The house was in turmoil, the air filled with an overpowering odour of furniture polish and the deafening roar of vacuums. Vases of fresh cut flowers bloomed miraculously in bay windows while a general air of nervous anticipation pervaded every room. Great Aunt Lucritia had cabled to inform us she was descending for the weekend. I suppose there must have been a time when the Gal, as she was irreverently known behind her back, must have waited to be asked like anyone else. But for the twenty odd years I had known her she had ignored such mundane conventions, preferring to cable directives to her unsuspecting hosts instead. Not that she over stayed. Welcome or not she invariable arrived shortly before lunch on Saturday and departed shortly after the same repast the following day. Even so, each visit proved a tour de force guaranteed to test the stamina of the most seasoned Swiss hotelier.
In the early days she arrived by train. My wife and I would drive to the station to collect her, allowing sufficient time to make the obligatory financial adjustments with the two local porters without condemning ourselves to a longer wait than necessary. Expresses would come and go until, just as we were about to give up hope and return to the car, one of the wheezing little branch trains of which she was so fond would finally creep along the platform and sigh to a grinding halt. The wretched machine was never on time, but then after stopping at every station and giving way to all the more important trains along the line, the delay was scarcely surprising. The Gal would take her time, gathering a multitudinous collection of hand baggage, before finally descending from one of the few first class compartments to greet us with an affectionate if regal graciousness. All this took some while, but there was little cause for concern the train might leave before she was ready, for it took the two struggling porters a great deal longer to unload her heavy oak chest from the guards van.
Just why The Gal was unable to travel with suitcases like everyone else I never dared enquire. I had once been foolish enough to ask why she was so insistent on avoiding express trains, pointing out how much faster and more comfortable they were in comparison to the local feeders she patronised. For what has always seemed one of the longest moments of my life she eyed me pityingly through her pinz nez, then annunciating each word slowly and clearly as though addressing a retarded child she replied. ‘The reason I prefer the slow trains, my dear, is they are so much easier to catch.’ And with a sad shake of the head she had patted me gently on the cheek before turning her attention to more important matters. I have no doubt her reasons for travelling with an oak chest would have been equally valid.
Separate first class compartments have long since disappeared, as have the feeder trains, and now on the rare occasions The Gal decides to grace us with her presence she arrives by car. Though perhaps not a vehicle most might choose, for Great Aunt Lucretia the car could have been custom built in heaven. A Daimler of ancient vintage, made in the days when it was mandatory for the roof above the back seat to be high enough to accommodate a tall man wearing a top hat, it was a car born of an era when the bodies of all great motors ended in the glorious S shaped sweep of a well-endowed opera singer. Guided by the shaky hand of Jessop, who until the need for a chauffeur arose had served The Gal for many years in the capacity of gardener driving nothing more sophisticated than a lawnmower. But somehow he had managed to master this majestic machine that purred with an almost feline grace through the city streets, though whether he was officially entitled to drive it I purposely never enquired. Perhaps due to a lack of familiarity with four wheels, or perhaps because all three had reached an age when speed had long lost its allure, Jessop seldom demanded more than thirty five miles per hour from his steed, a pace suitably symbolic of graceful retirement.
But with the passage of time disaster finally struck. The old car developed a tendency to leak in wet weather, a trend that swiftly turned to a disastrous cascade. Repair was a task the experts deemed impossible; the options they opined were simple but stark. A new roof or a new car. The Gal dismissed both possibilities as irrelevant. Irritated though otherwise unmoved by the proposed inconvenience she swiftly brought her own particular brand of pragmatism to bear on the problem solving it at a stroke. Taking advantage of the unusual height above the back seat she took to opening her parasol on rainy days.
Great Aunt Lucretia was the last surviving member of her generation. Sister to my wife's grandmother she had never married, though family gossip suggests that even in those less permissive times she was seldom lonely in her younger days and even then had been recognised as the oddest member of a decidedly eccentric brood. My wife for example is considered mad as a hatter by many but seems almost boringly orthodox when compared to her Great Aunt.
One of the more wearisome idiosyncrasies of this family doyen was her unshakable addiction to Broughton's Black Rock Mineral Water. Not that I begrudge a taste for healthful refreshment, we drink liberal quantities of mineral water ourselves, it was the particular brand she had so typically selected that irritated me. In the first place it was virtually unobtainable. None of the local supermarkets stocked Broughton Black Rock Mineral Water, indeed not a single major London store including Harrods had ever heard of it. The only suppliers of this to my taste brackish Adam's ale was Aluishious Clovis & Sons of Camden Passage.
On exploratory visits to freshly discovered country houses, The Gal would bring her own supply of the wretched brew. But after a couple of weekends and much singing of the products praise she would pointedly leave the address and telephone number of Clovis & Sons prominently displayed on her departure, secure in the expectation that her host of the day would feel obliged to provide the offensive elixir in future. Despite the skilfully crafted label depicting an oversized buzzard soaring above a village, presumably Broughton, nestling in a sun splashed facsimile of the Yorkshire Dales, I have always mistrusted the origins of the concoction. Mentally picturing a hoard of miserable young Clovi splashing about in a sodden basement beneath the evil aqueous eye of Aluishious himself. Toiling from dawn to dusk in the Herculean task of filling a never ending procession of bottles from rows of gushing taps connected to the mains.
Despite such fantasies, the moment I heard of The Gal's imminent arrival, I at once telephoned Clovis & Sons to order a case of Broughtons Black Rock to be dispatched without delay. Unfortunately it was the lunch hour and the usual efficient staff had temporarily deserted their posts. But since it was a matter of some urgency I persevered with the cretinous substitute left on duty and after several minutes of patient explanation was beginning to feel confident that my order had finally been understood when the voice shrilled in my ear
‘Then you'll be wanting the twenty four, right?’
‘Yes, yes.’ I replied, partially deafened. ‘That's correct, twenty four.’
Returning from the village the following afternoon I found my wife close to hysterics. Almost speechless she pointed to the menacing wall of Broughton's Black Rock Mineral Water that effectively blocked all access to the front door. Since it was already late afternoon on Friday there was no hope of recalling the delivery van to remove the twenty-four offending cases. So while my wife staggered off to the kitchen with one case, I began the backbreaking task of conveying the remainder to the garage, composing rude and vengeful limericks at The Gal's expense along the way to ease my creaking spine.
Saturday dawned, and on the stroke of noon the old Daimler hissed to a halt on the gravel sweep. Jessop slowly lowered himself arthritically from the running board and after allowing time to catch his breath, fished a sheet of thick vellum note paper from his breast pocket and adjusting his glasses turned to address us.
‘Madam sends her apologies,’ he announced in quavering tones, 'but she has been overcome by ill health and regrets she must postpone the weekend to a future date. She has instructed me to present you with this gift as a token of her affection and to ease your disappointment.’
Carefully replacing the notepaper he removed his glasses and with an attempted flourish, opened the rear door of the Daimler to reveal two cases of Broughtons Black Rock Mineral Water resting regally on the back seat.
‘Shall I take them through to the kitchen for you, sir?’ He enquired.
‘No thank you, Jessop.’ I could feel hysteria rising. ‘I rather think the kitchens quite well stocked at the moment. You might try the garage though; they might bump into a few friends there.’
For a moment Jessop eyed me with concern, then bending to his task slowly lowered the first case to the gravel. As he paused to catch his breath before attacking the second I was swept with shame.
‘That will do Jessop, thank you very much, that will do just fine.’ I rescued the second case then opened the driver's door and helped the old man back into the car. ‘Please give our best regards to Aunt Lucretia and tell her how sad we are to have missed her. Thank her for the mineral water and tell her we look forward to seeing her as soon as she is feeling better.’ I smiled, lying through my teeth.
I watched the old Daimler trundle down the drive then with a sigh bent to the first case. At least we won't go thirsty, I thought groaning softly as I heaved myself erect. Staring up at the sky I took the first unsteady pace forward. It looked like rain.