Lion and crown tattoos on two forearms

Mam says the post goes through three hands before it reaches the coast, so I won't write about the strike, only the lion. Mr Carrick has finally had the sign over the Lion and Crown repainted. He stood on the ladder all of Tuesday with a tin of ochre and a brush no bigger than a clay pipe, and when he came down the crown was gold, or what he called gold, a mix of brass polish and the yellow from Mrs Dunn's marigolds. The old beast had faded to the colour of a wet fox. Now it looks as if it could stroll down the High Street and ask for a pint.

The lads from the lamp room came in on Saturday and paid a penny each to stand close to it. Billy Shaw folded his arms the way he does and said the smaller lion beneath the crown was the spit of his brother who went to Canada. Nobody laughed. Mr Carrick said lions never leave the pride, they just get sent to a different one. He's been saying things like that since the gas explosion took his two boys, and the village lets him, because what else is there to do.

I took a bit of charcoal to the chapel wall last night and drew a crown the size of my hand, then a lion's head under it, badly. I wanted to see if I could manage it from memory. I couldn't. The mane kept turning into hair and the eyes came out wrong. I've folded the drawing into the back of the hymnal so you can show me where I went astray when you're home.

Come back by the Thursday shift and walk up past the sign. You'll see the gold has already started flaking where the rain gets under it. Mr Carrick says that's only proper.