Open Writing

Auntie Em was a small Miss Marple-like figure, gentle but garrulous. She lived in her neat weather-board cottage across the street, and three doors down from us. She was not really my aunt but because she loved babies and was always minding some baby because, 'the poor mother needed a little break from the wee one' she just became known as Auntie Em. I know my mother left me with her once when I had chicken pox but generally she just minded babies, 'older children were a bit tiring.'

Ours was a busy street, a street of young families, people dashing out early for work, mothers bundling little ones into cars, shouting at older children to hurry or they would miss the school bus. Everyone smiled and called hello to Auntie Em as she wheeled her latest 'wee one' up the street 'for a breath of fresh air to settle him/her.' She didn't want baby to be upset when the parents came to pick him/her up later. She hoped that they would feel rested after their break away. She was generally interrupted by an 'Oh! Auntie Em you are marvelous' or 'I don't how you do it' and the speaker was gone, leaving Auntie Em alone to walk on uninterrupted, unnoticed.

Auntie Em always came to our street Christmas parties unless of course if she happened to have a colicky baby. But then she seldom cared for a baby over Christmas. That was 'family time' and besides she needed 'a little break.' Actually she took two 'little breaks' a year, one in June and one in early January. She spoke at length, but somewhat vaguely, about visiting a sister in Queensland, a brother in Perth or of a cousin in New Zealand. We didn't really listen.

Auntie Em didn't really seem to change, to grow older as we did but then we'd always thought of her as old. Her nondescript clothes seemed to change little with the season: wispy, greying hair poked from old-fashioned little hats or drawn into un unbecoming knot. Aunt Em was just part of the streetscape and as for the babies, well they just came and went.

Then one January Auntie Em did not come back from her Christmas break. The man who mowed her lawn became concerned when he hadn't been paid, so he asked the neighbour who cleared her letterbox of junk mail if she'd heard from her. She hadn't. Murmurs of speculation began to drift around the street, but life went on as usual, until one morning just as mothers were hassling children about getting ready for school, a police car pulled up in front of Auntie Em's house. Two police officers escorting a smartly dressed blond woman moved towards the house.

The neighbour, unable to contain herself rushed over to them.

'Has something happened to Auntie Em? Is she all right?'

'Who is Auntie Em?' asked the policewoman.

'The woman who lives here.'

'Do you mean Clare Bagley?'

'Er . . . yes, I suppose so,' spluttered the neighbour. 'Is she . . . ?'

Clare Bagley! Quite a little crowd of us had gathered by now and most like me, had never known Auntie Em as anything but Auntie Em.

'What has happened? What has happened?' We, like the press who were now buzzing like flies, asked.

The policeman cleared his throat. 'We are investigating the disappearance of Miss Bagley. Her daughter is helping us with inquiries.'

'Daughter', we gasped! But the policeman turned his back and walked into the house.

Next day the local paper ran a story on a baby-farming racket. It stated that when one of the principal suspects, a Louise Bagley, was being questioned by the police, she broke down and confessed that her mother, Clare Bagley, had disappeared, taking with her the proceeds from their very lucrative business.

Aunt Em was never found. Where did she go? What did she do with the money? Did she really love babies?

Well, your guess is as good as mine.

© Colleen McMillan

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Colleen writes or Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au