Aunt Violet

Previously: Terry strives to draw Mel into his secrets. He is surprised to find out that she knows far me than he thought.

Now I have never actually met Aunt Violet. She is someone who my mother has mentioned. I heard a lot about her during the time when I tried to build a few bridges between dad and myself. Apparently, over the years he has seen quite a lot of her. Its all a bit odd though really because nobody seems willing to say who it is in the family that she is supposed to be related to. Everybody just gets upset whenever she is talked about. Most notably Great Aunt Hilda, who would get agitated every time her name was mentioned. The last time that dad spoke of her, Hilda yelped so energetically that her dentures fell out. Nobody noticed that they landed in her tea. So, because she is partial to drinking cold tea, the whole family spent the subsequent hour looking for them.
‘They must be here somewhere,’ she stated. ‘They can’t have gone far.’
Of course when she did find them, she nearly choked.
As I sat talking with Mel on the sofa, I wondered where to start with my story. My whole life spun around in my head while I thought. It was as if I was studying it all, frame by frame like a movie. It upset me. I saw who I really was. It was like I could finally see through the veil that I had been hiding behind. The person that I watched was selfish, vindictive and nasty. Years of my antics passed before my eyes, a catalogue of violence and adultery. My only consolation was that at least it wasn’t boring. Then again, I wondered that perhaps if it had have been less exciting, then perhaps I might not have lost my Mel. Though, as I started to feel sorry for myself, an urge overwhelmed me. I had lost Mel. My life was coming to its end. All I could hope for was to set her free and to salvage some peace for Marmaduke.
I was still quite drunk, so Mel had gone into the kitchen for a while making some coffee, which gave me some time to think. Now that isn’t usually a very good idea. For some reason I had been thinking about Aunt Violet. For the life of me I didn’t know why. As far as I could tell, the Aunt Violet mystery was the least of my troubles. It was just one of those things that I was curious about like why blokes that jog are generally bald.
I closed my eyes for a while. I hoped that I might be able to clear my mind enough to locate the best starting point to my tale. Unfortunately, the room started spinning and my stomach churned. I settled my head back, breathed deeply and probably started to snore.
‘So are you going out with that boyfriend of yours again tonight, Duke?’ asked a woman’s voice, parentally.
‘What do you mean, that boyfriend?’ Marmaduke replied. ‘You make it sound like I’ve got loads of them.’
‘As if it makes any difference,’ replied the woman. ‘One is bad enough.’
‘One is good enough,’ replied Marmaduke, defiantly.
‘One is one too many, my lad,’ rebuked the woman. To which, Marmaduke snapped his reply.
‘Don’t my lad me. I’m not your lad. I’m not your anything!’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. I make the rules around here, so you ought to be a little more respectful.’
‘Oh, here we go,’ scoffed Marmaduke. ‘So I suppose that you are going to ground me now until I turn heterosexual are you?’
I could feel her dislike for him. She was just itching for a fight. It was irritating me just to watch. I just wanted him to punch her lights out but I could tell that was what she wanted him to do. Even so, I could feel his anger. As I did so, I could also feel my thoughts penetrating.
‘Just walk away,’ I advised.
Marmaduke froze on the spot. I could almost touch his confusion.
‘Just turn around and walk away.’
Goodness only knows why I was so keen for him to avoid conflict. I certainly never have done. My fists start flying if someone even looks at me sideways. Like I always say, ‘You’ve got to get your retaliation in pre-emptively.’ Nevertheless, I knew that Marmaduke was not like that. He was gentle at heart. He would fret if he ever even raised his voice at someone.
‘Walk away, Duke.’
The wicked stepmother could see that he was not going to take the bait. I could feel her frustration. Her response was pathetic.
‘Just wait until your father gets home.’
I laughed. Marmaduke laughed. The wicked stepmother threw her cup into the sink in anger. Marmaduke walked away. It was the right thing to do. He was clearly stronger and wiser than me. I would have battered her.
‘Bitch!’
‘Thanks very much,’ Mel replied, sarcastically. ‘Eddie,’ she added sternly, as if to make it clear that she wasn’t about to slap me again.
‘Actually,’ I replied, ‘that wasn’t Eddie. It was me.’
Needless to say, she slapped me again.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I snapped. ‘I was dreaming. I wasn’t referring to you.’ To my surprise Mel smiled back at me.
‘Yeah I know,’ she replied. ‘I just felt like slapping you.’ She passed me a coffee and slumped into the sofa beside me. ‘It’s just one of the hundred that I owe you.’
It took me a second or two to process what she had said. Well, maybe as long as a second. It was true. She owed me. More importantly I owed her and I still do. I owe her her happiness.
‘So,’ Mel interjected. ‘Are you telepathic or something?’
‘Telepathic? What do you mean?’
‘I’ll take that as a no then,’ she replied, giggling enough to spill her coffee.
Mel is smarter than me. Her brain makes connections faster than mine does. It took a while for me to get her point.
For some reason, I had Aunt Violet on my mind. If I hadn’t I might have noticed that a clue had surfaced. My dream had spoken to me. Unfortunately, typical bloke that I am, I wasn’t listening. Marmaduke had argued with his stepmother, as he often seemed to do. Yet I hadn’t noticed what was staring me in the face.
‘So what is it with Eddie then?’ asked Mel. How she had the discipline to wait so long before asking I don’t know. She had casually arrived home, turned the heating up, checked her telephone messages and made some coffee. Anybody would think that she was doing me a favour in listening to me. Then of course, in reality I suppose that she was. She wasn’t to know how important it was that I had her help. Not until I had told her everything anyway.
‘I’m Eddie,’ I told her, which seemed to be a reasonable place to start. Nevertheless, before poor Mel had the chance to absorb my announcement, I just had to put my mind at rest over something.
‘Mel,’ I asked her. ‘Do you have any idea who Aunt Violet is?’
‘What?’ asked Mel, unsurprisingly.
‘What do you mean, you are Eddie?’ she asked.
‘I am Eddie,’ I repeated. ‘Or rather I was Eddie.’
‘I don’t get it, Terry,’ Mel questioned.
‘I know. It’s weird isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘But you will have to trust me because it’s true.’ To my surprise though, Mel knew more than I could have imagined.
‘No, what I mean is, if you are Eddie, how come you don’t know who Violet is? I thought she was a friend of Eddie’s?’
‘What? I mean who? I mean how?’ I was almost stammering, which was quite funny bearing in mind the relentless and merciless way that I have always mocked the afflicted. ‘So, er, um, what?’
‘Well, that is easy for you to say,’ replied Mel with a wink. She smiled at me warmly, which I found reassuring. ‘Do you want another coffee?’ she added after a peek into my empty cup.
‘Who the fuck is Violet?’ asked Eddie. His voice though angry as usual, held a tinge of fear. I could almost feel his throat constricting nervously as he asked.
‘How the hell do I know?’ I replied.
‘Have a little think about it then,’ Mel replied as she stood up and made her way back toward the kitchen.
‘Fucking ask her!’ demanded Eddie. I ignored him.
The smell of cigarette smoke distracted me. I jumped up and skipped toward it.
‘Gis one,’ I asked.
‘I lit this one for you,’ said Mel as she took the cigarette from her mouth and placed it in mine. I took in a deep inhale, savouring the dizzy feeling that it gave me. The preoccupation with my tale had distracted me even from smoking. That couple of hours since my last fag had thrown me into a state of minor withdrawal. I usually like to smoke continually. It saves on matches.
Patterns swirled in front of my eyes. Colours spun like I was peering through a kaleidoscope. I wasn’t sure if it was the beer or the fag, not that it mattered. I hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Eddie spoke calmly and gently. I hardly recognised him. His tone was bright and positive. His life held hope for him, which was a feeling that I had never felt from him before. His heart beat in my chest like the Harlem Globetrotters were trying to break out. Fuck me, I thought my nipple was trying to escape.
‘I’m going to the Davies house,’ Eddie announced. His voice was almost unrecognisable. There was none of the anger or cynicism that I had grown accustomed to. Maybe it was the innocence of his youth. Hearing his voice was like an itching scar, a constant reminder of a violent event. My curiosity glands got all swollen to the point where I almost choked. I thought that I was about to witness what had turned Eddie from a young man with a lifetime of possibilities ahead of him, to an angry old bastard who hated the world. I was wrong but more importantly however was that I hoped to find out what had turned me in to an angry old tosser too.
Eddie stood at a big oak door clutching a handful of pathetic flowers, which looked like he had dragged them out of the ground moments beforehand. He checked his tie in the reflection of the door’s glass panel. After he had tended to his hair, he knocked nervously. Fidgeting uncomfortably, he quickly wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs, breathed a deep inhale and tried to gather himself togther. As he sighed, the door opened. An elderly, grey-haired gentleman stood in the doorway looking frail as if he were about to pass out. He breathed heavily and he tried to compose himself.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked. His tone was polite, yet his gaze was somewhat scornful. Piercing blue eyes stared down at Eddie from the doorstep.
‘I’m here to see Miss Violet,’ Eddie stated through the lump in his throat.
‘I’m afraid that Miss Violet can’t see you,’ replied the old man.
‘But she is expecting me,’ Eddie replied. ‘Where is she?’
‘She is unavailable.’
‘Is she alright? Is she OK?’ asked Eddie, mildly distressed.
As Eddie’s concern took him a step closer, the door closed abruptly, blocking his advance. He knocked again, this time more assertively.
‘Please leave,’ announced a voice from inside. ‘Or I will call the police.’
Eddie was confused and embarrassed. He didn’t understand what was happening. Violet had invited him to her father’s house. She had assured him that everything would be alright and that her family would accept him. He wondered whether she had misled him purposely or not.
As I regained my senses, I could feel an icy cold spread across my forehead. To my surprise, the face that stared down at me was not Melissa’s, it was our Sandra’s. I couldn’t figure out how the fuck she got there. I tried to ask but all I managed to do was dribble down myself.
‘Where’s Mel?’ I asked her.
‘Don’t worry,’ she assured me. ‘It’s my shift. She is alright. She is just getting some sleep.’
I had to squint my eyes. The room was all white and brightly lit. I wasn’t in Mel’s kitchen.
‘Where the hell am I?’ I asked.
A concerned ridge formed across Sandra’s brow.
‘Don’t worry, Tel. You are still at the hospital.’
‘Hospital? What do you mean, hospital?’ I asked her. Sandra’s forehead ridged even further. I could see that she was quite concerned.
‘What do you mean, still?’
‘Listen, Terry just relax.’ Our Sandra’s voice had a soft but assertive tone. It seemed to me that she wasn’t going to answer my question.
‘I’ll get the doctor,’ she replied.
How fucking difficult could it possibly be to tell me herself?
As my head cleared a little, I began to piece together what I thought had happened. I had been at Mel’s. I was drunk and we had been talking for a while. I had passed out in the kitchen, probably banging my head in the process.
Nevertheless, Sandra made her way to the door to leave.
‘Sand?’ I asked her as she stood in the open doorway.
‘Who the fuck is Aunt Violet?’


© Copyright 2005-2006, Harry Parry. All rights reserved. No part of this nonsense may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.