Auntie Maggie couldn’t wait to get me up on the morning after my birthday.
‘Come on, slow coach, get them lazy bones out of that pit,’ she chided. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get washed, dressed and ready for anything. Your breakfast is almost on the table. Come on now, quick as you can. Downstairs in the caff in ten minutes, ready to wrap your laughing gear round your breakfast and open your parcel.’
The word ‘parcel’ got my attention all right. I was out of my bed and halfway to the door before I’d even opened my eyes. I loved a good parcel. Let’s face it, who in their right mind doesn’t? There is something special about a package that comes through the post. I was down those stairs, still damp behind the ears and with my blouse hanging out, in five minutes flat. Uncle Bert and Auntie Maggie were already ensconced at our table and there, by my place, was a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and secured with stout string. Uncle Bert eyed me over his Daily Mirror as I skidded to a halt and flung myself into my chair.
‘Sleeping Beauty has arrived at last, eh? I do hope your early rising won’t damage your health, my dear,’ said Uncle Bert from around his pipe. ‘I’ll just get her ladyship her breakfast, shall I? It’s keeping warm in the oven.’ He heaved himself to his feet as I began to wail about opening my parcel first, then having my breakfast.
Auntie Maggie was adamant. ‘Not on your nelly, my gel. Breakfast first, then the parcel. These things are always better for a bit of anticipation, really they are. Anyway, you might get bacon fat or fried egg all over what’s inside and that wouldn’t do at all.’
I opened my mouth to protest, caught the gleam in her eye and knew that resistance was useless. I snapped my mouth shut and looked sullen instead.
Auntie Maggie ignored my expression and pointed to the stamps plastered above my name and address. ‘Look, love, them’s French stamps and the postmark says Paris, which is the capital of France as I’m sure you know. Now I wonder who can be sending you stuff from foreign parts?’
I knew she didn’t expect an answer. Guessing games were one of Auntie Maggie’s specialities and her face always fell if you guessed too quickly.
‘P’raps it’s that lady who had her head chopped off for saying ‘‘Let them eat cake,’’ ’ I suggested, completely forgetting that I was sulking.
Auntie Maggie looked interested. ‘What lady was that then?’
‘It was that queen. Mary something or other.’
‘Marie Antoinette,’ supplied Uncle Bert as he returned with my breakfast.
‘Mary who?’
‘Not Mary, Marie,’ he said, gesticulating wildly with my plate so that the egg was dangerously close to slipping down the back of Auntie Maggie’s neck. ‘Marie Antoinette,’ he repeated in his best Maurice Chevalier voice as he plopped my plate down in front of me. ‘Eat. Now where was I? Oh yes, Marie Antoinette, French Queen during that Revolution they had over there. Got her head chopped off, as Rosie so rightly says, along with all them other French aristos. Well, those who couldn’t leg it fast enough, that is. Did I ever tell you two that my mob originated in France? We was supposed to be French aristocrats with a chateau, land and everything.’
Auntie Maggie and I exchanged long-suffering looks and rolled our eyes at each other. He was off again!
‘Yes, dear, you have told us, hundreds of times,’ Auntie Maggie cut in quickly before he could hit his stride. ‘The thing is, if this Marie Antoinette had her head chopped off, how could she find her way to the post office? Eat your egg white as well, Rosie, there’s a good girl. And your crusts. It’ll make your hair nice and straight, just like Kathy’s. So this queen of yours couldn’t make it to get the stamps without her head, now could she, let alone write the address? Or does she carry her head under her arm like Mary Queen of Scots?’
Uncle Bert shook his head. ‘You’ve got a point there, Maggie, my love, I’ve never heard that she carried her head about, so I reckon not. Now who else is there? We don’t know anyone French, apart from Frenchie from the pub and he wouldn’t be sending our Rosie parcels, would he?’
I was munching steadily as they pondered the problem and batted ideas back and forth. They were still at it when I’d finished and it was a moment or two before I could attract their attention. ‘Can I open it now? Can I?’
They pretended to consider and then grinned and nodded. Uncle Bert cut the string neatly with his penknife, just by the knot, and rolled it up into a tidy, small ball. We never threw string away, or brown paper for that matter, so I had to open the parcel with care. There was no point in giving it a thorough feel first because whatever it was, was obviously in a good, stout box, so the shape would give no clues. I unwrapped the paper and folded it very carefully. Inside was an ordinary cardboard box with some French writing but no picture. Auntie Maggie began to tease Uncle Bert: if he was a Froggy, could he translate it for us, she asked.
To my horror, he snatched the box from my grasp and pretended to read the inscription. ‘Le Blanc, that means ‘‘the White’’, snails and frogs’ legs to the gentry. Two dozen prime limbs of the amphibian and two dozen living snails.’ He raised the tips of his fingers and thumb to his pursed lips and, in an expansive Gallic gesture, made a kissing sound. ‘Delicious!’ he announced, as we squealed in disgust.
He handed me back my parcel and at last I was free to open it. Auntie Maggie hastily removed my greasy plate and dumped it with a thud on the next table. They both leaned forward as I fumbled with the box.
When I finally got it open and peered inside there was an envelope addressed to me, another addressed to Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert, and loads of smaller parcels, individually wrapped in coloured paper. There were red, blue, green, yellow and purple ones. I removed the envelopes, handed theirs over and gently tipped out the rainbow packages. I recognized the style: the Perfumed Lady had remembered my birthday and, what’s more, she had remembered just how much I loved to open parcels. Of course we’d known it was from her all along – she was the only person we knew who was likely to send me parcels from Paris. One or two local bookshop owners got stuff sent from Paris, it’s true, but not through the post. No, those parcels came with shifty-eyed men with wide lapels, shiny hair and lots of gold rings. The same ones that stood about hissing on street corners offering punters postcards of naked ladies.
I opened each parcel slowly, savouring the joy of it. It seems that the Perfumed Lady had been in on the great doll’s-house conspiracy and each tiny parcel contained another contribution. There was a family of dolls – mother, father, a little girl, a little boy and a baby in a cot that rocked. There was a collection of minute toys for the children to play with, including a spinning top that didn’t spin on account of being too small, a titchy doll’s pram, a football and a playpen for the baby. Best of all was the rocking horse. It was a dappled grey with a scarlet saddle and reins; its eyes were wild and its tail streamed behind it.
I was thrilled to bits and itching to get upstairs so that I could put the people into my house and get playing, but Auntie Maggie insisted that I open my card first. It was a picture of a little girl with huge eyes, all dolled up in fancy frills and ribbons. Inside the Perfumed Lady had written, ‘Happy birthday, darling. I hope to see you soon, love Mummy,’ with lots of kisses. Yuk, ‘Mummy’! Nobody called their mum ‘Mummy’ except those squirts in the films or Enid Blyton books.
My eyes must have been pleading because Auntie Maggie grinned and said, ‘Go on, then.’ I went. Later, they told me that the Perfumed Lady was sorry that she’d been away for my birthday but that something had come up. I am sorry to say that I didn’t mind a lot. I had my presents, and the most beautiful doll’s house in the world.