Another One About Aunty Moya

Christmas and all, so Mum is taking out our housekeeper for her Christmas lunch. Aunty Moya is a huge age now (slightly unknown, sketchy at best), who came into our lives when I was born. One of a cohort of women who supported our mother in the 70s and 80s with two girls under 3 when our father was hurdling around the world on the Belfast like some stone cold hero. Aunty Moya was always there. The best way I can describe her is Mrs Tiggie Winkle from Brambly Hedge, but full size. Moya was fiercely protective of us as little girls and before the days of texts and whatsapps, would stay until Mum came home, whatever the time. Mum was building a business at the time. On her own. A very tough gig for a woman in Lincolnshire at that date. Whenever Mum came home, Moya would sail off on her ancient black iron bike, Bess. Always in a skirt and pinny.

About 25 years ago, Mum said, when Moya comes, I drive her home now (through the woods, to her 17C cottage). Aunty Moya took on a little almshouse after her husband Basil died, where she has been very happy. Still independent, with a bit of help, she loves the social club and a bit of bingo. Let alone if she makes it to my fiftieth birthday, which she’s probably more likely to do than me, Aunty Moya is part of an old world. It’s time for her to have all her favour returned. Ultimately, one day, the relationship is reversed for all of us.

I know Moya and our mother will have a super day today. And a very good pub lunch.