Butterfly and stars on an ankle

You will not credit what Mr Ambrose has done to the chapel hall ceiling. He came up on the Tuesday bus with a tin of paints the colour of boiled sweets and a ladder he kept apologising for, and Mother gave him the back room and a pot of stewed tea because the vicar's letter said he could be trusted with anything that needed brightening. He has put stars all over the plaster, pink and lilac, and one grey-blue that looks like rain thinking about stopping.

His girl Ivy trails after him with a jam jar of brushes. She is nine and wanted a butterfly in the middle of the ceiling, so he gave her one, purple and green with black lines round the edges, and it sits there now as if it might lift off if the door opens too quickly. Ivy says it has to stay near the stars or it gets lonely. Mr Ambrose said nothing at all, which for him is a sermon.

Yesterday the new curate came in with his hat still on and asked what the fuss was about. He wanted the lot whitewashed before the harvest supper. Ivy stood on the bottom rung with her arms out, and the ladder wobbled. Mr Ambrose just dipped his brush in the lilac and began drawing dotted lines from the butterfly down the far wall, with little curls at every turn, like a path for something to follow.

The curate went out grumbling. This morning the dots run right to the door, and Ivy has left a single star by the handle, pink as a sugared almond, so whoever comes in next will see the way out before they see the way in. I thought you should know, in case you ever feel this place is too small to hold anything bright. Write soon and tell me all about Leeds.

Love, Nell