Cheshire cat teacup with mushrooms

The blue caps came up under the bean rows again on Tuesday, four of them in a ring round the old teacup Mother buried, and this time the cup has its grin back. You will laugh, but it looks pleased with itself. Mr Pargeter from the lodge says it is only the damp, and then he says it again more quietly, as if he is not sure who he is telling.

I have been tending the bed as you asked, though I confess I spend more time with my back against the wall than with the hoe. The writing round the rim has grown fainter since the frost, but I can still read it from the path: WE'RE ALL MAD HERE. Mother thought that was a fine thing to paint on a cup. Father thought it was an advertisement for the cellar. I used to think it was a warning, until the summer you went away to be a governess and I started to believe it was an invitation.

Last night I sat out with a lamp and counted the eyes, two turquoise ones that never quite close, and the teeth, which I am sure are more numerous than they were in May. I said good night to the cup. It said nothing, which is more than the vicar managed. In the morning there was a fifth mushroom, pale as a teaspoon, and a sprig of thyme laid neatly on the path, as though someone had come through the gate in their sleep and left a gift.

Come home at Michaelmas if you can. Bring your sense. I shall keep the kettle on, and I shall not be surprised if it boils over on its own.

Your loving sister, Harriet