The Farmer & His Wife
WONDERS will never cease! Sure you’re feeling all right, John? Are you going into hospital tomorrow?”
Those were Anne’s remarks at about five o’clock on a Friday night when she’d come back from feeding her hens and found me drying my hair.
That day had started with a fine morning of sunshine and blue skies.
Anne looked out of the window across the Forth and May Island.
“It’s going to be a braw drying day,” she declared.
We went down for breakfast. Anne mashed two mugs of tea and made two pieces of toast, then I went to do the milking.
As soon as I disappeared through the back door, Anne mounted our stairs to strip the beds.
I don’t know what her mother would have said, stripping the beds on a Friday. She always did them on a Monday.
Anne took off the pillows. No, she took off the pillow slips. Sheets, pillow slips, my pyjamas, and anything else she felt should be washed, went into our washing machine.
What her mother would have thought of such a thing, I don’t know.
I came in at about nine a.m.
“John, will you put me the hue out?” Anne meant the washing line.
I did as instructed – from the back door to a peg in the byre wall.
The back door was open and Anne stood there like Britannia, holding a dish cloth.
“John, give the line a rub. No, please, just do what I say.”
She’d seen the look on my face.
As a dutiful and loving husband, I took the cloth and wiped away.
It was later that Anne came out with:
“John, you’ve to wash your hair before you go to bed tonight. I’ve put clean pillow slips on. Yours were filthy.”
Anne can lay it on with the byre shovel when she wants. I know my pillow wasn’t filthy. Nevertheless, I haven’t lived with Anne for 50 years without knowing when she is serious.
I didn’t do it as thoroughly as Anne would have, but it’s washed.
At least I won’t dirty the pillow slips – until the next time. ■
Anne’s regular chore brings back memories, John Taylor says . . .