This week member and facilitator Frances Owen shares her memories from childhood on a family trip to Aberdeen to visit her great aunt, and what that led to. You can catch her monthly event here at The Joy Club ‘Book club‘ every last Thursday of the month.
I was maybe 8 or 9 when we went to visit my great aunt at her home in Aberdeen, and I think she must have been about 70. She was always known as Aunty Baby, perhaps because she was the younger of two siblings, the other being my mother’s mother. I never knew my grandmother, or her husband, my grandfather, as they both died before I was born.
Aunty Baby had hardly been to visit us before our trip to Scotland – she had no desire to spend time away from her granite Victorian terraced home, especially not to go to England, which she considered uncivilised, ungodly and without a moral compass. Unmarried, she had been a teacher all her life and was ferociously good at maths and chess. From everything she said about her, I understood even at that age that my mother was intimidated by Aunty Baby, and that as she was the only surviving member of that generation of the family, did not want to upset or displease her.
Our parents decided that the visit would be easiest for all of us if we went in the newly purchased caravan. There had been one holiday in France so far and it seemed a perfect opportunity for another jaunt. My sister was studying in Italy but there was no escape for my brother and I. We were mortified, dreading the days spent on the road unable to travel at more than 50 miles an hour; having to use the chemical toilet when desperate; stowing and un-stowing all the kit and cushions and contents in the cupboards and with only 3 days with a maiden aunt whose accent we could not understand waiting at the end of the journey for us. My parents took a stash of martini, gin and peanuts, delighted that they would be able to have a drink at the end of the day.
On the way up, we parked in a farmer’s field one night. He said it would be fine and charged us very little and my father was pleased at the savings. We awoke in the morning to the caravan swaying from side to side, eight or nine cows rubbing against it and licking the sides, even the windows. I added this terrifying experience to my list of reasons not to ever go caravanning again.
Once we had secured the caravan at a park just outside the city, on arrival at Aunty Baby’s we were ushered into her best room where the table was laid with a high tea large enough to satisfy double the number of actual attendees. As soon as we had eaten, we were taken into the sitting room where my father was challenged to the first of the visit’s many games of chess. Never a skilful player, he had little chance of winning, but we did look up from our comics (brought by our parents as a bribe to behave nicely) occasionally as Aunty Baby exclaimed: “You took ma rook!”.
The next day passed in much the same way, my parents sharing the chess games and us reading, punctuated by two more huge meals. The only time we left the house was to take photos on the front step. In the black and white photos, which I still have, even I am taller than Aunty Baby, who put on a small straw hat for the occasion. I was wearing my favourite red anorak: “Doesn’t Frances look cheery in that lovely colour?” my mother cajoled: “I loathe red” the ever-truthful Aunty Baby replied.
Over the secret gin (and usually forbidden to us, Coca Cola) back in the caravan that evening, my parents decided that my fifteen year old brother could have a reprieve and he was allowed to go off to the cinema next day. This blatant favouritism was added to my list of caravanning despair.
The next day I was the lone child inmate in the grown up’s prison as my brother went off in glorious freedom and I had to keep on pinching myself not to give the game away and contradict my mother when she told Aunty Baby that my brother was not feeling well and was going to stay put in the caravan. I drank double glasses of illicit coca cola that night and was only slightly appeased when I was allowed a second helping of chocolate cake and he was not.
Our escape back to England was planned for after lunch the next day. We arrived at Aunty Baby’s house mid-morning and even though there were a couple of chess games and one final huge meal to get through, it was obvious that the visit had overstayed its welcome and there was little left for the grown ups to wrestle with in the way of conversation. My brother decided that he should help out and chose one of the longer silences to mention: “Cinema tickets are really cheap in Aberdeen”. Fortunately none of us were eating at the time so did not choke, and we agreed afterwards that it was unlikely Aunty Baby heard what he said.
And I have never spent a night in a caravan since.