A Letter From Jane.

They were elderly and very poor, scratching a living from a small patch of land where a few scrawny hens laid the occasional egg. Their pleasures were scarce but they had each other. They had loved each other since they were young. A bad accident in his youth had left him with a pronounced limp but, in her eyes, he was still the tall, dark and handsome young man she had married. To him, she was still the dark haired beauty of his youth. Every Wednesday afternoon they sat, close together, on a bench in the village square.

Rose, the village seamstress, lived in a room that overlooked the square. It was a pleasant place with large trees that provided shade for those who sat on its benches. A tinkling fountain provided a musical background. It was a place of meeting for all the village.

Rose sewed for the village. She had made their wedding dresses, their children's christening gowns, all the outfits for special occasions. She was deeply loved by all, a confident for their problems, a haven for the distressed, a comfort for every possible need. Children flocked to her, perched on the feather-filled eiderdown that covered her bed, eating the biscuits she had baked fot them before she chased them back to their homes. She sat in her window sewing, intrigued by the elderly couple who sat so close together, at the same time, on the same day every week. They seemed to be waiting for someone or something.

Weeks came and went and they continued to appear every Wednesday. One Wednesday, Rose who had been watching suddenly realised what they were waiting for, when the postman appeared. He handed the lady a letter in an envelope covered with many foriegn looking stamps. She took the letter gently and held it close to her. They smiled at each other and left. Other letters arrived on other Wednesdays and each time it was the same ritual.

Rose decided to find out a little more about them. She went and saw her great friend Mary who lived in the next street. She told her about the elderly couple who so intrigued her. Mary knew a little about them. She thought their names were Jane and Tom. They had a son who was very clever and who had gone to work at the other side of the world. The letters Rose had seen were probably from him. Rose and Mary looked at each other. The older generation had seldom gone to school, perhaps they couldn't read the letters. They discussed this possibility over a pot of tea. What could they do? The old folk would be pround with the fierce pride of country people. One would have to tread very carefully and with much tact if help was to be offered. Between them they thought up a plan.

On the following Wednesday afternoon Rose went and sat on the bench in the square. Some time later the elderly couple joined her. She smiled at them and they smiled back at her.
"I'm waiting for the postman. I am expecting a parcel of material and thread" Rose explained.
"We are waiting for him too. Sometimes he brings us a letter from our son. He lives far away." replied the old man in the soft dialect of the region.

Just then the postman arrived. There was no parcel for Rose but there was a letter for the old folk. The lady held the letter tightly and suddenly her face crumpled and a tear slipped down her cheek. She looked at Rose.
"I don't even know how he is. I can't read what he writes." she said piteously. Her husband put his arm round here shoulders and eased her to her feet.
"There is no need to bother the lady, we'll manage" he said.
"That's just it. We can't" sobbed his wife.

A great wave of compassion swept over Rose. "I can read a little, just enough to manage" she whispered.
The old woman clutched at Rose's hand.
"Could you read for us?" she asked.
"I'll try" said Rose.
The woman's face lit up. "Could you come and see us? His other letters are at home. We live at nthe other end of the village."

A few days later Rose walked to the far side of the village. It was a lovely winter's day. The high mountains that surrounded the village held a dusting of snow that would eventually cover the forests that clad their slopes. She carried a container of milk and a cake. The old folk were waiting anxiously for her, standing by an old stone house in need of repair. They went in to a small room where a wood fire burned in a stone fireplace. The son's letters were proudly displayed on a table covered by a spotless tablecloth that was much darned. Rose opened the letters carefully and read them all out loud. The old folk were fascinated, asking her to go over certain passages again and again. When the reading was over they shared the milk and cake.

Before she left Rose looked at them both, took a deep breath and asked them if they would like her to answer the letters. They were astonished. They had never envisaged such a thing. They arranged to come to Rose's room the following Wednesday.

When they arrived Tom handed Rose an egg carefully wrapped in a tuft of dried grass. They discussed at length what they wanted Rose to write, changing their minds many times until, at last they agreed on what thay wanted to say. A few days later Rose took the letter to the post office in the nearby town.

The answer came weeks later and, for the first time, they were able to enjoy their son's comments on the news they had sent him, as well as share in his own news. Letter Wednesdays were to become a shared time for the three of them. Rose would refuse appointments and fittings on those Wednesdays saying she had to write a letter for Jane. The village understood.

Copyright Jacqueline Hastings 2009