Ornamental wolf head on forearm

The last of the Marlowe Brothers Travelling Show folded its tent in Carlisle on Tuesday, and the wolf is the only one of us who doesn't seem to mind. Pa's old feather banner is still hanging from the lorry's tailgate where Dunstan nailed it, the peacock-blue plumes gone the colour of wet slate. Mrs Greaves from the council says the field is to be sold for houses by spring, so there is no ring any more, only the sawdust under the canvas that we swept into a sack for want of anywhere else to put it.

Lupa is eleven now and goes grey around the muzzle like the rest of us. She still walks the circle every night before the lamps go out, slow, head high, the way she did when the crowds stood three deep and bought toffee apples to throw at the wagons. Nobody has asked her to perform since the bank took the big top's pole. I think she is only keeping the ground honest.

Yesterday I found the old ringmaster's collar in the bottom of the trunk, the one with the flame-shaped brass and the feathers Pa glued on at the seams. I tried it on in the caravan mirror and looked like a hatstand. Then I saw Lupa watching from the door with her ears back, and I knew she thought I was about to start the show. I had to take it off and sit on the step for a while.

We are selling the wagons in March. Lupa goes to a sanctuary near Penrith, where they have a paddock and a man who talks to the animals as if they were solicitors. Come up before then. Bring your boots. I want you to see the ring one more time before the grass takes it back.

Love, Nell