Owl perched on a green diamond

The owl came back to the sorting shed again this morning and sat on the sill above the grading tables, staring at Mrs Okafor's hands as if it were counting the stones along with her. I know what you'll say. Birds are bad luck in the pits, and Dad would have had it shot. But it has never once come near the trays, and it always leaves when the whistle goes.

Mr Pryce says it is a barn owl from the old chapel roof, which would explain the pale front and those enormous yellow-green eyes that look at you as if you owe them money. He has nicknamed it Auditor. Last week it perched on the bench beside a green stone the size of a plum, a proper one, the colour of new bracken in April, and nobody breathed until Pryce had it wrapped in cloth and locked in the safe. The owl only shuffled its feathers and went back to the rafters.

The foreman claims the luck is in the stone itself, that a good green gem draws creatures the way a lamp draws moths. I think he is only trying to make us feel grander than we are, but I went down to the lower level with the lamp on Friday, the air was sweet, and I thought of you on the Ridge road, carrying the cart and whistling.

Come home at the end of the season. The owl will still be here, and so will I, watching it watch us. Mother has kept your room aired.

Love, Nell