Black and grey roses and pocket watch sleeve

The rain has not let up since Tuesday, and the pitch by the fish hall is more puddle than pavement. I have set the watches out on the green baize anyway, because Mr Okonedo from the jeweller's across the lane says a wet market is the only honest market, since only people with a real reason come out in it. Nobody is buying. Three roses sit in a jam jar beside the till, bought from the flower man at dawn for a pound each, and they are already dropping petals onto the cash tin.

Yesterday a lad came asking for a pocket watch with a cracked crystal. He wanted it running for his grandad's funeral, he said, and he counted out coins from a sock. I told him the movement was sound but the hands had been bent by someone who did not know better. I straightened them with my tweezers while he watched the water run off the awning. When I gave it back he held it to his ear the way your father used to, and he said it sounded like a train that did not need to be anywhere in a hurry.

Here is the thing I keep turning over. The compass in the old brass case, the one you always said was pointing wrong, was never broken. Your father set it by the harbour wall the year we married, and he swore north had moved. I still do not believe him, but I keep it wound all the same.

Come on Saturday if the weather clears. Bring the good scissors and the pearls from your mother's drawer. We will string them with the roses, and you can tell me whether the hour or the direction matters more to a person who has stopped going anywhere.

Love, Ruth