Beryl
written by: Liz Berg
My Auntie Beryl was a gal. That’s what they called her. Always with a fag in her mouth, laughing eyes crinkling against the smoke. She had lived life hard, or so she said. A secretary in a busy office, she wore tight skirts and high heels that she kicked off discreetly under the desk whenever she got a chance, whenever He wasn’t around.
She used to tell me these stories amid great bursts of laughter. One hand holding a cocktail with elegance, the plastic cherry on the stick poking through the maraschino cherry dangling in the alcohol. She loved those cocktails and inveigled my father into making her one every time she came to visit, even if it was on a Sunday afternoon. He complied with good grace, which was a surprise every time, as he was known for his irascibility.
Beryl would balance on the arm of the sofa, her free arm lying on the back, above my head, as she leaned down to whisper her misdeeds in my willing ears. How I loved her, how I longed to be her when I grew up, to be mistress of my own destiny.
Sometimes my parents talked at night, their voices carrying across the landing. When Beryl’s name came up, I listened harder. I never understood my mother’s sympathetic murmurs of poor Beryl. To me, she wasn’t poor, she shone in our family like a bright star.
Why she never married was also a conundrum. I asked my mother. Her answer left more questions than “you’ll understand when you’re older” was the constant refrain. When would I be old enough, I wondered? What was so secretive?
I asked Beryl. She laughed that deep smoker’s rasp and swallowed the remains of her cocktail. Why should she marry and be a servant to a man at home as well as at work?
Didn’t she want babies? Her eyes stopped smiling. She got off the couch and wandered outside. My father stopped me from following her. ‘Leave Beryl alone now. You’ve bothered her enough.’
Beryl died not long after. All our family came, we had loved her unconditionally, at least I did. My father was broken, my mother hugged him and kept her arm in his, ready with a tissue. Her work colleagues came, she was always good for a laugh, was Beryl. And then there were the strangers. The men who came bowed their heads in silence and left in silence. No one knew their names, but I could see my mother recognising each one as they paid their respects. Lots of single red roses were laid on Beryl’s coffin and on the grave. I thought it was beautiful. And romantic.
She was a gal, my aunt Beryl.
- Beryl - June 22, 2026
- Dreamcatcher - March 10, 2026
