Victoria Moss lived three and one half blocks east and north of the main street in an old two-storey, gingerbread encrusted, turn of the century farm house. Three levels of wide cement steps led from the front sidewalk up to the full width wooden porch, up half a dozen wooden steps more from the moderately trimmed lawn. Hiding the white painted lattice screen beneath the porch was a proliferation of flowering Dogwood, Forsythia and a colourful array of long stemmed tulips. The pale red brick of the house formed a backdrop for all the white-trimmed woodwork, its mortar an ash grey, porous and crumbling at the corners. A huge brass, lion's head knocker glared ominously from the paneled front door, and Nigel lifted it tentatively, letting it fall with a hollow thunk. He looked about as he awaited a response, taking in the neighbouring homes on their heavily treed and manicured lots with a sense of comfort and belonging. A thick scent of grass and soil teased the warm still air. The door opened wide, making a sucking sound against the copper weather-stripping, and Nigel greeted his aunt with surprise.

Victoria Moss was anything but his imagined picture of the London theatre stage actor. Yes she was tall, a few inches below his own lanky six feet, and at somewhere in her late sixties, she still maintained the slim, elegant bearing he'd seen in family albums, but the shocking pink sweat suit, emblazoned with the thick lettered, purple slogan, 'Kick Ass Ashton High', across her chest, squelched the greeting in his throat.

"It can't be anyone but Nigel! Look at you would you. Last time I saw you, you were spitting up pureed peas all over your mothers Sunday best. C'mon in boy and give your old auntie a hug." With a hand like a vice-grip, she snatched him into the hallway and crushed him against her pillowy bosom, tightly enough, he imagined, to emboss the graphic logo into his own suit jacket.

"Ummph! Aunt Victoria- how uh, wonderful to see you." Nigel extricated himself from her bear hug and stepped back, setting his suitcases on the floor and straightening his clothes.

"Uhm, I uh–"

"Leave that stuff there," she cut in, striding off down the hall, "and c'mon in here. Well have a drink to celebrate your arrival. Did you walk from the bus station? Should've called a cab, only would have cost you a few bucks. Oh, I guess your still working on pounds, aren't you? Well, never mind, you're here now."

He trailed after her somewhat dazed, scanning the walls filled with framed, signed photos of famous theatre people, winding up in a surprisingly pleasant glassed-in atrium, an extension of the original rustic, farm kitchen. Gaily coloured pots of ivy and flowering plants hung like festive balloons about the room, forcing Nigel to navigate cautiously to a proffered chair.

"Here we go," Victoria boomed, twisting the top off of a bottle of Molson's Light beer, and banging it on the glass-topped table in front of him, "to our little family reunion." He watched speechless as she jerked the top off her own bottle and tilted back a healthy slug, finishing with a lip smacking, satisfied sigh.

"So, Nigel. How was the trip? Any trouble getting here?" She settled into a wrought iron chair across the table from him; eyes bright with expectation.

"Ah, no, no trouble. Your directions were absolutely on the mark." He sniffed his beer before taking a baby sip.

"And your mom, how's my baby sister Madge doin'?"

"Oh, she's fi–"

"And what about that old scoundrel of a husband, I bet your father's as mean and grumpy as ever, eh?"

"Well, he does sti–"

"So you're a writer, eh? Gonna be the next Willie Shakespeare?"

Nigel's head began to throb from the barrage of questions, and an uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty seeped through him. "Uh, Aunt Victoria, do you think I might use your loo and freshen up a bit? I think I'm suffering from, what is it- jet lag."

"Oh sure, c'mon, I'll show you your digs. Washroom's upstairs." Nigel dutifully followed her back down the hall, his eyes fixed despairingly on the sweat suit's pink, undulating bottom.

"Here we are, a little more feminine than you might like, the colours and all, but it's bright and cheery, and the bed's a good one." Victoria stepped aside and stood hands clasped in front, her Day-Glo running shoes forming a precise vee.

Nigel set his bags down and stared about the room. It was larger by far than his parent's sitting room, and a pair of double casement windows set into an alcove on the longest wall, were opened wide, allowing a warm breeze to fill the room. He walked slowly to the desk in front of the windows, his mouth hanging open in stunned surprise. A brand new computer with a seventeen-inch monitor sat silently, flanked by a multi-function printer and a large tower with drives for CD's, small floppies and even Zip disks.

"Neat, eh? I figured that if you were going to write successfully, you would need the proper tools; saves on paper too."

He trailed his fingers over the various components, turning and gesturing helplessly to his beaming aunt. "I- I don't know what to say... Aunt Victoria, this is- this is-"

"Yours," she laughed stepping forward and submitting him to another crushing embrace. "Can't have you disturbing the peace with that old coal fed clunker you brought with you."

"But I've never- I don't know how to use one of these." He turned back, gawking again at the strange technology.

"Piece of cake. If I can operate one of these things, anybody can. We'll have you up and running in no time." She took his hand and dragged him out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom. "Here's your loo," she giggled, "sink, tub, shower stall over there, and the crapper. We share this my boy, so I expect you to help keep it clean."

Again Nigel boggled at the size of the room with its shiny, rose coloured tile, walls and floors. A large, white furry oval rug sat in the center of the floor, its long fringe tickling the bottom of the flowered glass of the shower stall. Dark blue towels of various sizes hung on a white porcelain rod along the wall beside the tub, and a pewter bowl, filled with pastel shaded soaps rested sedately on the pink marble vanity. Nigel approached the toilet with curiosity, bending for a closer look, then tilting his head up to the ceiling.

"Hah!" Victoria shrieked with amusement, "You won't find a pull chain up there my son, it's that little lever on the front." She stepped over, flipping the lid up and twisting the lever. He watched as the water in the bowl swirled into action, spinning down and out of sight with a satisfied gurgle then creeping slowly back to its previous level. "I'd forgotten how primitive the old homestead really was." She laughed again and gave him a hearty slap on the back. "You do your business, get yourself unpacked and if you want a lie down, that's fine. I'll be downstairs when you're ready."

The door closed, leaving Nigel alone, staring at the perplexed young man in the huge mirror over the sink.

*****