Hot air balloon with flowers on the upper back

The balloon went up over Hollis Common on Tuesday, the first proper lift since Mr Varley's burner was fixed, and I held the guy ropes myself because Dad's hands were too cold to feel the knots. Teal and navy panels, the old stripes Mum painted by hand the summer before she left, and the dotted seams she insisted on so the children could count them from the ground. Half the village came out. Nobody asked where the basket had come from, only whether we'd be taking passengers.

Passengers were the trouble. We had room for two in the wicker, and Dad said the roses on the rim were to stay put, pink and sprung-looking as they are, because a basket of roses is what sold the ride to the Whitcombe girls in the first place. They paid in pennies and wanted a photograph. I told them the clouds were the best part, which is true, because from up there they look like someone has gone round the edges of the sky with a stiff brush and a bit of lamp black.

The little silver aeroplane came down the valley just as we rose, low and cheeky, trailing its dotted line of smoke like it was drawing us a map. Dad swore it belonged to the Brennan brothers and their dare. I think it was only passing. We waved, it wagged its wings, and then it was gone over the ridge with the birds scattering out from under it.

We came down in Farrow's top field at dusk, the burner ticking as it cooled. I have never landed so softly. Write back and tell me whether the stripes still look green from your window. I want to know the balloon is still up there somewhere, even if it's only in your kitchen.

Love, Ada