Auntie Enid's 90th featuring Morris

On a phone call home, my mother mentions that the family is planning to meet up to celebrate Auntie Enid’s 90th birthday.  

How nice, I muse.

My mother likes to go into detail; she explains that they'll be flying into Leeds Bradford with Julia and Andrés, and Nicola will drive up from London. They'll be gathering at a lovely location near Skipton in Yorkshire. Robert Hadaway has recommended it.

She continues, You remember my cousin Robert, don't you?

I'm not sure, I say.

Am I the only one not going to Auntie Enid's, I wonder.

I'm used to missing out on reunions. When the boys were young, there was no option to hop on a plane; it was too far. Now it's a bit different. I've got the time.

On the next phone call to Robert, my mother fills him in on me. I don’t think you’ve ever met Sally, she’s the wacky one, she says.

Thanks Mummy. A deep-founded insecurity rears its ugly head again: I'm wacky. Not creative, or funny, just wacky. Doesn't wacky mean weird? I've always felt a bit strange; well, now it's confirmed.

I'm wacky and I'm missing out.

The indignance catches me by surprise, but I’m good at covering up disappointments, so I carry on with 'Oh, lovely, how nice,' but I'm sounding flat; my enthusiasm has waned.

Now, Sally, hold it together, you're 55, surely you should be mature enough by now.

But I don't let it go. Am I wacky? I ask Greg later, Would you call me that?

I’m stuck on wacky, but really, it’s about Auntie Enid. She's a beloved member of our family, and what I’d love more than anything is to be together with the family to celebrate her milestone birthday.

A little bit about Auntie Enid.

Auntie Enid, in her casual wear

She is my mother's eldest sister; she is poised and perfectly turned out, rather like The Queen. She dresses in colour and always carries a smart handbag.

She wears pearls, too.

My mother says she was born prematurely in a little house in Childwall, Liverpool, and slept in the warmth of an airing cupboard for the first few months of her life. I think this was the making of her fighting spirit because we have always known Auntie Enid to tackle life with positivity and courage.

From an early age, she showed great creativity and artistic talent. She painted pictures of woodland animals, plants, and trees. My mother spoke of her love and flair for language, the poems she compiled, the stories she made up and recounted to her sisters at night. Pat Walkalong and the Golden Balls was one such story, based on a man who came around the neighbourhood selling bread in his horse and cart. Auntie Enid made up a character called Pat (Walkalong) who surreptitiously filled her clutch bag with golden balls, in the hope of transforming her garden into a blooming magnificence of flowers.

Uncle John, Auntie Doreen, Auntie Enid, Mummy (Vera)

I have always thought of Auntie Enid as an astute observer of people, quietly and sensitively watching the family grow and change. Underneath her light-hearted spirit, she is acutely aware of everything that goes on around her. She is a lady of strong faith, has a clear picture of what's right and wrong, and a love for all things bright and beautiful.

Over the years, she has sent us birthday cards and Christmas cards. Her handwriting is instantly recognisable. It's bold and elegant, with curves and flourishes, expressive and romantic, a true reflection of the person she is. Even at the grand old age of 90, she makes her own cards and handwrites a personal message in every one.

She is a great storyteller. Leaning in close, her eyes will twinkle, the side of her mouth will turn up, and she'll give a little chuckle. There's a warmth and a sparkle that oozes from her. We wait on her every word. Not only because she is the keeper of the Culshaw family history, but she'll also impart some wisdom, often a light-hearted humour, and a sense of otherworldly magic.

Auntie Enid has many qualities, but one that stands out for me is how she can walk into any situation and hold her own. She is invariably asked to speak at an event. For years, she looked after the local church's gardens single-handedly, winning them a gold medal in the Yorkshire in Bloom contest and being named one of the 10 best church gardens in the country.

So not just a pretty face, as they say. Her personal life is colourful too; she married Uncle Roger not once but twice, and together they had a son, Huw. He is our eldest cousin, flame-haired like his mother, quiet and reserved. We find him mysterious and aloof, and constantly seek him out at our family gatherings.

A couple of years ago, we hear that Auntie Enid has planned her own funeral. This comes as no surprise: Auntie Enid has orchestrated and choreographed her grand finale, an artist to the very end.

But I digress, back to Auntie Enid’s 90th birthday celebrations. Greg agrees I must go; he never gives me a proper answer on whether I’m wacky or not, but either way, I’ll forgive him. He’s booked my flights and I’m on my way.

I'd just like to mention that this time I have my wits about me. No lime shakes are consumed at any point during my time at the airport. I cannot risk missing this very important occasion.

So I'm the first to arrive at the gate, and at any given opportunity, I make eye contact with the Virgin staff and smile. They don't know my backstory. I've done well to get this far. It's all going very smoothly, but I don't want to jinx it. I’ll only breathe a sigh of relief when I take my seat on the plane.

And so half an hour later, we are boarding and I am wheeling my case down the aisle, looking up to check my allocated seat number. Why do they make you board in business class? Welcome to a taste of what you could have, but can't? This does not crush my spirit, though. I'm only too happy to walk down to economy group 4 and sit with the ordinary folk. I'm flying Virgin, that's good enough.

Plus this time I've not missed my flight.

Small (big) wins.

I stop, I’ve found my seat. A lady looks up smiles at me and bursts out enthusiastically Ahh this is nice honey in a strong American accent to the elderly gentleman next to her. It seems she likes the look of me.

She jumps up to allow me in; mine is the window seat. I try to squeeze through without disturbing the elderly man who remains seated. I settle down, put my seatbelt on, and take a deep breath. I’ve made it. Unless the plane falls out of the sky, I’m on my way to London.

I turn to smile at my two fellow passengers. A better look this time. They turn to me and smile readily.

The lady introduces herself.

Hi, I’m Betsy she says.

I’m Sally, I reply.

I turn to the man next to me.

Morris, he says.

Oh my gosh my dog’s name is Morris, I blurt out, and he gives me a sidelong smile.

This is big, Morris. You have no idea how much I love my dog. 

Morris, the dog

Morris has Parkinson's' Betsy says as if to explain the shakiness. Betsy fills me in on their lives. Morris was an antique dealer, London-born, he is a fine 93 years of age, and they have been traveling to South Africa for the last 17 years. She is younger than him by 15 years, she says, they live in Santa Fe.

Morris speaks quietly, adding a little comment here and there, he allows Betsy to do most of the talking. Betsy tells me she refurbishes houses and gardens in Santa Fe, she loves her job, she used to work for Morris many years ago. She loves to dance, she says, as we stand in the queue for the toilet, and with her hand, she motions up and down, I see you’re in good shape too.

Thanks, Betsy.

Morris needs help opening packets and getting in and out of his seat. I’m only happy to help him; he’s a dear man with a twinkle in his eye. Despite his physical challenges, he is still sharp of mind, and he tells me of his time as a 7-year-old boy living in Holborn in World War 2 when they were bombed continuously night after night. Hiding in the bunker with his siblings. I am acutely aware of how vivid and emotional these memories are for him.

Our plane journey is a day flight, so we have plenty of time to talk, watch movies, wander down the plane, and stretch our legs. Morris checks up on me, leans his shoulder into me, and gives me a knowing smile.

You’re truly living up to your name, Morris.

The deal is sealed when he leaves his seat and, with purpose, takes himself off to the back of the plane. A while later, he returns, and as we settle him into his chair, out of his top pocket, he pulls three bars of Cadbury’s chocolate. He's snuck them from the galley at the back. He hands one to me, one to Betsy, and takes one for himself.

It’s the little things in life, folks.

Nicola picks me up from Heathrow, and I stay with her for a couple of nights. We drive up to Skipton on the Friday. Nicola says it’ll take us 8 hours, but it ends up taking half the time. The motorways are clear, and for once, no roadworks are delaying us. I feel a sense of nostalgia as we head up to Yorkshire, memories of us as children in the back seat of the car as we visited family in England during our summer holidays.

The signs read The North. I wonder where the South finishes and the North begins, I think to myself. I immediately revert to my role as younger sister. Everybody’s got this apart from me. Nicola is driving, and she could be heading East, West, who cares, I’m as free as a bird in the passenger seat watching the world go by.

Greg, Morris, who?

Nicola, in the meantime, has the world on her shoulders; she plays her role of textbook older sister to perfection. She feels responsible for everything and everyone; she always has. Holding on to the steering wheel as if her life depends on it, we stick religiously to the speed limit. Nicola likes to abide by the rules; I like to break them.

Nicola, I’m getting my ears pierced.

Nicola, I can't air stewardess anymore, I’ve developed a fear of flying.

Nicola, I’ve fallen in love with my hairdresser.

And the worst

Nicola, I’ve failed my exams. Please tell Daddy.

Nicola bails me out.

Her reaction is the same in every scenario, unfailingly shocked and exasperated.

What will Mummy and Daddy say?

At this time in my life, I have an answer for everything, I am out to shock, and quick as a flash, I retort

So it’s my life, I can do what I want.

We used to live together Nicola and I, I was so unplayable, I burnt an iron mark in her carpet and nearly set the flat on fire. It appears my rebellious teenage years were delayed and saved for Nicola.

These days we have forgiven but not forgotten. I have done a 180-degree about-turn. I am full of good advice, I’ve got all the answers it seems. The waywardness has gone; I am a highly strung mother instead. Full of wisdom and good counsel, who would have thought?

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