(gap: 2s) Each summer holiday, when the sun shone brightly over the green meadows, I would travel to stay with my dear Aunt Margaret in the countryside. Her cottage was a most delightful place, with roses climbing up the walls and a garden full of hollyhocks and foxgloves. It always felt as though the house itself was smiling in welcome. Aunt Margaret was a gentle and thoughtful lady, with kind eyes that twinkled behind her spectacles and a soft, calm voice. She was quite different from my own mother, who was always busy and brisk. Aunt Margaret had been a widow for many years, and her faith was quiet and steadfast, filling her home with a sense of peace. She worked from home, keeping the accounts for the local shops and farmers, and always found time for long walks in the meadows, listening to the birds and gathering wildflowers. Her daughter, Susan, was just my age, and we had been the best of friends since we were very small.
(short pause) On the last day of school, I would pack my little suitcase and board the bus, my heart full of excitement and a little nervousness. The journey seemed ever so long, but at last I would see Aunt Margaret and Susan waiting at the bus stop, waving happily. “There you are, dear!” Aunt Margaret would call, her arms open for a warm embrace. Susan would smile, her hair tied with a blue ribbon, and together we would walk along the winding lane to the cottage, the air filled with the scent of cut grass and the distant sound of church bells.
(short pause) When we arrived, Aunt Margaret and Susan would change into their comfortable house clothes—Aunt Margaret in a soft floral dress, Susan in a neat pinafore—and I would hurry to my little room under the eaves to do the same. The room always smelled faintly of lavender, and the bed was covered with a patchwork quilt. When I returned to the sitting room, Aunt Margaret would sometimes notice the marks left by Miss Thompson’s strict discipline at school. “Oh my, someone has been a little mischievous, I see,” she would say, her voice gentle and understanding. I would blush, wishing I could disappear, but Aunt Margaret would only smile and pat my shoulder. “We all have our moments, do we not?”
(short pause) Aunt Margaret would soon go into her little office, the door left open so we could hear the gentle clatter of her typewriter. Susan and I would slip out into the garden, where the bees hummed and the sun warmed our faces. Susan was always curious about my adventures at school, and she would ask, “What did you do this time? Was it very dreadful?” I would tell her, feeling a little embarrassed, and she would giggle, her eyes shining with merriment.
(short pause) Susan was a lovely girl—always polite and proper when her mother was near, but with a hint of daring that matched my own. A few days after my arrival, Aunt Margaret announced she must go into town for some errands. “You two must behave yourselves,” she said, giving us a serious look that was softened by a gentle smile. As soon as the door closed behind her, Susan’s manner changed. She smiled at me and said, “I think you were rather lucky at school. Perhaps you need a little more correction!” I laughed, trying to sound brave, though my heart beat a little faster.
(short pause) Susan sat down primly on a chair and patted her lap. “Come along, then!” she said, her voice full of pretend authority. I hesitated, but her laughter was so cheerful that soon I found myself lying across her knees, wriggling as she gave me a few gentle, playful pats. “There! That is for being cheeky to Miss Thompson,” she declared. I squealed and kicked my legs, but it was all in good fun, and we both burst into laughter.
(short pause) Susan’s playful pats were light and gentle, more like a game than anything serious. She was always careful, and I knew she was only pretending to be strict. “Now, you must promise to be good,” she said, her voice full of make-believe sternness. I nodded, trying not to smile, but soon we were both laughing again, the room filled with our happy giggles.
(short pause) Suddenly, Susan stopped and helped me up, her cheeks rosy with excitement. For a moment, I wondered if I had upset her, but she only smiled and took my hand. “Let us go to my room and play with the dolls,” she said, and we hurried upstairs, our laughter echoing down the hall.
(short pause) We were deep in a game of make-believe when the door creaked open. There stood Aunt Margaret, her shopping basket still on her arm, her expression serious. “Girls,” she said quietly, “come with me to the sitting room, please.” My heart sank, and Susan’s hand held mine tightly. We followed her downstairs, our heads bowed.
(short pause) In the sitting room, Aunt Margaret sat in her favourite armchair and looked at us both with kind but serious eyes. “I am very disappointed,” she began, her voice gentle but firm. “You both know how important it is to treat each other with respect and kindness. Play is all very well, but we must never make light of discipline or forget our manners.” Susan’s eyes filled with tears, and I felt a lump in my throat.
(short pause) Aunt Margaret asked Susan to stand by the armchair. “You first, Susan,” she said softly. As was the custom in her house, she gave Susan a gentle reminder—a few firm but fair pats, just enough to bring a tear to Susan’s eye and a promise to do better. Then it was my turn. I stood bravely by the chair, remembering Aunt Margaret’s discipline from summers past. She was never harsh, but her lessons always stayed with me.
(short pause) Afterwards, Aunt Margaret spoke to us kindly, her voice full of understanding. “We all make mistakes, but what matters is that we learn from them,” she said. She sent us to our rooms to reflect, and I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what I had done. The house was quiet, except for the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
(short pause) That evening, as the sun set behind the hills and the sky turned a soft pink, Aunt Margaret called us downstairs. She had baked a special tea—warm scones with strawberry jam and a pot of strong, sweet tea. Afterwards, we dressed in our Sunday best and walked together to the little village church. The air was cool and fresh, and the church bells rang out across the fields. Inside, the pews were polished and the air smelled of old wood and lilies. Susan and I knelt side by side, our heads bowed, as Aunt Margaret encouraged us to pray and think about how we could be kinder and more thoughtful in the days to come.
(short pause) The most wonderful thing about Aunt Margaret was that, once we had been corrected and had asked for forgiveness, she never mentioned our mistakes again. The next morning, life returned to its gentle rhythm—breakfast in the sunny kitchen, games in the garden, and long walks through the fields. Susan and I were a little shy for a few days, but Aunt Margaret watched over us with her usual care, her eyes twinkling whenever we caught her gaze.
(short pause) Many years have passed since those golden summers. Aunt Margaret left us about ten years ago, but Susan and I still write to each other, sharing memories of our childhood adventures. Not long ago, Susan told my wife the story of our little escapade, and my wife only smiled and shook her head. “You must be on your very best behaviour,” she said, her eyes full of gentle mischief. And sometimes, when I hear the church bells on a Sunday morning, I remember those days with a smile, grateful for Aunt Margaret’s gentle lessons and the warmth of her love.
