‘Good girl,’ said her mother, shutting down the lid of the trunk. ‘Now look Elizabeth – this is your tuck-box. I’ve put a tin of toffees in, a big chocolate cake, a tin of shortbread, and a large pot of blackcurrant jam. That’s all I can get in. But I think it’s enough, don’t you?’
The Naughtiest Girl Again, Enid Blyton
When I was eight, lying sideways on the bottom bunk with my head dangling over the edge, this line had an indelible impact. With my primary school an easy walking distance up the road, the idea of heading off to boarding school was already foreign enough. But the thought of a box, with my name stamped onto it, filled with cakes, sweets, and biscuits, was almost too much to bear. I’d experienced a lifetime of packed lunches – miniature tuckboxes – but they contained a lunch for me alone: a cheese and salad sandwich, a banana, and a frozen juice box to keep it all cool. I wanted pots of jam, tins of biscuits, and bags of toffees and fudge to share with my friends.
By the time I started reading Harry Potter a couple of years later, I was obsessed. Though I adored my family, I thought it deeply unfair that heading off to boarding school, to sleep in dorms, do homework around a fire, and have secret midnight feasts, was going to be denied me. I didn’t really find my crowd at school until my final years, but was convinced that being forced to all live together at school would turn enemies into the dearest friends, like the escaped mountain troll did for my favourite Hogwarts trio.
My obsession with boarding-school tuck boxes has remained into adulthood; I love sending treats through the post to someone who might be in need of them. It’s unlikely to be a grateful schoolgirl on the receiving end, but instead a sleep-deprived new mum, or a friend who’s just moved into a new home. There’s something about it that feels undeniably ‘old school’. It’s a joy to bake or make something (ideally with a long shelf life), wrap it up, and walk it down to the Post Office. So much of our correspondence happens now thanks to the wonder of the Internet, and though it allows me to stay in contact with my family, the feeling of being the recipient of a parcel in the post is impossible to replicate. It’s a service worth celebrating with a date cake.