Pen PALS

They had known each other for years, but would they ever meet?

- Barbara Compton

What are you doing?’ Carla, my granddaughter, is looking over my shoulder. She's nosy, like her mother.

‘Writing a letter.’

‘You're joking! What's wrong with email or text?’

Her jeans are full of rips and holes, like she's found them in a skip.

‘Because I've always written. Marguerite and I have exchanged letters for the last 50 years. She's my pen pal.’

Carla looks puzzled. ‘Pen pal. Is that part of PayPal?’

It started when I was 16, as a way to improve my French. And boy, I needed some help! I'd done badly in my latest exam.

‘I wasn’t bottom of the class!’ I said to my parents as they scrutinised my school report. It had one theme... ‘Could do better’.

‘No, next to the bottom,’ Dad said.

He was far from impressed. He found Marguerite via an advert for penfriends in a Sunday newspaper. ‘Make new chums and sharpen your language skills’.

We sent pictures of each other, our homes and pets. Marguerite lived in Paris, in an elegant apartment overlooking the River Seine. She had a pet chihuahua.

I lived in a modern semi, with a greedy yellow Labrador. Marguerite was petite and dark-haired. Her clothes were tailored and chic. I've always been on the chunky side.