The Farmer & His Wife

Anne’s regular chore certainly brings back memories, says John Taylor.

IKNEW it was a Friday morning because Anne was cleaning an antique long-handled copper bed warmer, a job she does as regular as clockwork.

“John, you wouldn’t credit it, but it’s fortyeight years since we bought this in Kirkby Lonsdale,” she told me.

She lifted the lid and inside was a note. It read, To Anne and John with love, from “Aunt” Mabel.

Aunt was in inverted commas because she was an adopted aunt.

She and “Uncle” Jim meant as much to us as any blood relations.

Anne and I bought it for Aunt Mabel when we were down in Kirkby Lonsdale.

Mabel was determined that on her death it was to be handed to Anne to treasure.

Jim and Mabel were the salt of the earth. They sort of adopted Anne and me. I’ll tell you how.

I had entered a hen at the Cupar Show. It was the day I first met Anne.

I was leaning over the pen of the sheep that had been given a first class ticket when I heard, “Hello, John, have you entered some sheep?”

I looked up and there was big Jim Calder, a friend of Dad’s.

I told him I hoped to. He gave me a practical lesson on how to judge sheep.

He ended by telling me to come down to his farm any evening, and he would go round the stock with me.

On the way home from the show, I caught up with a young lady who had also been there.

She knew my name, but I didn’t like to ask her hers.

I left her at their farm gate, determined to see her again.

My problem was to find out her name. I knew the name of her dad’s farm, but who could I ask?

I decided to take up Jim’s offer to look over his stock. Over the evening, I told him about meeting the lassie.

He knew the farmer, but unfortunately, he didn’t know the lassie’s name.

Three days later he rang and asked for me.

He told me that an in-calf heifer we had looked at had calved a bull. He also took the opportunity of saying, “Her name’s Anne.”

During our courting days, Anne and I went, most Sunday nights, to take an evening meal with them. They treated us like the children they never had. ■