I must say I was sad to see the old EJ finally depart. It was a last link to family — to Betty in particular — so I did regret its passing.
That car was Betty’s pride and joy. She’d wash and polish it with the care most people reserved for their children. Betty had none. She was a "spinster", so some used to say, and shake their heads. But to us she was just "Bet"; and jolly good fun she was too.
In my memory Betty was always a grown-up cousin, the daughter of my father’s older brother. A big and cheerful woman with dark, shining eyes, she occasionally wore her hair in two bunches. This did make her look a bit daggy, but daggy suited an aspect of her personality; and she knew it made us laugh.
When we had a family day they’d all come rolling in: Betty drove the EJ, freshly polished, Auntie Em in front with fox fur round her shoulders, and Uncle Phil behind in suit and tie. Philly, as the grown-ups called him, referred to himself as 'Uncle Poo'. He would press two bob into our hands, saying 'Give your Uncle Poo a hug', and laugh out of the corner of his mouth.
Despite these times of happiness, there always was an undercurrent of melancholy across our extended family; a sadness; a weight of things that never could be said. This was a burden carried by women. Even Betty had her give-away brow. For all the laughter she had a way of wrinkling her forehead. She’d look across at Em, and sometimes say 'Are you OK Mumma?' Mumma would give a tired sigh, but that was all ...
We thought at one stage the EJ may have been Bet’s liberation from all this. But she stayed at home, as Em and Philly grew older and more dependent. The hair stayed in bunches. Betty never grew up.
We moved away. When next I heard it was probably too late.
Auntie Em had died while I was away in Canberra, and I knew that Betty would not cope well. 'How is she?' I asked. Following her mother’s death poor old Bet had a complete breakdown. Sobbed for days. Became suicidal. The doctor was called. She was sedated, medicated with anti-depressants, and when nothing seemed to work, committed to the Larundel Psychiatric Hospital. My ageing parents