Bow and arrow finger tattoos

The Pennick apples came in early this year, so Mum has us up the ladders before six every morning, and the wasps are already drunk on the windfalls under the Bramley. I found your old bow in the shed behind the cider press. The string had gone stiff, so I waxed it with the candle end from the kitchen drawer and strung it again, which took me most of Tuesday and the better part of my patience.

Mr Oakes from the parish came by on Thursday asking whether anyone would shoot at the harvest fair. I said I would, if he could find me a target that wasn't a hay bale with Farmer Quill's name painted on it. He laughed, which he never does, and set a straw butt beside the far row where the Discovery trees lean over the lane.

I hit the centre ring twice on Saturday, though not with the first arrow. That one flew wide into the hedge, and I stood there cross enough to spit, until I remembered what you used to say about letting the bow do the work. So I breathed out, let the string go, and the arrow thudded into the straw with its feathers still shivering.

I've kept the promise we made on the orchard wall before you left, two fingers crossed and our hearts in the bargain. Come home by the first frost and I'll show you the arrow I kept for you. It's the one with the red fletching. Yours, Ada