Forward fold with geometric markings on back and arm

The dodgems went up on Tuesday in the rain at Prestwick Rec, and Ada says the big wheel's hinge has started to sing again, so I know you will want to hear about the chevrons. Your father painted the chevrons on the spine of the Cyclone the summer before he died, one bright bar of gold leaf after another, each bent back on itself, so the whole thing looked like a ladder folded in half. Nobody on the fair ever knew how he got the angle so true. He used a bit of cord and a nail and never a ruler.

The new lads don't know that. They just bolt the sections on and swear at the rust. Yesterday Ruth's boy, the thin one, tried to restripe the arms with a roller and made a mess of the gold, so I took the brush off him and did the last three myself. My hands are not what they were, but the angles came back to me as if I'd put them down yesterday. Fold, hold, fold again. You stand the leaf on its edge and let the light take it.

I am writing because the fair goes to Hexham after Easter, and the Cyclone goes to the scrap man unless someone with steady hands comes back to paint it. I have not asked you for anything in six years. I am asking now. The van is still in the yard behind the chip shop, and the key is where it always was, under the cracked flowerpot by the gate.

Your mam, Nell