Edith Marie Smith, my Auntie Edie, is gone. She nursed Uncle Ab through the hard years of dementia then endured the isolation of 18 months of covid lockdowns. And then, when there was light on the horizon, she had a tumour, and 3 months later it was all over. Death is never fair, but it comes, whether we like it or not. Auntie Edie did not like it, and she didn’t mind telling us. But it was a perfectly reasonable position to take, and I agree with her, for we had many more years planned out, of meeting in Marks and Spencer’s café: her, my Mum, me and my children, for a latte and a scone on a Saturday morning, trailing around shops together, trips on the ferry to the fair at New Brighton, ice creams with the children in Croxteth park; lunch at her house, pizza for the kids and a sandwich for me and Mum, and always cake. Setting her watch forward, or back, depending on the season, which she could never remember how to do. Christmas dinner. Checking the Everton score, watching Strictly on catch-up or football with Fouad; a cup of tea and a chat in the lounge of her cosy little bungalow. Everyday life. Too many moments to remember, too many to forget, and too many now lost.

Although I wasn’t born until she was 33, she had been part of my family from the age of 16 when she started dating my Uncle Albert, the love of her life, in the 1950’s. Edie and Albert were married in 1957, a marriage which lasted over 60 years, until his death in 2017 – and throughout that time, they played a central role in the lives of my Nan and Grandad and of my Mum and our family; they were also close over the years to the families of brothers Dennis and John, and sister Norma. We have tragically lost Norma and Dennis too this month – a sad time indeed.  

Auntie Edie loved children despite not being blessed with her own, yet she hardly ever talked about the difficulties she and Uncle Ab had faced with childlessness.  But in the spring of this year she said to me in her kitchen .. “if I hadn’t had that miscarriage, my daughter, if I’d had a daughter, would only be 2 years older than you; you’d have been friends, wouldn’t you?” I don’t mind telling you I have cried many tears over that simple statement since then.  I wished so much for her. But she never let that loss define her. She had a quiet strength, and she got on with life, again and again.  She was a no messing kind of lady, who wouldn’t pussy foot about – if she didn’t like something, you would know it.
 
This was sometimes a source of vexation to me - I’m not sure I managed to buy her many Christmas or birthday presents that she didn’t take back, unless she’d bought it for herself, to give to me to wrap up and then give back to her. But in death, that erstwhile source of occasional frustration has become a standard of honesty that I feel we can all learn from. She was unafraid to present herself exactly as she was. I don’t think it would have occurred to her to misrepresent herself, in fact. And indeed, why should any of us? Whatever was in her heart, she would share – and that included so much love, generosity, openness, faith and commitment.

One of the strong women who over the years have defined my feminism, whether they knew it or not, Auntie Edie’s presence in my memory is always accompanied by laughter, and love, independence, and a great sense of self-determination. She took me to get my ears pierced – without my Mum knowing – when I was about 13 years old. And she and Uncle Ab bought me my first television – expressly against my Mum’s wishes – also when I was about 13. It was a little black and white one with a round aerial and a channel dial that you had to twist to tune in like a radio. I used to terrify myself to sleep watching Hammer House of Horror films on it when everyone had gone to bed.

Auntie Edie was one of my foundation stones; her, Uncle Ab, Mum and Nan – my 1970’s crew, and a constant in my life ever since, and in the lives of my brothers Adam and Ben. A fixture not only in the fabric of everyday life, but also in so many special times of our lives, from family holidays all over Europe and to Egypt; to all of our graduations, our marriages, at big and small birthdays; at Christmas, and more recently being a huge part of my children’s lives too. Bibi and Albie are distraught by her death in their own ways - Bibi is sad for her Auntie Edie, and also for her own loss; Albie is very sombre but also secretly anxious about who will keep him in softmints in the future. 6-year-old grief is far simpler.

I will miss her very much, and we will go to sit in the café of Marks and Spencer, and drink latte and think of her.
 
Ingrid
6 October 2021