Butterfly and leafy branch line design

The lino in the back room is finally down, and Mr Halloran says the damp patch on the wall will dry out by Whitsun if we keep the window open, which is what he said about the cellar too. I have been sweeping the shop every morning since you left for Leeds. Every morning a black and white butterfly comes in through the open door and goes straight for the bucket of hawthorn Dad left by the till, as if it has an appointment.

Yesterday I cut a stem from that hawthorn to bring to Mrs Ackroyd, who asked for something green for her windowsill. The butterfly came with it. It settled at the very tip of the branch, folding and unfolding those heavy wings, and it would not be shaken off, not by the bell over the door or by my hand flapping at it. I walked the whole length of Church Street with it riding there like a passenger, and Mrs Ackroyd only laughed and said it knew a good cutting when it saw one.

It is still on that branch now. I have put the stem in a jar on the back shelf, out of the draught, and I have stopped sweeping near it. The leaves have started to go the colour of old pennies, but the butterfly has not moved in three days. I keep thinking I should be frightened, and I am not. I am only waiting to see whether it will go when it is ready, the way you did.

Come home at Whitsun and tell me it is only a moth.

Love, Ida