Dotwork lotus tattoo behind the ear

The dealer brought the chandelier up from Whitby on Tuesday wrapped in three old blankets and a tea towel with a hen on it. Half the drops were gone, the rest furred with grime, and the brass crown had been painted over by somebody who never meant it to last. Under the muck, though, the lotus at the top was still there, eight petals of cut glass set in a ring, each one faceted so finely that the lamp light broke into dots across the ceiling. Mr Pryce wanted it made bright again for the Harrowgate ballroom by Saturday. I told him it would take a month. He said I had a week.

I have spent every evening since on my stool under the skylight, counting beads. There are one hundred and twelve drops on the lower tier, each threaded on a fine chain of blackened steel, and every chain ends in a jet bead no bigger than a pea. The original maker must have sat exactly where I sit now, stringing them one at a time and never once hurrying, because the spacing is perfect to a hair. I started to resent him, and then I started to admire him, and last night I found myself humming while I wired the last strand.

On Friday the dealer came to collect it and stood looking up with his hat in his hands. He asked what I had done. I said nothing much. I had only rehung what was already there, dot by dot, the way the first man must have done.

I hope the weather is kinder at the coast. Give Mum my love and tell her the hen towel is coming home with me, because I have decided I like it.

Love, Ada