Open clam shell with pearl and bow

The rain came in off the river at half past five, and by seven the whole of Dock Street market was slopping about in an inch of grey water. I have set the last of the shells out on a blue tarp under the gutter, the teal ones with the pink lips, and tied a violet ribbon round the box so people can see what they're paying for. Mr Okonedo's awning has gone up and down three times already, so I am writing this on the back of a crate of cockles. Forgive the smudges.

Mrs Calloway came by at nine with her umbrella inside out, asking whether the big pearl was real. I told her the shell had been opened by a man in Ramsgate who swore it came from a Cornish bay, which is a lie, and she bought it anyway for her granddaughter's birthday. She wanted a bow to go with it, the colour of marmalade and lilac, so I tied one on and tucked a card in the knot. The girl wants to be a jeweller, she said, and I think she will be.

The pearl itself I kept back. It sits on a saucer on my windowsill, pale as a boiled sweet, and every morning the light through the wet glass makes it look as if it is breathing. I have not decided whether to sell it or to write to the old diver at the harbour who first told me the good pearls come up the estuary with the spring tides.

Come down at Easter. Bring that umbrella you never use, and we will go shell hunting at low water before the crowds. Your loving sister, Win.