The Farmer & His Wife

John Taylor admires Anne’s skill with letter-writing.

ANNE is the best writer of letters I’ve ever known. I wish I could put words on paper the way she does.

How she acquired the art I’ll never know. She left school when she was thirteen.

I’m afraid I fell out with her younger brother one night because of this. He’d phoned to tell her that Sarah, a farmer’s wife, had died. Would Anne drop her husband a line?

I was irritated that her family still relied on her to this extent. I’m afraid I was quite rude.

“Bill, why don’t you write? Why expect Anne to do it?”

When Anne came in from shutting up her hens, I told her what I’d said to her brother. She was not amused. “John, I’ve always done it!” “Why can’t they write for themselves?”

There was no answer to that. But have you ever noticed how, in a large family, one individual will take on the job of scribe?

Anne and I both enjoy writing letters, but I’m a storyteller. Anne would have been a good Agony Aunt.

She’s helped a lot of people over those difficult times when their loved one is no longer with them. On those occasions I’m relegated to the role of checking difficult spellings in the dictionary!

What has killed the art of letter-writing, I think, is that machine called a telephone. It’s so easy to pick it up and chat!

If we’ve been out to dinner, Anne always writes to our hostess. She says it shows more breeding, whatever that means, to write, saying how we enjoyed the evening. She often asks for a recipe. She has a fantastic collection of recipes, but there’s always room for one more, she says.

“Wasn’t it nice of Anne to take the trouble to write?” they usually say to their husbands, who mention it to me the next time we meet! And, of course, I tell Anne . . .

Most times Anne uses those little notelets. At the moment, ours have an illustration of a Herdwick sheep on the front. These sheep only live in the Lake District and I bought the first packet when we were on holiday down there.

When we’re sitting quietly in the evening, Anne will often look at me.

“I bet Alice is lonely after John’s death. I’ll drop her a line.”

And out come the notelets . . . Alice is delighted. We know, because she tells us she doesn’t get many letters.

Can you think of anyone who might like a note? Just to show you’re thinking of them?

And don’t say you’ll do it tomorrow! Tomorrow never comes. Do it tonight!

Go on – bring a bit of joy to someone you really care about . . .