The pointy end

You know you are getting to the pointy end of life when the people around you start disappearing. Yesterday I received the sad news that one of my dearest auntie’s had died peacefully in her sleep. Patricia Margaret Banwell, née Smith. We heard a few days ago that she was very unwell in the hospital.

I wanted to honour her today by sharing a few memories with you. My auntie Pat was born in 1942. She was a gorgeous Welsh woman, living in and around Cardiff all of her life. When I lived in Wales, she was a teenager. We managed to see family in Cardiff once or twice a year. My sister and I were in awe of her. Auntie Pat had a beehive hairdo, wore miniskirts and looked like Annette Funicello in the movie ‘The Beach Party.’

Teenagers, as we know them now, hadn’t really existed before WWII. Young people dressed like their parents, grew up, got married, and had children. They were like mini-adults. It’s hard to imagine now that women, once married, weren’t allowed to work, let alone vote. It wasn’t until 1969 in the UK that all men and women, aged eighteen and over, were given the right to vote. But that’s another story for a different day when I need to ride that particular hobby horse.

My Auntie Pat was born into an era of change unlike any that had been seen before. The 1920’s with the flappers and the Charleston had nothing on the sixties. Postwar freedom burst on the scene. Music, fashion and media exploded in a way the world had never seen before. Rationing in the UK ended in July 1954 when my auntie was twelve, entering high school and part of an exciting new generation of young people.

After years of deprivation, manufacturing took off. Women who had tasted freedom from entering the workforce during the war wanted more. Television became popular in 1953, in the UK. The broadcasting of the coronation was thought to be a major catalyst. Television brought the world into homes, and people lapped it up after so much hardship. The number of babies being born increased, making that generation known as the baby boomers. My generation. Society was irrevocably changed, and my aunt was part of it all.

My sister and I would watch her get ready for work. She would apply her makeup in front of the bathroom mirror. Pancake makeup and drawn on eyebrows with red lipstick and nail polish. Her jet black hair was swept up and teased to within an inch of its life, then smoothed down with gallons of hairspray all held in place with a white headband to match her white polo neck skivvy, her black and white chequered skirt and her white ‘go-go’ boots. The sixties were just kicking off. Mary Quant, Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton were among the fashion icons of the day. My aunt was every bit as glamorous.

She would have been eighteen when my sister and I sat at her feet, mesmerized by her beauty, watching her confidently apply her makeup. To us, she was a goddess. She was part of a new generation. Teddy boys, mods, beatniks, flower power— the concept of ‘teenagers’ was born.

Auntie Pat had a boyfriend. Gordon was a quiet, gentle human being. He still is. He was in the merchant navy, and he had actual tattoos. We never had the courage to speak to him. We’d see him and run off giggling and laughing. Auntie Pat would take him into the upstairs sitting room, holding hands! They would play records and drink copious cups of tea. Shân and I would hide out in the hall on the landing, peering through the frosted glass doors, hoping to see them kiss. They never did, not that we ever saw anyway. They held hands and chatted. It was all very dull, and we soon got bored and ran off to play.

Sometimes Auntie Pat would paint our nails and do our hair; that was the best. I loved the ticklish feeling as she painted the stinky nail polish carefully on each of my well-bitten nails. Auntie Pat never once scolded me for biting my nails. Just seeing her glamorous nails made me want to stop biting mine, so I did, and I haven’t bitten them since.

Eventually Gordon finally plucked up the courage to propose, and Auntie Pat asked us to be her bridesmaids.

Auntie Pat gave us each a beautiful silver locket on a chain, and we both wore them proudly. I cherished it for years until it was confiscated by a horrid teacher in high school. I never got it back because I was too scared to tell anyone.

We had the prettiest floral dresses covered in tule and far too many petticoats that made crinkly noises when we moved and super swishy skirts. The bouquets we carried were filled with sweet-smelling carnations (remember when carnations used to smell divine?) and, my favourite, lily of the valley. Those bouquets smelled heavenly. We wore little floral wreath-like crowns on our heads with ribbons hanging down the back and brand new white patent leather shoes and white gloves. I remember going shopping with mum and Auntie Pat to choose the shoes and gloves. We felt so grown up. Normally, I wasn’t allowed to wear white; it didn’t go with tree climbing and jumping in puddles very well. That day we both felt like princesses. I don’t remember the wedding at all. Just the feeling of being chosen, special, and loved.

A few years later, we moved to Australia, and my relationship with Auntie Pat and all my other relatives was limited to letters, cards, and the occasional visit.

My auntie had my grandfather’s wicked sense of humour and my grandmother’s ability to make me feel cherished. Every time I saw them, my auntie took me aside and reminded me how much I was loved.

Living in Australia has had many advantages. I am thankful to have grown up here. A part of me will always wish I could have had my cake and eaten it. Growing up without aunties, uncles or cousins nearby has been sad sometimes. No more than now when I can’t be there to say farewell.

I’m not sure what life would have looked like if we’d stayed in the UK. Perhaps we would have seen each other only at Christmas. I know my wedding day would have been packed with people. My wedding day here in Australia was lovely, but the bride’s side was sadly depleted. There was mum and dad and my siblings and their partners. I think it’s why I tried, for many years, to keep in touch with my own nieces and nephews and their children, always remembering their birthdays so they would feel loved. I don’t think it made much difference. Times have changed; they have all grown up and are busy with their own lives.

In 2019, I went back to the UK for a holiday to introduce my husband to Wales and to show him all my cherished places. My cousin, Kate, had a birthday while we were there, and she invited the tribe. It was a large gathering of friends and family. I sat in the garden, surrounded by people, and it suddenly occurred to me that I was related to most of them. It was a very emotional moment and one that I will cherish.

We met them at Caerphilly Castle, where their daughter, Samantha, was playing in a brass band, the Lewis Merthyr Band. We were fortunate to see the excellent performance. Then we all went up to the Rhondda for lunch. My family comes from the area, so it was a real trip down memory lane. We went on a tour of the Rhondda Valley, visiting all the old haunts from my childhood, seeing the house my mother lived in and then the house my auntie and my dad were born in.

Today, as I look back fondly at the auntie who made me feel special and loved, I decided to paint my nails in remembrance of her, the auntie who had patience and made time for two little girls who adored her.