At 69, I sold my house to travel around the world despite my children’s protests — in Australia, a man invited me to his home for coffee, but when I walked into his living room, I froze.

Not to throw the letter away. He has not thrown it away and I did not ask him to.

He wanted to see the back of the photograph.

It had been behind glass since 1981 and he had never had it out, because he was frightened of damaging it, which is a thing people of our generation do.

And on the back, in my mother's hand, in pencil, there is a line he had never seen.

The Partridges, July 1965. Hester is the one at the front — she's the one who writes the envelopes.

I did. I was nine. My mother had terrible handwriting and the addresses had to be clear, so from about 1965 I wrote the envelopes for those letters, at that table, eleven times a year, for nine years.

So the first thing of mine that man ever saw was his own name.

Hundreds of times. In a child's handwriting, getting steadily better, on every envelope that ever came to a farm school in Winnamurra with something kind inside it.