Geisha with parasol across a full back

The parasol came up from Hartlepool on Tuesday in brown paper, tied with the same twine Father uses on the lamp cords, and I have not yet had the heart to open the box in the front room. Mam says it is no use to us, a thing made for sun in a country that never sees any, but she has dusted it twice a day all the same.

Here is what the carrier would not tell you. The ribs are bamboo, thin as a hair, and when Dad opened it under the lamp the paper gave a sound like a breath let out slowly. He said the painting on the underside shows a woman holding it up against a rain of black ink, the water running down from the hem in long drips, and that her mouth and eyes are painted red the way the girls at the Welfare do theirs on a Saturday. Mam told him to put it away before the whistle went.

Dad went down on Monday and did not come up until the evening shift, black to the eyebrows. He stood in the scullery and asked me to hold the thing open while he washed. I did. The paper went taut over the bamboo and the kitchen light fell through it in a grid, so for a moment the whole scullery was striped like a cage. He said nothing and neither did I. Then the water in the bowl turned grey, and he laughed for the first time since the roof came down at Eppleton.

Write soon and tell me whether the sea air in Bristol has done anything for that cough.

Your loving sister, Nell