Aunt Linda’s Little Secrets

Hey love, let me tell you about Aunt Lily, the little fairy we all called her when we were kids down the lane in Bramley.

She wasnt tall barely taller than a tenyearold roundcheeked and always trailed her fluffy white poodle, Button, on a dainty leash. Shed pull out a bright bag of sweets and hand them to us, and I swear if there were more people like her the world would be bathed in sunshine because she was sunshine herself.

We spent endless afternoons in the sandpit, playing cops and robbers, racing makeshift boats in puddles, and pretending to be swashbuckling pirates, just like that old folk song goes, We were bold buccaneers, the sealoving rovers. When I think back, the whole courtyard glows with sunlight dollhouses, building blocks, little cars. We were all for one and one for all. Back then you never saw headlines about kids hurting kittens or dogs being set alight. Kindness hung in the air. Sure, there were a few sour faces, but everyone kids and grownups alike was taught to look after each other, and it made it hard for anyone to get away with nasty deeds.

Aunt Lily lived in that twostorey Victorian house at the end of the lane. She was a touch above childsize, her hair always in big, bouncy curls, and she loved bright dresses covered in flowers and colourful beads. Every afternoon shed stroll out with Button, and wed drop our toy cars, paper planes and dolls at her feet, racing over to her. She was like the houses guardian spirit. Young parents would leave their tots with her while they went to work, and shed fetch us from the nursery, swapping stories as we went. She knitted like a pro, and we all sported the mismatched caps, scarves and socks she made back then wed call them Lilys signature gear.

She wasnt actually anyones aunt by blood her relatives were up in Belarus, sending her boxes of chocolates that seemed endless. Back then there were shortages, so those treats felt like treasure. Aunt Lily would hand them out, sitting beside us as we shyly held out our hands for those glossy wrappers and that exquisite taste. Nowadays you wouldnt let strangers give kids sweets who knows what could happen but Aunt Lily was family.

Mrs. Clarke, the thinlipped lady from the next block, would scold her: Why do you give them away? Their parents can buy something. Youre barely getting by, your husbands ill and needs his meds. Hide those sweets! Theyll never thank you; theyll grow up and forget. We overheard her with my best mate, Poppy, and the words stuck.

Aunt Lily shot back: Darling, these are kids. In these hard times, where will their mums and dads get candy? My kin keep sending them, and I want the little ones to remember the taste of something good. Sharing is the point look at their eyes light up! It smells of happiness, sea breezes, fresh milk and watermelons. God, theyre adorable! Its a shame we never got our own children or grandkids, but these are my family now. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief as she spoke.

Mrs. Clarke huffed, Youre foolish, giving sweets to strangers. I wont give them a thing! and shuffled off.

Aunt Lily called out, Come here, Emma! Lucy! What are you hiding behind? Come, Ive got an apple! She dangled a shiny red one for us.

When Poppy asked, Aunt Lily, what did she mean by foolish and darling? the neighbours face flickered, then she smiled and said, You heard that, little ones. Pretend you didnt. And remember: if anyone says something hurtful, dont take it to heart. Brush it off, wave your hand, and let it drift away. People are a mixed bunch, but the good outnumber the bad. I love you all, really. She gave us a big squeeze.

One day she didnt show up for two days. The first day we asked the mums, Wheres Aunt Lily? they shrugged, Maybe shes resting or a bit under the weather, dont worry about her. By the second day we gathered four girls and four boys and marched over. We brought gifts: Kelsey drew a sun and sky, Sam packed his favourite marker, Ivy and Tom moulded a playdough doughnut, Poppy carried a potted flower, twins Hannah and Luke baked jam, and I made pancakes Mums are a marvel, theyd fluff up in the pan and flip in the air like magic.

Mum tugged my braids, Take those to Aunt Lily; shell love a treat. So we trudged up the narrow stairwell, knocked, and after a moment Aunt Lily opened the door, wrapped in a cosy cardigan, her hair in a loose bun, looking pale but brightening as she saw us.

Hey there, my dears! Look whos come to visit Aunt Lily! she cooed, pulling us inside. The flat was modest two beds, bright curtains, a wobbling table, a battered TV, and knickknacks everywhere. A greyeyed, silverhaired man shuffled up from the bed, smiling shyly that was her husband, Victor, who was ill and mostly stayed at home.

Aunt Lily fluttered, Victors my husband, love. Hes not well, so Im a bit under the weather too, but Ill spoil you with sweets! We shouted, We can help! Run an errand, sweep the floor, take out the rubbish anything! Kesh, the most cheeky of us, puffed out his chest and offered.

She ushered us to sit on her little bed, and the rest of us laid our gifts down Ivys playdough doughnut, the jam, the pancakes, even the apple. We sang, recited poems, and munched the candy. Slowly the pallor left Aunt Lilys cheeks and Victors eyes twinkled a bit. She even tried a clumsy round dance with us.

Before we left she whispered, Ask Mum for the pancake recipe theyre unbelievably good, Ive never tasted anything like them. She handed me a scribbled note, later joking that my attempts never turned out quite right.

Mum started inviting Aunt Lily over more often. Shed wash her hands, marvel at the fluffy slippers, close her eyes and grin as she slipped them on, then plop onto the kitchen sofa. Her legs never quite reached the floor, and shed wave them about while gobbling pancakes with condensed milk, licking her fingers and then shyly asking for a towel.

She talked about Victors long illness, how hed soon be unable to walk, but she found joy in caring for him and us. She also fed the stray dogs she found on the streets, bringing a bowl of porridge or pasta with meat bits each morning and evening, because back then there were no shelters. The mutts on the lane would wag their tails when she arrived.

Goldhearted woman, giving everything away, Mum would say, shaking her head at Dad.

Goldhearted? Like the golden ornaments on a Christmas tree? Aunt Lilys skin is fair! Id tease, and Mum would hug me and explain that a golden person just means a truly good soul.

One afternoon, as Aunt Lily trudged home with her dogfood bucket, two nosy women blocked her path.

You, dear, stop feeding those mangy dogs and enough of the kids! Theyre noisy, they scream, youre feeding them sweets? Youre poor, playing at being rich! Well ruin your life! they shouted in chorus.

Aunt Lily, clutching her bucket, whispered, A living soul, in grief, deserves kindness. Their mothers have nothing, the children need to play and laugh. Silence is terrifying. One of the women yelled, Your disabled husband wont make it tomorrow! We wont give you a penny! Another hissed, Dont touch my Vova!

Suddenly Aunt Lilys voice rose, trembling, Dont touch my Vova! and I felt a knot in my gut. I stepped forward, shielding her, and shouted, Dont speak to Aunt Lily like that or Ill make you sorry! A few of the women tried to grab me, but Kesh and the others rushed in, and the commotion broke. We formed a circle around Aunt Lily and sang, Never hurt her, never say bad words, or youll have us on your tail! Aunt Lily is ours! The women shrieked and fled.

We werent troublemakers; we were simply all for one and one for all. And we felt that hurting Aunt Lily was like hurting ourselves.

These days, people still hurt kind souls the ones who feed birds, give spare change to the homeless, share the last biscuit even when they cant afford another loaf. Theyre called odd or soft, but in a world that now values brashness and rudeness, genuine kindness is rare and often punished.

A year later Aunt Lilys husband passed away and her relatives took her away to their home. We all wept in the courtyard. Before she left, she handed out wafers, cried, kissed us, and gave us a big box of wrappers. She asked us to make secret little treasures wed bury a candy wrapper, a flower, a shard of bottle glass in the garden and later dig it up with our hands; it felt magical.

She also gave us a group photo to keep safe, promising to return in a year to check on us. She waddled off with a suitcase that seemed bigger than her, Button trotting behind.

She never came back. We guarded those secret spots, but eventually there was no one left to show them to. No more sweets, no more little darlings. We grew up, went to university, got jobs Inky became a bank manager, Olivia a translator, the rest scattered. The old house was knocked down, a sleek new block rose in its place. One day, Kesh, now in a pricey suit, knelt in the garden of the new development and dug, shouting, Where are the secrets? Aunt Lilys secrets! Poppy laughed, What are you looking for? He sighed, Shes the only one who ever gave us that perfect candy. I still have the photo. Olivia whispered, She was good, truly. I added, She always said we should keep a childs wonder alive, otherwise the elves get cross and life gets dull.

So, even though the women who once scolded her were wrong, we remember her. If ever you feel down and the world seems grim, I hear her voice: Dont worry, sweetheart. Have a sweet. Everything will be alright.