In his own way, Albert loved his Aunt Beatrix, but being around elderly people had always made him uncomfortable. Still, he did try to do the right thing, and went to her house that evening, as agreed.
“You look like death,” Aunt Beatrix said, as she opened the front door. She was dressed in her uniform of a sensible cardigan, pleated skirt and a modest smattering of gold jewelry.
“Where’s everyone else?” Albert asked, concerned he was late again.
“Been and gone, got what they came for. Go sit down, I’ll get us some tea,” Aunt Beatrix said, as she hurried off to the kitchen.
“I’ll come and give you a hand…” Albert really didn’t want to but thought he should offer.
“No, you stay there, let me make a fuss of you,” she called from the kitchen.
A few moments later Aunt Beatrix entered the sitting room, unsteadily. She carried a tray so filled with tea, biscuits and cake, that it looked like she would buckle under the weight of it at any moment.
“Let me help you,” Albert said, rising from his seat with all the grace of a cat trapped in a bag.
“Don’t be silly, no fuss necessary,” she replied, the tea spilling slightly into the saucer as she set it down on the coffee table. There was a moment of silence whilst Albert searched for the right words.
“I miss her, the old bugger,” she said, looking at the empty armchair by the window.
The death of Aunt Henrietta was a loss, of course, but Albert felt guilty he hadn’t grieved more. Should he have cried? Did he wait the right amount of time before resuming life as normal? Albert wanted to be good, but he never knew what he was supposed to say, so he said nothing.
“Your Aunt Henrietta has left someone for you in her will,” Aunt Beatrix said matter-of-factly.
Albert was worried. He didn’t want the obligations that came with an inheritance, nor the arguments it could bring with his siblings if one of them thought another had something better. He’d have liked a keepsake, something to remember his Aunt by, maybe those cufflinks she’d worn at her and Aunt Beatrix’s wedding. Then he realised what she said.
“You mean something,” Albert corrected her sympathetically.
“No dear,” she said, taking a delicate bite of a cherry bakewell.
Albert sat with a weight on his shoulders. He was 39 years old and had so far managed to avoid most responsibilities in life. Was it a pet? He hadn’t seen one of those around the house in years, surely he would have noticed it. Was it a child? No, he certainly would have noticed that too.
Realising the flow of conversation rested with her, Aunt Beatrix began to explain.
“Aunt Henrietta has left Anna-May Timpington to you. She was originally in the care of your great, great, great, great Uncle Cecil, a fine gentleman of science by all accounts. She’s in the United States right now, but if she wakes up, it’ll be up to you to take care of her now, dear. Slice of victoria sponge?”
“What? Who? Did the others get a person too?” Albert felt confused, and rightly so for once.
“No dear, there’s just Anna-May. She goes to the eldest, as it has always been, and since we chose not to have children, the responsibility is yours.”
Albert didn’t understand. What did she mean ‘if she wakes up?’ This Anna-May would be long dead by now, obviously. He wondered if Aunt Beatrix had gone mad since she’d been alone. He worried that he'd have to take care of her, the others wouldn’t do it. He imagined a life where there was no more room for Friday night at the pub, or Saturday night at the pub, or hungover-fuelled Sunday morning football. Then he realised.
“Cryogenics,” he said, triumphantly.
“That’s right. Ooh, I remember how it is to be you,” she said excitedly, handing him a jammy dodger. “We were in our 20s when Henrietta inherited her. Her father, that old - no, mustn’t speak ill of the dead - he’d just passed, and her mother - lovely woman, best set of legs inside the M25 that one - anyway, she sat us down, as I’m sitting you down now, and explained it all to us, what to do in all eventualities, what our responsibilities were, and so forth. Exciting, isn't it?”
Albert managed to let out a noise that sounded similar to a ‘yes’ but wasn’t quite one.
“But what do I have to do?” he eventually asked, running his hand through his bedraggled hair.
“Do? There’s nothing to do, dear. Not if she isn’t awake. Your Aunt and I used to go out and visit her every 5 years or so. It was the right thing to do. We didn’t want her to feel alone, just in case, you know? Funny little building, very cold. Sometimes if we promised to behave they’d let us peer into her dewar. We couldn’t see anything of course, but it felt nice somehow to let her know we were there. I preferred it when she was in California though.”
“I thought you guys used to go on holiday to Disneyland?”
“Yes well, since we were flying out all that way it’d be rude not to make the most of it,” she said, sitting up straighter than before.
“But if she does… wake up?” Albert asked, leaning in closer.
“Well if she does then that’s a whole different thing, isn’t it? If she does - oh do have a cream slice, Bertie, go to waste if you don’t - then you have to care for her, it’s your duty. I can advise you, but when I’m gone, you’ll have to step up if she steps out, so to speak.”
“Care for her,” he said, his collar suddenly feeling too tight. “Like a baby?”
“For goodness sake, Albert, she’s a grown woman don’t be so silly. No no, care for her as in help her through the world. She’s not of this time, her life is gone, everyone she knew is gone. The whole world has moved on and she hasn’t.” Aunt Beatrix smiled, a wave of nostalgia passing over her. “Do you see it now? You, as the great, great, great, great nephew of the man who froze her, he promised her more life, a new life, and you’ll have to show her what it’s like to live in the now.”
In a way, Albert understood why it had to be him. His sister Katy could barely raise her own children, let alone reintroduce a person into the world. His brother Seb would be a disaster too. She’d be cooking and cleaning for him sooner than he could say ‘What women’s liberation?’ But could Albert really do it? Think of someone else before himself?
Perhaps it wasn’t worth worrying about. In all these years there hadn’t been a scientific breakthrough, he would have known about it; He sometimes read the paper, if it was left on the train or a park bench. Surely he could just pass her onto his future children - if he ever met the right person, that is. Yes, that’s it, it’ll be their problem, not his. Nothing to worry about. Although science is always advancing, and he was still a young man in his own mind, despite his lower back problems. Maybe he should say no.
“What if I say no?” he asked, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead.
“Who in their right mind would say no? Don’t you see how wonderful it would be? She’s an intelligent woman, frozen in time, waiting for the right time, when the world is ready to start her again. Everything will be a miracle to her, and you could get to be the one to show her, to find the beauty in everything you’re used to over again.”
Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, he thought. She could always live with him, it might be nice to have some company. Better than getting a cat, plus she’d be able to take care of herself once she settled in. He could take her to the supermarket, or on a ferry. She could come to Friday night at the pub, or Saturday night at the pub or hungover-fuelled Sunday morning football. He could dazzle her with wi-fi and self-flushing toilets and microwaveable burgers. Aunt Beatrix was right, everything would be magic, and he could be the magician.
“You know what, it can’t possibly happen, but what the hell, I’ll do it!” he said, finding himself risen to his feet, with his chest puffed out almost as far as his stomach.
“Oh good,” Aunt Beatrix replied, smiling happily whilst she cut another slice of cake. “I may have told a small white lie Bertie, but you’ll forgive an old woman, won’t you? Anna-May is in the kitchen.”
T.J. Bowman was raised in the home counties, lives in London, and has a Portuguese wife. All of these things influence her writing. She has written and produced multiple short films and is currently working on a poetry collection and her debut novel. She thinks she starts too many projects at once. Twitter: @tinajbowman