Live.out.loud script on the wrist

Mrs Pardoe has finally been pensioned off from the exchange, though she says it was her own decision, and I have the switchboard to myself on nights. You would laugh to see me. For six years we were told to say "number please" as if we were apologising for the call, and to keep our voices down so the subscribers in Market Street would not hear us breathing. I did it so well that Father used to say I sounded like a ghost reading out the bus times.

Last Sunday I took his cornet down from the nail in the scullery, the one he played in the Co-op band before the war. It was green with dust and one valve stuck, but I got a sound out of it that sent the hens straight up the hedge. Mrs Oddy banged on the wall. I stood in the yard with the thing in my hands and laughed until I had to sit down on the mangle.

Here is the odd part. Yesterday the postman brought a card addressed to me in a hand I did not know. Inside there was nothing but a picture of a little brass tin and the words live.out.loud along the bottom, each word followed by a full stop, as if somebody wanted every one to stand on its own. I have pinned it above the switchboard. Nobody has told me to take it down.

I am going to learn the slow part of the Londonderry Air before Christmas, and I mean to play it loud enough for Mrs Oddy to hear every note. Write and tell me if you can hear it from Canada.

Love, Margaret