Carousel horse with ribbons on ribs

The horse is finished, though you'd not know it from the state of my hands. I spent all of Tuesday on the gilt around the bridle, using the same fine brush Dad used before me, and the paint kept skinning over before I could get the gold to sit. Mr Pascoe from the ground crew says I'm too fussy, that nobody on the switchbacks looks at the bridle. I told him the children do. They lean out on the way round and look you straight in the eye, and I wanted the bridle to be worth that.

The ribbons were the trouble. Dad always said a carousel is three things: the horses, the organ music and the pole that holds it all together, and the ribbons are what make the pole look like it's dancing. I painted teal and gold spirals the length of the twisted brass. Then Mrs Okafor from the candyfloss stall came by with a cup of tea and asked why the red heart was on the saddle and not in the mane. I said because the heart was Dad's. He carved it the winter Mum left and never told anyone why.

Tonight the fair packs up in Bristol and the horse goes into the van wrapped in old blankets. I stayed behind to sit on the platform in the dark with the generator ticking. The lamps had dimmed to a handful of bulbs, and the rearing horse still threw its head up at nothing. I stood on the step and gave the pole a push with my hand, just to hear the old boards turn. It sounded like someone humming. I expect that's only the wind, but I've decided not to tell Mr Pascoe.

Love, Peg