'Time goes, you say? Ah no!
Alas, Time stays, we go.'
In the back yard of a small terraced house in the East End of London on April 11th 1925, a group of people assemble for a wedding photograph. The marriage in question is that of my maternal Nan and Grandfather, who sit arm in arm at the centre of the image. To Nan's left is my Grandfather's sister Maud, who, a little over 35 years later, would be known to me as Aunt Maud. At the other end of the same row, holding what looks like a small dog, is Maud's sister Marie. Towards the right end of the back row, standing alone, is Nan's sister Beatrice and in front of her, wearing a dark top and holding a baby in white is her other sister Carrie. The baby is Henry.
My Grandfather died in 1956, four years before I was born and Nan, Aunt Maud, Marie, Carrie (mother of my recently departed Aunty Emmy), Beatrice (emphysema ravaged Aunt Beat) and Henry were the only people from this photograph that I would get to know, albeit briefly in some cases. I have many photos of family get-togethers from the 1960's and into the beginning of the 1970's and gradually Beat, Carrie, Marie and Henry disappear from them. I don't remember any sadness or funerals at the time, though no doubt I was spared any such upset at my young age. It's a strange thing that, when you're very young, older people simply slip away almost without you noticing - they just don't come around anymore. You only remember that they were ever there at all many years later when you see a faintly familiar face in a photograph.
The sisters - Beatrice, Carrie and Nan, circa 1967
In 1974 Nan and Aunt Maud came to live with me and my parents, an often fraught arrangement in a small family home. By this time they were both in their late 70's, Nan was struggling to walk while Aunt Maud had been virtually blind since the 1950's. They were very loving though, and I have fond memories of much laughter in the house - they were real characters and each had their individual idiosyncrasies and mannerisms. Nan, for instance, would pepper her conversations with peculiar old proverbial phrases of dubious context, often leaving me scratching my head in confusion. One of the most baffling (and most regularly used) of these was, 'If you can't fight, wear a big hat'. Occasionally though, her arcane phrases would verge on the poetic. For example, after getting out of bed earlier than usual in the morning, she would claim that she had been up 'before the streets were aired', a lovely image which stayed with me in later life, popping into my head on many a frosty morning as I scraped the ice from my windscreen at 5.30am.
Additionally, there were also a number of bona fide homegrown 'Nanisms', her own little quirky ways of saying things, some of which affectionately remained in my family's vocabulary long after Nan died in 1976. These included pyjamas, which she always referred to as a 'pyjam suit' and, as a consequence of Nan's failure to get to grips with decimalisation in 1971, a 50p coin is, was, and shall forever be known as '...a silver ten-bob note...'
Marie and Aunt Maud, circa 1969
Aunt Maud died in 1982, still sneaking outside for the odd crafty ciggy until the end. She was a tiny lady and as I soared through the 6ft barrier in the late 1970's, she would look me up and down and declare in her soft cockney tones, 'I reckon I'm growing downwards!' It's remarkable to think back and realise that Nan, Aunt Maud, Marie, Beat and Carrie were all born in the 19th Century and that, at the time of my birth, Nan's wedding photograph was only 35 years old, although it may as well have been 135 years to my young eyes.
One last photo. Remarkably a present has survived from my Nan's wedding and it has become an unusual family heirloom. Times were hard, money was scarce and therefore an unknown guest (I wish I knew which one) offered a functional gift to the happy couple - a handmade coal shovel. As is often the way with wedding presents, it appears to have never been used and probably occupied a place on display in the family hearth, therefore remaining in the same pristine condition as when it was given, 95 years ago today.
Kevin Ayers - All This Crazy Gift of Time