Matching swallow tattoos on two hips

The swallows came back to Saturday market the same morning as the rain, which Mr Okafor says is a sign and I say is only the weather. They nest in the iron rafters over the fish stall, and this year there are two pairs, one so new that the cock bird still chases the hen off the crossbar every time she lands.

I have Ada Brennan's stall now that her hip has finished with her. She left me the brass scales, a tin of hooks, and a folded note that reads "the swallows always know who is staying." I thought it was Ada being Ada until Tuesday, when you and Bea came down Market Street under one umbrella, soaked to the ankles, with sprigs of bay tucked through your buttonholes as if you'd been sent to check the stall was still open.

You asked me to draw the pair the way Ada drew them, on the back of a fish receipt, wings swept up and the tail curled over like a question. I did it badly at first. The line kept breaking. Then I remembered her saying you don't draw a swallow, you draw the wind it's riding, so I let the pencil run long and the curl come round on itself until it looked like the weather had been tied in a bow.

Bea says you're going to Lisbon in March and want the birds to go with you. I told her swallows never fly far in the wrong direction, they always come back to the same rafters, and she said that was exactly the point. So I'm sending the drawing, a pinch of bay, and this letter tucked inside Ada's note. Keep the scales. Come home when the rain stops.

Love, Mags