Kisses on a Postcard by Terence Frisby

scenery. Each knew their own domain, respected the other’s boundaries and didn’t stray over them. Well, anyway, Auntie Rose didn’t, and when Uncle Jack did he was put smartly in his place. Something he always meekly accepted without ever losing his masculinity. Uncle Jack had the sense to realise his good fortune in marrying such a woman, and Auntie Rose was equally blessed. She never wanted anything other than their welfare – and now ours. If that is not a description of a love match then I don’t know what is. But the word love seems too insubstantial to describe the deep roots, the thick foliage, the hard-wearing warp and weft of their union.
    After Mum’s first visit they were given express permission – if they needed it – to treat us exactly like their own children and punish us when we deserved it. I can think of no better expression of the trust Mum had in them from the word go. And I can still see Auntie Rose’s slightly enquiring smile when we pleased her and still feel the warmth of her body when she held me; and her hands, so much more roughened than my mother’s, but just as gentle.
    She would grumble when she hadn’t slept well. ‘Oh Duw , I feel like a stewed owl,’ and she had a saying which she used on afternoons when she wanted a nap – no amount of mockery from us would make her abandon it – ‘I’m just going upstairs to throw myself down.’
    But Auntie Rose was not just a cuddly mum-figure. We had to live by her standards, and it was not a good idea to forget or flout them. She once gave me a lesson that bypassed the mind, etched itself into me and is still there. It was a while later; I was, perhaps eight or nine. Her daughter-in-law, Ethel, wife of older son Len, was staying. The three of us went for a walk up the lane to St Cleer and the moor; each of us had a jam-jar to search for wild strawberries. There weren’t many but I persevered and after much effort had a miserable half-jarful while Auntie Rose and Ethel picked few. They preferred to natter. When we were back home I poured mine on my plate at teatime and planned which of the best ones to save till last.
    Auntie Rose looked across the table at me. ‘You’ve got your strawberries there, then, have you, boy?’
    ‘Yes,’ I answered, not sure what was wrong.
    ‘Aren’t you going to offer them round, then? We got a guest.’
    I flushed till the hair rose on my neck, aware of my gracelessness but also of the injustice. ‘But you two didn’t bother. I mean – I picked these while you were talk – and—’
    ‘Greed I’m bringing up yere, is it? What if I only gave you the food you got yourself?’
    ‘I – sorry – I – er. Would you like some?’ I offered my plate to Ethel.
    ‘No, thank you, Terry,’ she said.
    ‘Would you, Uncle Jack?’
    Uncle Jack was equally unhelpful. ‘No, thanks, boy.’
    I turned to my nemesis. ‘Auntie Rose, would you like some?’
    She hadn’t finished. ‘No, you do have ’em, boy. You obviously need ’em most.’
    The chickens ate the wild strawberries.
     
    And there was Uncle Jack, with his ferocious, secret scowls, sudden broad grins and his brusque delivery. In spite of these characteristics – or perhaps because of them – he was far less intimidating than Auntie Rose could be when she thought it necessary. One day he caught Jack and Ken Plummer trying to smoke down the garden beyond the privies. I was allowed to watch but not join in and waste the precious single Player’s Weight (one genteel, feminine step above the inevitable working man’s Woodbine) that Ken had stolen from his mother’s packet. Uncle Jack didn’t ask us where the cigarette had come from; he knew that unless it was one of his the answer would only involve his having to report the theft to someone else and compound the matter. He regarded us seriously and spoke man to man. ‘You don’t want to smoke, boys. It’ll stunt your growth.’ This was what we were all told at that time but Uncle