Elephant raising a branch on the lower back

The elephant came through the hedge on Tuesday, the same afternoon the Pickering boys cut the wire on the travelling fair's pen. Nobody had told us there was an elephant anywhere in the county. Your grandad was up the ladder picking Discovery apples and nearly went over backwards when the calf stepped onto the orchard path as calm as a vicar on his way to evensong.

She was young, hardly taller than the cider press, and she walked with her trunk held high, sniffing the air as though someone in the village owed her money. Whenever she passed a bough heavy with late summer fruit she curled the tip round a sprig of leaves, lifted it clean off the wood, and carried it aloft like a lantern. The men from the fair came up the lane shouting about permits and insurance. She ignored them and went on sampling the trees one at a time.

Your grandad climbed down, took a windfall from the grass, and held it out on his flat palm. She considered it for a long while. Then she took it so gently that the wasps barely stirred off the fallen fruit. Those men were still arguing when she turned and wandered back towards the lane, her ears flapping, a green sprig raised above her head as if she meant to show the whole village what she had been given.

I watched until the dust from her feet hung red over the hedge and the leaves went out of sight. Come home soon. The Bramleys are ready and your grandad has started talking about elephants again.

Love, Nan