Colourful flowers on a side ribs tattoo

The lilies came up on Thursday, all three of them, and you will not believe the colours. Mr Pardoe swore on his mother's grave that he ordered a bed of white Madonnas from the Spalding man, but what came in the crate was a bundle of bulbs with no labels. The first bloom opened the colour of a plum left on the windowsill, the second is a blue like the enamel on Mum's kettle, and the third, nearest the wall, is a red so bright it looks wet. I have stopped telling people it must be a mistake.

The grey behind them is the best part. I dug a shallow curve along the back fence instead of the box edging he wanted and raked cinders in long strokes, the way the wind combs the stubble on Hollow Field. When the stems lean, the shadows slide down the bed like the Dunmere train pulling out, all smoke and hurry, and I stand there with the trowel in my hand feeling like I'm riding in the last carriage.

Mr Pardoe came round on Saturday with his cap in his hands. The lads from the coal yard have been gawping over the fence, he said, and the vicar's wife thinks they're a judgement, and could I lift them before the fête. I said I would think on it. I have thought, and I have decided the red one is spoken for.

Come home at Whitsun and see them. Bring your good shears. If they're still standing, we'll cut the red one for your bedroom, and you can tell me what it looks like to you, because I've already decided it looks like somewhere we might go.

Your loving sister, Margaret