Colourful butterfly with paint splash on upper back

The tin of teal arrived at Mum's on Tuesday with no note, just a Lyme Regis postmark, and I knew it was Dad's before I opened it. The lid was welded on with old paint, so I carried it out to the garden and worked a screwdriver round the rim while the kettle went cold on the step. Inside, the teal had skinned over like custard, but underneath it was still wet enough to lift.

You remember the fairground ride he painted the year before the flood, the one with swings shaped like swallows? He never signed his work. He said a painter who signed was a painter who wanted to be paid twice. But he flicked a small butterfly onto the corner of everything he touched, one stroke of ultramarine and a dab of lemon, so a sharp eye could find him. Mrs Abernethy at the chippy still has one on her shutter.

Here is the thing I went out to the garden to tell you. The splash on the lid is the same splash he dragged across the canvas of the old pie cart, the one the council wanted for the bonfire. I have held that blue in my hand all afternoon and I cannot make it look like anything but a wing.

Come up at the weekend. Bring the good brushes. We will see whether the colours still take.

Love, Nell