit, tasked with cleaning the dirty dishes, cutlery and pans. It was a well-practised procedure, with everyone knowing their roles. As we worked our way through the pile of soiled earthenware, the conversation turned, for some reason, to the war years. Mr Payne was not mentioned, nor were the Podbiereskis. Instead, the talk was all about what women like Jessie and Kathleen had experienced.
“Do you remember when a Messerschmitt fighter plane flew up the Avenue firing its guns at anything that moved?” recalled Auntie Kathleen. “Hull had just been bombed by the Luftwaffe, and we could hear bombs exploding and see buildings being razed to the ground. And then this plane appeared out of nowhere and started spraying its bullets everywhere.”
“Aye, it was an awful time,” reflected Auntie Jessie, remembering the horrors of May 1941 (many years later, I would learn Hull was one of the most bombed cities in Britain, with ninety-five per cent of homes suffering bomb damage). “It’s a good job I could get to the airbase quickly and get my own plane airborne. A few of us were able to shoot down a few German bombers and eventually forced their planes to stop attacking the city.”
I looked directly at Auntie Jessie, shaking my head and not quite believing what I had just heard. It took a few seconds for me to comprehend the words that had come out of her mouth.
“W-h-h-a-a-a-t?” I stammered, struggling to contain my composure. “Did you fight in the war, Auntie Jessie?... Were you a fighter pilot?... Did you kill Germans?... I-I-I didn’t know ladies were allowed to do those sort of things...” With Auntie Kathleen smiling warmly and taking over the pot drying duties, Auntie Jessie guided me into the sitting room and sat me down on the settee. Her face was a picture of innocence. What she was to tell me, I would believe for several years.
“It’s been a secret for a long time,” she said in a hushed voice. “But as we’re family, I can tell you, now the war has been over for a long time. The truth is, I was a pilot in a secret squadron. All of us were women. We had to be of a certain age, and of a certain height – less than five feet four inches tall. And we also had to promise to keep fighting the Germans in the air, or on the ground, because in the early years of the war there was a real possibility Britain was going to be invaded. The nazis controlled the air and the sea after they’d blitzed their way through almost all of northern Europe. Everyone thought we didn’t stand a chance. Women like me were chosen because there weren’t nearly enough men to do all of the jobs that needed to be done. So, I was trained in secret and then given my own Spitfire, which I flew almost every day and night between March and July.”
I was mesmerised. Auntie Jessie – my flesh and blood – was a war heroine. She had fought the Germans and nobody had known about it for more than thirty years. I was one of the first to be told. I was not sure even my Mum knew about it (she had told me Auntie Jessie had worked in a munitions factory). My dear aunt was so humble and convincing, I found myself hanging on her every word, wanting to believe everything she told me.
“I must have shot down at least forty German planes,” she continued. “And I was never shot down. Neither did the planes of the other pilots I flew with. We were like an invisible squadron that caught the Germans completely by surprise. It was frightening, it was exhilarating, and in its own little way it played a very small part in Britain winning the war.”
With every word, my heart was beating faster and swelling with pride. As a sapper in the Eighth Army, my grandad had been wounded on two separate occasions. Mum had told me one of these required him to have open heart surgery in the field without any anaesthetic to dilute the pain. Many wounded soldiers experienced something similar. For several years, I hadn’t seen him, for he moved away from the Avenue after my grandma died. That was in 1972. But even though he was absent, to me, my grandad would always be one of my heroes. So, too, was Uncle Jim. Like Mr Payne, he had witnessed some terrible things while fighting the Japanese, as the war in Burma was fierce and uncompromising. He, too, was a man I put on a pedestal. Yet discovering my Auntie Jessie had also thwarted the Germans was as good as it got; from that day, she assumed goddess status. For another thirty minutes, she continued to tell me stories of derring-do; seemingly lost causes, and of brutal dog fights that somehow came good for Auntie Jessie and the RAF pilots she flew alongside. By the time she had finished letting me into her secret world, I was utterly exhausted.
“You can’t say anything to anyone about these things,” she cautioned after a fresh cup of tea had been placed by her side by Auntie Kathleen, who continued to have a ‘knowing look’ in her eyes. “This has to be our big secret for the time being, Tony. We don’t talk about certain things for a very good reason. One day, I will be able to tell you it’s okay to say something. But not right now. Until then, you must not tell anyone, not even your Mum. Do you promise me you’ll do this?”
Since I started school, I had struggled to concentrate. Only Hull City, my growing interest in rugby (union and league), and a fascination with the military stimulated me enough to retain my attention, and at that precise moment I was concentrating like never before, trying to imagine what Auntie Jessie would have looked like in her pilot’s uniform, and what kinds of emotion would be etched on her face when she was firing her machine gun and the bullets ripped through the fuselage of an enemy plane. Despite my urge to tell the world about my aunt’s exploits, I could only do one thing, so I nodded my head. I would not betray her.
“Enough of all this talk of the war,” said Auntie Kathleen, clapping her hands and signalling the time for conversation was over. She had been sitting on her comfy throne for the last few minutes, quietly listening to everything her sister had revealed. Being young and naive, I thought nothing of it, only that she must have been sworn to secrecy sometime earlier and was, therefore, able to eavesdrop on top secret conversations like this one. “Let’s get the table out and prepare for a game, or two, of cards. Maybe tonight, your aunt’s luck will run out and someone else will be able to claim the bragging rights.”
Almost two hours later, any thoughts the rest of us had of upstaging Auntie Jessie had been well and truly shattered. Time and again, she defeated the best efforts Uncle Jim, Auntie Kathleen and myself could muster, clucking aloud as she played her winning hands. Thankfully, she had to leave number thirteen in time to catch the nine o’clock bus, so she would be home well before dark. In the scheme of things, our suffering was relatively short, albeit you wouldn’t have known it. As she glanced at her watch, and realised the time to leave was drawing near, Auntie Jessie did what she always did – pulled at the sleeves of her dress before making sure every strand of her dark, cropped hair was all in place. She then puffed out her cheeks and used all her might to push herself out of the chair from where she had crushed all our hopes once again. “Can I walk down the Lane with you?” I asked as she said her goodbyes to Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim, and folded her apron into a neat square, placing it carefully in Geronimo. “You can tell me more about what it was like being a fighter pilot…”
Oops. A sharp look out of the corner of her eye told me I had said too much.
“What did I tell you, Tony, about certain things that can’t be talked about in the open?” said Auntie Jessie, aiming her comment directly not at me, but at Uncle Jim, whose incredulous expression I mistook for surprise. “Some of the people in this room are unaware of what I did all those years ago. Please remember what I told you? I am relying on you to keep my secret. Now, I am happy for you to keep me company to the bus stop but I’m afraid we’ll have to talk about something else – and that’s only if your aunt and uncle say it’s alright for you to come along.”
“It’s fine. He can keep you company,” confirmed Auntie Kathleen, doing her best to keep a straight face. “But no detours on the way back; straight back here, and no loitering anywhere after your aunt has boarded her bus. I want you in this house as quick as possible, with no excuses. You’ve got to keep Uncle Jim and Sweep company on their evening walk, and they’ll both be waiting for you.”
I threw Auntie Kathleen a smile. Then, taking Geronimo in both hands, I guided the heavy trolley out of the front door and onto the Avenue. Auntie Jessie followed in my footsteps, less than a yard behind. As we walked clear of number thirteen, she turned to me and said: “Now then, how do you fancy hearing about the night I shot down two Heinkel bombers…”