Lion and lotus on a thigh

The lock keeper at Hythe Bridge says the cut will be frozen by Thursday, so I have hauled the Patience into the lee of the willows and I am writing this with my boots up on the stove rail. You will laugh, but the lion came back to me this week. Not a real one, obviously, but the old painted board that hung over the wheelhouse on Father's boat, the one with the mane gone brown at the edges. I found it in the bilge of the Mary Ellen when we scrapped her at Brentford, wrapped in oilcloth.

Mrs Oduya at the chandlery offered me four pounds for it and I told her it was not for sale. She said I was being sentimental. Perhaps I am. Every evening the water sends up its pale flowers along the bank, and I cannot stop thinking that Father painted the lotus only because the pond at Chiswick was full of them the summer he courted Mum, though he never once admitted that.

I am sending the board back to you with the post, wrapped tight, because you always said the lion ought to face the land and not sit in a dark hold. Hang it where the light comes in. Keep the damp off the paint and do not let the children pick at the grey shadows on its face.

The petals on the water are going under the ice already. Write soon, and tell me whether the Mary Ellen's engine still knocks like a bad tooth.