We called her the fairy among ourselves. She was short and round, always strolling with a white poodle on a leash, pulling treats from a glittering bag. If there were more people like her, the world would glow with sunlight, because she was sunlight itself.
Our games were the usual playground wondersbuilding sand castles, pretending to be Cossack rogues, launching paper boats in puddles. As Bulanov sang, We were reckless pirates, bold wanderers of the seas. When I look back, the courtyard is forever bathed in golden light: dolls, building blocks, tiny cars. We lived by the creed one for all, all for one. Back then the papers never screamed headlines like Teenagers gouge a kittens eye or Dog burned alive. Kindness floated in the air. Perhaps a bad soul existed, but everyonechildren and adultsraised it, shamed it into modesty.
And then there was Aunt Lily.
She was barely taller than a child, with a tumble of lavishly curled hair and dresses always blooming with flowers. She adored multicoloured beads, and she would appear in the yard with her curlywhite dog, Button. We would fling our cars, paper planes, and plush toys, rushing toward her. Aunt Lily seemed the benevolent spirit of our twostorey terraced house. Young parents left their toddlers with her while they hurried to work; she fetched us from the nursery, weaving tales as she went. She knitted marvelously. We all paraded in colourful caps, scarves and socks that Aunt Lily suppliedwhat today we would call her brand.
She wasnt a blood relative, yet we called her aunt. Her kin lived in a distant Welsh valley and sent her crates of sweets, the sort of abundance we could only dream of in those lean years. Buy what you like, they would write, but back then even a pennycandy was a treasure.
Do you know what Aunt Lily did? She gave everything away. She would sit beside us, and we, shy as moths, would extend our hands for the strange, rainbowwrapped wrappers, the taste of exquisite, delicate sweets. Nowadays strangers dont hand children treatspeople fear theyll be hurt. But Aunt Lily was no stranger; she was one of us.
Why do you give them away? a thinlipped neighbour from the next block asked. Their parents need them; you barely scrape by, your husband is ill and needs medicine. Hide the sweets for yourself! Theyll grow up, forget you, become troublemakers. She huffed, a drymouth whisper.
We overheard the exchange with our friend Poppy. The words lingered, though we understood little. Aunt Lily answered:
Dear, youre talking nonsense. These are children, tiny souls. Theres a shortagehow will their mums and dads get sweets? My relatives keep sending them; they remember the taste of good candy. Why hoard it? Share! See their eyes sparkle, feel their hugs, the scent of happiness, sea, milk, watermelons. God, theyre so dear! It hurts that we have no children or grandchildren of our own. At least here, youre all my kin, she said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
You fool! Theyre good enough, they squeak, they shriek. Ill never give them anything! Theyre not mine, the neighbour snapped, shaking her head as she walked away.
We emerged from the bushes where wed been hiding.
Poppy! Daisy! Come here, what are you doing? Come, little dears, I have an apple! Aunt Lily held out a glossy red fruit.
Aunt Lily, what are fool and idiot? Poppy blurted.
For a heartbeat a shadow crossed the neighbours face, then she smiled.
You heard little girls. Pretend you didnt. And remember: if someone says something hurtful, dont take it to heart. Brush it off, let it drift away. People are different, but the good outnumber the bad. I love you all, Aunt Lily cooed, pressing us close.
One morning she didnt appear in the yard for two days. The first day we asked the mothers, Wheres Aunt Lily? She might be resting or ill. Dont worry, they replied. On the second day we gatheredfour girls and four boysand set off as a little delegation to her flat. We knew the crooked walkup on Willow Street.
We didnt go emptyhanded. Kesh (the boy with the sketchy imagination) had drawn a sun and sky, Tom brought his favourite felt tip, Yvonne and Dick fashioned a little dough ball, Poppy carried a potted flower, twins Mary and Paul presented a jar of jam, and I brought pancakes. My mother had baked them so light they seemed to melt on the tongue, flipping them in the pan with a graceful flick that sent them soaring back down.
Take them to Aunt Lily, Mother tugged my braid. She feeds you, now feed her.
We knocked on the halfopen door. Aunt Lily opened after a moment, swathed in a faded nightgown, her hair in a loose bun, pale but brightening as she saw us.
Oh, my darlings! Where have you come from? All my dear ones are here! VolodyViolet! Look, my beloved little ones have visited Aunt Lily! She kissed each of us and ushered us inside.
The flat was modest: two beds, colourful curtains, a wobbling table, a battered TV, and everywhere knitted blankets. From the bed rose a greyeyed, silverhaired man who smiled timidly, trying to keep his balance.
My husband, VolodyViolet, is ill. He cant get out. Ive caught a cold myself. Come in, children, Ill treat you to sweets! Aunt Lily bustled.
We can help! Well run to the shop, fetch the rubbish, sweep the flooranything! declared Kesh, lifting his chin.
Sit, sit, on my little bed, Aunt Lily urged.
Yvonne, ever concise, set the dough ball on the table. The others followed suit, laying out jam, apples, and the pancakes. We recited poetry, sang songs, and ate the candy. Slowly the pallor lifted from Aunt Lilys face and her husbands cheeks. They laughed, and Aunt Lily even tried leading us in a clumsy round dance.
Later, as I left, she whispered in my ear, Ask Mum for the pancake recipe. Theyre dreadful goodI’ve never tasted such before. I cant cook, everything burns.
She later showed me a slip of paper with the recipe. Never works perfectly, she joked.
My mother began inviting Aunt Lily over. Shed wash her hands, admire the soft slippers, blink as she slipped them on, then settle on the kitchen sofa. Her legs never quite touched the floor; shed wiggle them while munching pancakes with condensed milk, licking the sweet from her fingers, then blushing and asking for a towel.
She told us her husband had long been unable to walk, but caring for him gave her joy, as did our visits.
Aunt Lily also loved every animal. Each morning and evening shed carry a tin bucket, feeding stray dogs with oatmeal or pasta and meat scraps. Shelters were rare then, and the streetside pups wagged their tails when she offered food.
My golden lady, giving herself to everyone, my mother would say to my father.
Goldenlike the baubles on a Christmas tree? Aunt Lilys skin is fair! Id exclaim.
Mother pressed me close, explaining that a golden person meant someone truly good.
I remember Aunt Lily walking home with her bucket, the path blocked by two ragged women.
You, dear, stop feeding your filthy dogs. Stop calling children to you. Were fed up! They scream, they run, you feed them sweets? Youre a pauper playing rich! Well ruin your life! they shouted in unison.
The man is alive, his family mourns. He needs help. The children are small; let them play and laugh. Silence is frightening, Aunt Lily whispered, clutching her bucket.
She was tiny, almost waisthigh to the women.
One day your crippled husband will be better! Dont think well give you a penny! another woman roared.
I cant recall their names, only that Aunt Lilys voice rose, trembling, Dont touch my VolodyViolet!
Something in me snapped; I felt an ominous shift.
Dont speak to Aunt Lily that way! Ill show you! one of the women lunged, shielding Aunt Lily.
A nasty little girl! Well give you a good slap! another grabbed my wrist, dragging me away.
Aunt Lily tried to intervene, but then a whistle blew. Kesh and the others rushed in, hands unclenched, freeing me. We formed a circle around Aunt Lily and shouted in unison, Never hurt her, never speak ill! Well stand with you, Aunt Lily! The women hissed, Youre just hooligans! and fled.
Aunt Lily embraced us tighter.
We werent troublemakers; we were one for all, all for one. Our child hearts felt the wound wed caused Aunt Lily.
Now the world still hurts kind soulsthose who feed birds, hand out blankets to the homeless, give the last loaf when they have nothing left. Theyre called crazy, but they are the gentle ones. Today power, brashness, and rudeness are prized; the meek are scorned. People trample over others tears, delight in mischief, and forget the balance of harmony that keeps the planet from sighing.
Aunt Lily left the town a year later; her husband passed, and her Welsh relatives took her in. We wept in the courtyard.
Before she went, she handed us wafers, kissed each of us, and gave a large box of candy wrappers. She asked us to make secret seedswed take a wrapper, a flower bud, a shard of bottle, bury them, then dig them up later; it felt magical.
She also gave a group photograph, promising wed keep it safe in rotation.
Ill return in a yearjust to see you, she waved, loading a suitcase that seemed larger than herself, her poodle trailing behind.
She never came back. We guarded the secret seeds, but there was no one left to show them to. No more strangers handed us sweets or called us little ones. We grew, learned, laughed, and sometimes a pause would rise, tears welling when we remembered Aunt Lily.
We agreed to meet again a year later in the old yard. By then, the man who once ran the local bank, Ingram, wore a sharp suit, and Oliva worked as an interpreter abroad. The rest had scattered, and the house was replaced by a new block of flats.
There, in a pricey coat, Kesh knelt on the pavement, turning over earth.
What are you looking for? Oliva asked with a smile.
The secrets Aunt Lilys secrets. Its been ages, and my chest aches. Where is she? Is she alive? Ive tried to look up records, no luck. In meetings I see her, hands smoothing my head, slipping me a candy. My wife brings sweets from overseas, but I never eat them. I just want that one childhood sweet, the best one, Kesh sighed, pulling out the faded photo.
Its the same, Oliva murmured. She was kind, or perhaps something else.
We all remember her saying that even when we grow up we must keep a childs wonder, otherwise the elves get angry and life becomes dull, I added.
The women who once shouted at her were wrong. Weve grown, yet we still carry her memory. Whenever the world feels heavy and our souls are scratched, I hear her voice: Dont be sad, love. Have a sweet. Everything will be alright.
