Fine line branch arc on a forearm

You will not believe what I have done with the hedge behind the Church Hall. Dad would have skinned me. Last Saturday, when the band packed up and Eddie Sayer had gone off with the accordion, I stood in the lane with my shoes in my hand and watched the moon catch on the hawthorn. There was a long whip of it that had come down in the wind, bent over like a bow, and the two ends had crossed where they met the ditch.

I carried it home under my coat. Mother said it was a rubbish thing to bring into a kitchen, and I said it was only a bit of tree, and she laughed at me in that way she has. I stripped the little side shoots so the thin ones would stand out, then tied the crossed ends with blue wool from the mending basket. It took me three evenings. Every time I went to the hall after that I checked the lane, and Jack Pulley, who works the fields behind the bakery, told me I was daft to fuss over a twig.

Last Saturday, though, he was waiting by the gate with his cap in his hands, and he asked me to dance the last waltz. I said yes before I could think about it. We went round twice under the paper lanterns. When the music stopped, he looked down at the bent wood I had pinned to my coat and said it looked like a crown somebody had forgotten to collect.

I have decided I shall keep it. The blue wool is nearly worn through already, but the shape still holds, and I think that counts for something.

Love, Peggy