Aunt Bessie Considers

by Diana Xarissa

  Bessie shook her head. “He always has a beautiful blonde woman on his arm, but I haven’t seen this one before. Mind you, he hasn’t been on the island in maybe five or six years. She was probably still in primary school then.”

  Helen laughed loudly at that. “She looks bored out of her mind,” she whispered to Bessie. “I’m going to go and try to talk to her.”

  Bessie grinned. “Good luck,” she told the other woman. Bessie felt much more relaxed now as she made her way to the refreshment table. She took a plate and piled a mini quiche and a couple of interesting-looking canapés onto it. After a bit of indecision, she selected a glass of white wine before turning her attention back to the room.

  She watched as Helen made her way across the space. Bessie was gratified to see her get caught up in a conversation with Mark Blake from Manx National Heritage.

  “Hello, Bessie.” A quiet voice from behind her had Bessie spinning around. Liz Martin was standing next to the food table, clutching a half-full plate.

  “Liz, how wonderful to see you here,” she told the young and pretty blonde woman from her Manx language class. “Kys t’ou?”

  Liz laughed. “Ta mee braew. Although actually, I’m feeling rather unsure of myself, but I’ve no idea how to say that in Manx.”

  “I should introduce you to Helen,” Bessie told her young friend. “She’s feeling rather out of place as well.”

  “I’ve never been to this sort of conference before,” Liz confessed. “I’m only here to support Marjorie. I’ve had to leave Bill to get the kids to bed and you know that’s usually a disaster.”

  Bessie laughed. “I would have thought, after all the classes you’ve been to, that Bill would have learned how to do it by now.”

  Liz shook her head. “He does better some weeks than others,” she told Bessie. “Mostly, though, he’s like a little kid himself. He would rather play with them then put them to bed. I feel bad, because he’s at work all week, so he doesn’t get anywhere near as much time with them as I do, but I do try to keep them to a routine at bedtime. It’s almost getting harder as they get bigger, you know? They’re getting to be a lot more fun to play with now that they can talk. Jackson is almost three; he’s just about mastered ‘hide and seek,’ although he always insists on hiding in the exact same place.”

  Bessie laughed. “At least you don’t have any trouble finding him.”

  “No,” Liz agreed. “The problem is pretending not to find him. I have to say, Bill is much better at that than I am. He’ll spend ages looking under sofa cushions and pillows and pretending to pull up the fitted carpets. All the while Jackson will be giggling madly from behind the door. Kylie doesn’t understand that it’s a game, of course, so if we say ‘where’s Jackson?’ she’ll run over and point to him.” Liz shook her head. “Sometimes it’s nice to get out among grownups for a few hours.”

  “Well, I’m sure Marjorie will be delighted that you came,” Bessie told her.

  Liz’s handbag began to buzz insistently. She pulled her mobile from it and sighed when she looked at the tiny screen. “It’s Bill. I just hope nothing’s seriously wrong.”

  “It will be quieter down the corridor,” Bessie suggested, pointing towards a short hallway that led to a few small classrooms and the loos.

  “Thanks, I’ll see you later.” Liz dashed off before Bessie could reply. Bessie shook her head and then turned back towards the table to see what else was on offer.

  “Oh, excuse me, do you happen to know what’s in these?” Bessie turned towards the voice and smiled at the confused looking young man next to her.

  “What’s in what?” she asked.

  “Well, all of this stuff,” the man replied, waving an arm at the food table. “None of it looks the least bit familiar.”

  Bessie grinned. The poor man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. His green eyes looked tired and his thick brown hair needed combing. “From your accent, I’m guessing you’re American,” she said.

  “Yes, I am,” the man smiled back. “And I’m absolutely starving. I’ve been studying in London since the beginning of the year, but I went home for a few weeks and just flew back over yesterday, straight from Idaho to here with what felt like a dozen plane changes.”

  “That’s quite a long journey,” Bessie agreed. “Although I’ve only crossed the ocean by boat and that was quite a long time ago.”

  “By boat?” The man shook his head. “I thought flying was bad. The problem is, once I finally got to my hotel here, I pretty much just slept until about half an hour ago. I feel as if I haven’t eaten in forever. But I’m, well, sort of a fussy eater,” he shrugged apologetically. “I just want a nice plain ham sandwich, but I’d settle for bread and water.”

  “How about fish and chips?” Bessie asked, pointing to the tiny battered fish bites that were sitting on small slices of fried potato. “Or mini sausage rolls or Scotch eggs.” Bessie led the man along the table, pointing out each item as she spoke. His face was a picture of concentration as she explained what was on each plate. Finally he selected a couple of things and took a hesitant bite of one.

  “Hey, this isn’t bad,” he said, relief evident in his tone. He piled several more things onto his plate, shovelling another one into his mouth, before he finally turned back to Bessie.

  “Oh my goodness, thank you ever so much,” he said after he washed down his mouthful with a sip of wine. “I’m Joe Steele, by the way.” He looked down at his hands and frowned. With a plate in one hand and a wine glass in the other, there was no way he could shake Bessie’s hand, which he clearly felt he should.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Steele.” Bessie grinned at his obvious confusion. “I’m Bessie Cubbon.”

  “Oh, it’s nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Cubbon,” the man replied. “Technically I’m Dr. Joseph Steele, but I’ve only had the title for about six months and I never think to introduce myself that way. Anyway, you can just call me Joe.”

  “Congratulations on earning your doctorate,” Bessie replied. “Technically I’m Miss Cubbon, but everyone calls me Aunt Bessie, although I don’t often introduce myself that way.”

  “Can I be rude and ask why people call you Aunt Bessie?” Joe asked.

  Bessie nodded. “I was never lucky enough to have children,” she explained. “But I very much enjoy their company. I have a little cottage by the sea in Laxey and over the last many years I’ve been happy to act as honourary aunt to just about every child in the village.”

  “What fun,” Joe grinned. “So what brings you to the conference?”

  “I’ve been doing research into Manx history for many years,” Bessie replied. “I’m actually giving a paper on Sunday about nineteenth-century wills. What about you? What brings you here?”

  Joe flushed. “I’m almost afraid to tell you,” he told Bessie in a near whisper. “Everyone else I’ve spoken to has pretty much laughed at me.”

  “Oh dear,” Bessie answered. “But why?”

  “The thing is,” Joe confided. “I’m a palaeontologist, or rather I was a palaeontologist. Just recently I found out that I have Manx ancestry and I started getting interested in the island. Now I want to do more research and some archaeology here, but some people seem to think that I should have just stayed at home, digging up dinosaurs.”

  “Who said that?” Bessie demanded, feeling angry that someone had upset the young man, who seemed to have nothing but good intentions.

  “Oh, Dr. Dickson,” Joe replied blushing. “I was so excited to meet him because he’s so well known, even in the US, and I didn’t know he was going to be here. Anyway, he seems to think that I’m nothing but an amateur who’s sticking his trowel where it doesn’t belong.”

  Bessie shook her head; that was two people the man had been rude to already and the conference hadn’t even started yet.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Bessie told the young man. “Everyone here will be delighted if you want to undertake some research on the island.
There are never enough trained and talented people to do the history of the island justice. Just ignore Mack Dickson and do what you want to do.”

  Joe smiled. “I can see why you’re everyone’s honourary aunt,” he told Bessie.

  The pair chatted amiably for several minutes as the room seemed to get increasingly crowded. Joe munched his way through several plates of snacks while Bessie limited herself to a few of her favourites. They both sipped their wine while Bessie filled Joe in on everyone that she recognised.

  “That’s Marjorie Stevens,” she told the young man, gesturing to the pretty thirty-something blonde who had just entered the room. “She works in the archives here and was instrumental in organising the conference.”

  “She doesn’t look happy,” Joe remarked.

  Bessie studied the woman who was something of a mentor to her, in spite of being substantially younger. Marjorie was frowning and her light blue eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Bessie wondered what could possibly have upset her. She watched as Marjorie made her way through the crowd, heading straight for the table where Bessie was standing.

  Marjorie stopped when she reached the table and Bessie watched as she grabbed a glass of wine. Bessie had never seen Marjorie drink anything stronger than tea, so she was surprised to see her down the wine in a single swallow. Marjorie had a second glass in her hand before she turned around and gave the room a quick once-over. Bessie smiled at her, but Marjorie didn’t seem to notice.

  “She’s really pretty,” Joe said. “But she looks really angry. Do you know what’s going on?”

  Bessie shook her head, trying to decide whether she should go and try talking to her friend or not. “I have no idea. When I talked to her yesterday, she was very excited about the conference. I can’t imagine what’s happened.”

  A snort of laughter from behind her had Bessie spinning around. “Harold,” she cried in delight as she recognised the man who had obviously come up behind her while her attention was focussed on Marjorie. “How wonderful to see you again.”

  “Great to see you as well,” the prematurely middle-aged and already grey-haired man replied gruffly. He was a well-known archaeologist and historian who had done a great deal of important work on the island, primarily attempting to find evidence that the Romans had either once lived on the island or at least visited it during their years of governing England.

  “Have you met Dr. Joseph Steele?” Bessie asked, introducing the younger man. “Joe, this is Dr. Harold Smythe.”

  “Oh,” Joe blushed. “What a great pleasure it is to meet you,” he sputtered. “I’m a huge fan of yours and I was really hoping to get to talk to you about my research. But only if you have some time, I mean I don’t want to impose.”

  Harold waved a hand. “Catch me over lunch or dinner tomorrow or we’ll have drinks in the evening one night. Whatever works for you. I’m always happy to talk to anyone about their research. I’d be more enthusiastic if the circumstances were different.”

  “What on earth does that mean?” Bessie demanded. “This conference was your idea and you did all the groundwork. And now you’ve got a fabulous turnout for your opening lecture.”

  Harold laughed again. “If only,” he muttered.

  “What’s going on?” Bessie asked, surprised by the angry look that flashed across Harold’s face. It seemed to just about match the look that Marjorie was wearing.

  Harold sighed deeply. “Mack Dickson is what’s going on,” he told Bessie with another sigh. “He arrived this afternoon and persuaded George Quayle that he should give the opening address.”

  “Pardon?” Bessie gasped. “But he can’t do that,” she insisted. “You spent months planning this conference and there was plenty of notice given for papers to be submitted. No one can just turn up on opening day and demand to speak.”

  “You can if you’re Mack Dickson,” Harold told her glumly. “Apparently he told George that what he has to say is so important that he has to go first.”

  “And George believes him?” Bessie asked.

  “I guess so,” Harold said. “I’m sure he told George more than he’s telling anyone else.” Harold shrugged. “All I know is that whatever he said, it was enough to persuade George to ask me to rearrange the schedule. Mack gets the opening talk and I get to scramble around and find someplace else to fit my talk into the programme.”

  Bessie frowned. “That is not fair,” she said crossly.

  “I’m sorry, but who is George?” Joe asked.

  Harold shook his head. “George Quayle is the museum’s main benefactor and also the very generous sponsor of this conference. I’m sure Mack knew that if he approached anyone on the conference committee and asked to give a talk we would all say ‘no,’ so he went behind our backs and appealed to George.”

  “And George is, um, persuadable,” Bessie said with a rueful grin. “Mack obviously knew exactly how to put things to the man to get him to go along with his scheme. But what is Mack going to talk about?”

  “That’s the big question on everyone’s lips,” Harold replied. “He won’t tell anyone anything except, ‘It’ll blow this conference out of the water,’ and that’s a direct quote.”

  Bessie frowned. “He always thinks whatever he’s uncovered is the most interesting bit of history or archeology ever,” she said. “I’ve never been terribly impressed with any of his ‘big’ announcements.”

  “No offense, my dear lady,” Harold replied. “But you aren’t the audience that Mack is trying to impress.”

  “I know the British university system is different,” Joe interjected. “Like you don’t have tenure and such, so is he trying to impress someone to get a better position?”

  Harold shook his head. “Personally I think Mack is just the sort of person who’s only happy if he feels superior to everyone. He always has to have the flashiest car, the prettiest blonde and the most shocking findings with his research. He’s nowhere near as clever as he thinks he is, his work is nowhere near as carefully researched as it should be, he’s....”

  “On his way over,” Bessie interrupted. A moment later the man in question joined their little group.

  “Harold, my dear man, I do hope you aren’t too disappointed to be giving up the opening to me. I can assure you that what I have to say will be of huge interest to you.”

  Harold smiled tightly. “Indeed, I’m very interested in hearing what you have to say.”

  “But Harold, you must introduce me to your friends.” Mack gave Bessie an insincere smile. “Although you do look familiar,” he told her. “I’m sure we’ve met.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Cubbon,” she said as she offered a hand. “We met at the Celtic Scholars conference about six or seven years ago, when it was held in Port Erin.”

  Mack took her hand in both of his. “Ah yes, Bessie, isn’t it? You research wills, don’t you?”

  Bessie nodded. “I’ve been focussed on the nineteenth century, but I’m starting to work my way backwards.”

  “How nice,” the man answered vaguely as his attention turned to the rest of the group. “And you’re that young American who’s just given up dinosaurs in favour of digging into Manx history,” he said as he nodded at Joe. “But you all have to meet Bambi.”

  Mack turned to the young woman who had accompanied him across the room. She was standing just behind him, staring blankly into space.

  “This is Bambi Marks,” Mack announced to them.

  “Bambi?” Joe echoed quietly.

  “She’s American as well,” Mack told him. “Maybe you’ve met?”

  “Oh, well, I, that is, um, America’s a big place, and I mean, um,” Joe stammered as the beautiful blonde gave him a cool look.

  “Just winding you up,” Mack laughed, slapping the younger man on the back with false bonhomie. “Bambi, this is Joe Steele, Harold Smythe and Miss Elizabeth Cubbon. They’re all deeply devoted Manx historians and researchers who work tirelessly to uncover the secrets of the past.”

  Bambi
blinked. “Nice to meet ya,” she drawled, looking past Bessie into the distance. The silence that followed her remark started to grow uncomfortable until Bambi suddenly spoke again.

  “Mack, where’s the ladies’?” she demanded in a loud voice.

  Bessie sighed as Mack frowned at his date.

  “It’s just around the corner,” she told the young woman. “Come along and I’ll show you,” she offered.

  “Oh, fabulous,” Bambi replied, still not looking directly at anyone.

  Bessie led the much younger woman out of the foyer into the short hallway. Doors to smaller rooms that could be used as classrooms or for seminars and discussion groups opened off both sides of the hall. At the very end of the hall were the loos.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Cubbon,” Bambi remarked suddenly.

  “Actually, it’s Miss Cubbon,” Bessie corrected her gently.

  “Oh, okay,” Bambi shrugged.

  Bambi followed Bessie into the ladies’ room, which was otherwise empty. Bessie decided that since she was there, she might as well take advantage of the facilities. The soft music that was piped into the room served to mask any noise within it. Moments later, as Bessie washed her hands, she realised that she was alone. Obviously Bambi had been quicker and had already left.

  Bessie walked back towards the reception slowly. She wasn’t in any rush to rejoin the crowd. In the doorway she paused and surveyed the room. A loud voice, booming over the low murmur, let her know that George Quayle had arrived even before she spotted him.

  He wasn’t hard to pick out in the crowd. He was at least six feet tall, which meant he was a good nine inches taller than Bessie. To Bessie’s mind, he was at least as wide as he was tall, being generously padded all around. He was somewhere in his sixties with a still generous helping of white hair and bright green eyes that had never focussed on a stranger. Bessie watched as he greeted yet another person. She sighed and edged her way into the crowd, heading away from George. As soon as he spotted her, he’d be sure to join her, and she wasn’t in any hurry for that to happen.