Ornate lotus flower design in brown line art

The rain has been coming sideways down Harrow Lane since seven, and I have sold nothing but a bag of clothes pegs and one umbrella to a man who wanted it for his dog. Dad's old tin of stencils is still under the trestle, the ones he cut from card in the back room of the shop. You remember the lotus. He cut it with a craft knife, pricked the petals with a needle so the dots came through, then went over the holes with a pot of ochre. He said you could pounce a whole bridal hand in four minutes if your wrist was steady.

Yesterday a boy of about twelve stood under the awning with his hood up and watched me unroll the cloth. He didn't ask the price. He asked whether the lotus was meant to open or close, because the petals looked like they were folding in on themselves. I told him I didn't know, that Dad never said. He nodded as if that was an answer and went off through the puddles towards the bus stop, his trainers squelching.

This morning there was a folded square of paper pinned under the stone at my stall. On it, in careful pencil, he had drawn the same flower with the petals spread wide and little dots floating either side of the top one, like rain stopped mid-fall. Underneath he'd written: open, I think. Keep the stencil dry.

I've put it in the tin with Dad's cards. The rain is easing now, so I might walk down to the bus stop and see if he's still waiting there.

Love, Rosa