Follow-up

THE letter about laundry of yesteryear (Peterborough) brought back memories of my own experience in the early days of our marriage. During the Fifties, my late husband was a herdsman and had to be up at 5am, so I used to hop out of bed and light the primus stove to make him a cup of tea, then I’d go back to bed for a couple of hours — apart from on Mondays, when I would light the copper fire and have my washing finished by the time he came home for breakfast around 10am. On the second Monday after moving to a new village, I was collecting my children from school when one lady — Mrs Last Out — called to me from her garden. ‘You’ll cop it,’ she said. ‘Why?’ I asked, mystified. ‘Getting your washing out before Mrs Oh So Proud.’ ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘I didn’t know there was a hierarchy.’ The following Sunday, we saw smoke from our neighbour’s copper chimney, and the next morning she was pegging out her washing as we were getting dressed. That evening, when I went to fetch my children for tea, Mrs Last Out was in her garden as usual. She took one look at me and slapped her hand on her knee. In fact, she laughed so much she collapsed into her garden chair. Mrs Oh So Proud always made sure she had something on her line before me — even if it was only a pair of socks or a couple of dusters. Thus life went on until they left the village. We never fell out and she never mentioned the subject to me, but the other neighbours in the row seemed to enjoy the saga.