Dotwork flower with stem on the stomach

The big top came down in Shrewsbury on Tuesday, though the posters still say Ashworth's Grand Continental until the paint wears off. Mother sold the last of the elephants to a farm near Wem and kept the dahlia wagon, which is the only sensible thing anyone has done since Father died. You'll remember the dahlias, the ones he grew in dotted pots behind the ring so the children would not step on them.

Mr Petrie has taken to painting the stems on the canvas banners in black ink, pricked through with a needle so each petal becomes a scatter of little holes. He says it is cheaper than silk and reads better under the lamps. I told him the audience will not come for the lamps. They come for the one bloom that opens at the end of the act, the white one with its pale heart, when the lights go down and the band stops. Last night it did not open. The wire had rusted, and nobody noticed until the hush had gone on too long.

I went out with pliers and a torch and found a moth caught in the seam of the stalk, dusted grey and still trying. I let it go over the wall. Then I fixed the wire, and the flower came up slowly, petal by petal, while a dozen people in the back rows stood to see.

Come home before the autumn fair. Bring your good boots. We have one more season, and I would rather spend it watching you watch me than pretend the tent still stands.

Love, Ruth