Lace garter tattoo on the thigh

The lock keeper at Stoke Wharf has finally stopped asking after the bundle, so I can tell you what was in it. Mother's lace, the cream Brussels scrap she kept in the tea caddy, cut into a band the width of two fingers. I sewed it onto a length of grosgrain ribbon by lamplight while Dan steered us past the paper mill, and the flowers came out crooked the first time because the boat kept knocking the bank. I unpicked them. The second set were better, small five-petalled things, one to every knot.

The bow was the hard part. Every time I tied it the ends came out uneven, one trailing longer than the other, and I thought of you saying I never could do a proper bow. So I left it. The longer tail is the one that catches on the rail. Dan says it looks like a shoelace undone, which is what I told him it was meant to look like.

Mrs Harrop sent word down the towpath that she won't have the band in her shop window unless you've signed the paper. I haven't heard back from you about the paper, and the price she named is ridiculous, so I'm keeping it for now. I'll take it to the Christmas fair at Shardlow myself and we'll see who says what. Write when you get the chance, and tell Mum the cat has taken to sleeping in the coal bucket and nobody can persuade her out.

Love, Carrie