Black ornamental armband tattoo on forearm

The rain has been coming sideways down Sorrel Street since Tuesday, so I have moved the block-print table under the awning of the fishmonger's, and nobody minds provided I keep the cottons away from the mackerel. Mr Okafor sent a crate up from Leicester with a dozen wooden blocks wrapped in newspaper, and the one on top is the fan pattern you always wanted. Pearwood, cut so deep that the fans stand up like pleats. Grandmother's design, he says, though I don't believe a word of it.

I spent the morning pressing it onto a length of grey calico, lifting the block clean each time and counting under my breath. The flower sits at the centre and its petals curl out to the edge, and once the ink takes, the whole band goes black and bold as a lace collar. A man with a tea urn asked whether it was a dahlia or a lotus. I told him it was whatever the cutter had in mind, and he bought a metre for his sister's wedding without asking the price, which I took as a sign.

By noon the water was running off the gutters in ropes, and I thought the whole market would wash into the drain. Then the cloud split over the church tower and a thin yellow light came down on the stalls, and every wet print on the line caught it at once. You would have laughed. I stood there with a peg in my teeth like a fool.

I have pinned the last sheet above the kettle. By morning it will be dry, and the fans will still be standing, which is more than can be said for the rest of Sorrel Street.

Love, Ruth