Grim reaper and rose with banner on forearm

The big top came down on Tuesday in Carlisle, and I'm writing this from the back of the wagon with rain drumming on the canvas like it has a grudge. You'll want the money first, so here it is: Mr Harrowby paid us in half-crowns again and promised the rest once the Leeds bookings came through. Maud laughed at him in front of the whole company. Then he said a woman with her mouth would never hold a rope, and he didn't look at the rope when he said it. He looked at her.

So we painted the old pageant cross yellow again, the one he sold the costumes for and forgot to take with them. Maud sketched a hooded figure with a scythe standing in front of it, and above him she wrote DEATH TO in letters as tall as a child. Beneath, the strongman, who cannot spell, stitched a black banner onto canvas and asked me what the word underneath meant. I said it meant exactly what it said. He nodded slowly, the way he nods at a weight he has decided not to lift.

Harrowby found the sign at dawn and didn't say a word. He stood under it for a long while with a cup of tea going cold in his hand, the rain dripping off the edge of the canvas onto his good boots, and then he walked off towards the ticket tent without looking back. Maud says the only honest man in show business is Death, because at least he charges everyone the same and never pretends the fare is less for the ladies.

Tell Mum I'm eating properly and sleeping under two blankets. Tell her the rose on the banner was my idea, and that it has thorns, because I wanted it to.

Love, Iris