Ampersand tattoo on the lower abdomen

The ampersand went up on the Harrow Lane gate this morning, and I had to stop twice because my hand would not keep still. Mr Pemberton held the ladder and said it looked like a fat little pretzel that had lost its way. I told him that was exactly what it was: a word that holds two things together without either one giving way.

The forest starts just past the last cottage, and the Ashby brothers' timber wagons come out of it every morning with their wheels caked in red clay. You know the gate, the one your mother painted with roses. The roses have gone grey and the hinge sings when the wind pushes it. I used the brush with three hairs left, the one you gave me, and drew the loop the way my father drew it on the tithe board.

When the wagons came by, the younger Ashby boy stopped and asked what it meant. I said it meant 'and'. He asked 'and what?' I had no answer, so I said it meant the road runs past the gate into the trees and comes back out again. He stared at the sign a long while, then ran off to tell his mother.

Come home at Michaelmas and bring the good sable. I'll show you the board. The paint is still tacky at the loop, so do not touch it. Yours, Nell.