Wednesday, January 11, 2012

THE DAY MY TANTE TON HID IN A CUPBOARD


Luky;
Just before Christmas my Aunt Antonia died in Amsterdam, Holland.
Married to a naval officer, she left no children to proclaim her eulogy. 
I’ve decided to do so instead.

Aunt Antonia, or Tante Ton as we called her, was an enigmatic woman and as a child I worshipped her.  
She spoke seldom and sparingly but I collected her few sayings like priceless jewels.  Though she drew people like a magnet, she was skilful at extricating herself from the crowd.

“I can’t understand the way you see Ton,” my mother said irritably one day when I spoke about her.  
“My father spoiled her.  Though younger than I she was allowed to smoke and I wasn’t.  
I asked my father why and he said he couldn’t explain – some people just get away with more than others.  
Besides, she had a dreadful temper.”  
“Never!” I said.  Putting down her sewing, my mother continued:

“Before I married your father I managed a boutique.  
My best friend did the administration and I cut out the garments.  
We employed six seamstresses.  They and I trained Ton in dressmaking after school in the afternoons.

“My parents were battling to see my eight younger siblings through their education and I pitied my mother who operated on a very stringent budget.  
One day a very wealthy customer came and ordered a complete new wardrobe to take overseas.  
There was material left over from one of the dresses so I cut out a sheath dress for Ton and the girls ran it up. 
I told them to say nothing because Ton would have gone naked rather than stoop to deception.  
However, I felt I was helping my mother and knew the customer wouldn’t miss the material.

“When I brought the dress home to Ton, she very suspiciously asked where I’d got the material.  
‘It was a remnant I bought,’ I said.  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t a customer’s remnant?’ she asked.  
‘Would I lie to you, Ton?’ I said.  So Ton came to the shop after school the following day, looking stunning in her new frock.

“Next moment the staff alerted me.  They had spotted the lady of the overseas wardroble coming down the street towards us.  
‘Where can we hide Ton?’ they asked.  ‘Quick! Get her into a cupboard!’ I said.  
So the girls bundled Ton into the cupboard and shut the door after her.  
Well the customer stood and stood.  Her trip had been delayed and now she was killing time, congratulating us on the fine job we had done on her wardrobe.  
Meanwhile my mystified sister was wondering what she was doing inside that cupboard.

“When we were able to let her out you’d have thought from the look she gave me that I had committed murder.  
She flung out of the shop and raced home where she bundled the dress in the trash can after all our labours.  
Never again did she let me help her to make her clothes and she always bought the materials herself.   
Worst of all, she refused to accept that I had only been trying to lighten our mother’s load.”

Ach, my poor Tante Ton!  How she brightened my formative years with her stunning looks and personality!  
Yet who would have thought that behind that air of detachment coupled with her Greta Garbo “I want to be alone” pose there lived a person possessed of such shining and scrupulous integrity?


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