Celtic cross and tribal sleeve on upper arm

The cross is finally up. Dad would have laughed at the state of me, mud to the elbows and a blister the size of a florin, but the men from the stonework yard had the base set true by teatime. It stands in the corner of the walled garden where the old rose bed used to be, black with the wet and grey where the sun catches the edges. Mrs Pryce from the cottage came out to look and said it was the first thing in that garden she hadn't had to pretend to admire.

You remember the carved disc that came with it, the sunburst the yard had kept in a crate since the Haddon sale. Nobody knew where it belonged. I held it against the wall above the shaft and the rays lined up with the arms of the cross as if someone had measured them a century ago. Then the band of squares and little teeth: we laid those along the path edge, one row of blocks and one of triangles, and Ferris swore the pattern was older than the church.

Tomorrow I'll plant lavender at the foot of it, the way Gran did at the old house. She said stone looks kinder with something soft growing against it. I'm not convinced, but I've stopped arguing with her about anything, even from the grave.

Write soon, and tell me if you're coming at Easter. The cross will still be here, wet and patient, waiting for someone to admire it properly.