Mum opened the bedroom door and called out to her two youngest daughters, six-year-old Margaret and eight-year-old me.
“A large parcel has come from London, from Aunt Margaret, and it is addressed to the two of you.”
It was three days before Easter. Margaret and I jumped out of bed and raced into the kitchen, and there it was: a large, brown parcel with our names on it. Aunt Margaret’s parcels were always well-tied, and the knots sealed with red wax, but my sister and I were so excited about the very first parcel we had ever received that we made short work of the outer wrapping.
Inside we discovered two parcels, again well wrapped up, one addressed to each one of us. Also included were a few religious magazines explaining the story of Easter. These we brushed aside, concentrating instead on the parcels, which were the exact size of Easter egg boxes; I can still remember our excitement as we pulled off the brown wrapping paper from the parcels and then . . . and then I had in my hands a large, thick, red, hardback book. I glanced at Margaret and saw she had a blue book in her hands. Astonished, I read the title of my book and discovered Aunt Margaret had sent me the Junior Oxford Children's Dictionary. Margaret had the same.
I am 72 years old, but I can still remember my disappointment. I remember the concerned look on my mother’s face as she read our expressions.
Aunt Margaret had no children, so she was not used to what a child might expect for Easter. It took our family a few years before we got around to telling her what we children had thought of her Easter presents. When she understood, she said, “The children are always putting at the end of their letters ‘Please excuse my spelling’, so I thought it a good idea to send them dictionaries.”
Margaret and I didn’t think so, certainly not around Easter.
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