You must never marry a cousin, aunt Ethel would say from deep within her armchair.

If it wasn’t for the sound of her knitting needles, clicking happily along like the wheels of a train, it would be easy to miss her shrunken frame enveloped by the vastness of the armchair.

“What’s wrong with it?” Debbie, who just turned 20, would ask. In reply she’d get: “I don’t know. That’s what they say.”

“They”! When aunt Ethel had doubts/insecurities/uncertainties, she’d quickly dredge up a fact from the ‘Encyclopedia of They’. “No sewing after lamplight.” “Why, aunt Ethel?” “How do I know? That’s what ‘they’ say.”

No cutting nails on a Friday (‘they’ say it brings misfortune.) Never walk under tamarind trees after 11 at night. (It’s dangerous, ‘they’ say. That’s it.)

“Never have a bath on a day ending with ‘y’.”

“Rubbish! Who said that?”

“Didn’t ‘they’, aunt Ethel?”

Then she’d give one of her rare smiles. “You’re pulling my legs. Go on have your fun, but ...” (the smile would disappear, features serious once more) “,,, If you don’t want to take my advice, that’s up to you my girl. Besides, you don’t know the boy personally.”

That, apparently, was the crux of the matter for dear old aunt. One just didn’t fly off to Australia to marry and settle down with a cousin one didn’t really know.

“We must be careful of whims, child. They are fleeting fancies. And marriage mustn’t take place on a whim.”

And so forth. Nineteen-eighty-four. Thirty years ago. The guilty pleasure of hearing Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s banned song, Relax, finally making itself heard through the radio static. Followed by Two Tribes. (“Today’s Double Play,” says the radio announcer.) “Absolute rubbish passing off as music. Don’t they play Frank Sinatra anymore?” asks Ethel, wistfully.

“That’s Frankie Goes to Hollywood, auntie. They named themselves after Old Blue Eyes himself. So that’s a tribute, I think,” Debbie would say.

“Where did you hear that?” “It’s what ‘they’ say, aunt!” “Disgrace,” Ethel would counter before catching on once more, “Okay, have your fun, tease an old girl. But you’ll never hear the likes of Mr Sinatra again, believe me. So you’re mind is set on this? You’ve really given it a lot of thought and finally decided?”

This, asked at the airport, one hot August evening, just before the final goodbye and the laidback routine of security checks. “Yes, aunt, this is what I want. It’s what I have to do.” And aunt Ethel, walking cane in hand, saying, “Well, if you last two years, I’ll fly out and look you up. I’ve got some savings put away. Meantime, write often. You never know, he may turn out to be a decent fellow after all.”

Skip to nineteen-eighty-seven. T’Pau is singing on FM radio in the car, China in Your Hand and that is followed by Boy George doing Everything I Own. Eric is driving from the airport. Ever so often their eyes meet in the rearview mirror. A silent sizing-up.

“The music is still rubbish, but getting a little better nowadays I think,” says aunt Ethel adding, “Well, here I am. You didn’t think I’d ever set foot in Australia, did you? Sorry to wake you all up so early on your weekend. I could have taken the Friday flight, but you know what they say. It’s not good to fly on a Friday.” Eric and Debbie laugh, but aunt Ethel can’t see the humour.

“Okay, Deb, you better put the family history book away. We’re running out of time,” says Eric looking at his watch. It is 2014. Debbie has been chattering away to her granddaughter, Mandy. Retelling family anecdotes. Right now they are about to make Trip 16. Back to India. On holiday. As Debbie says, you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. “That’s what they say, at least,” she laughs, nudging Eric, her cousin and husband of 30 years.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.