Peacock feathers and lion on the ribs

The customs man at Halcombe opened the tin twice, once for the peacock feathers and once for this letter, and he read every line with his thumb holding the page flat. I told him they were for my brother. He asked which brother, as if we were a large family and he had a list.

The feathers came from the aviary behind Mrs Okafor's house on Quarry Lane, the one with the bent gate. The old bird moults in March and drops them in the nettles, and I gathered eleven before the cat took an interest. Three made it into the tin. The eyes still catch when you tilt them to the window, green going to teal, with that orange ring the colour of the lamp in our kitchen.

You asked in your last letter whether the lion still stands on the flag at the bottom of the hill. He does, though somebody daubed his tail in red last spring and the paint has run into the green. I have copied out the line Papa used to say when the bus was late, that you feel as if the whole road is waiting on you, and written it small along the margin so you can read it without the magnifier.

The officer stamped the envelope and said it would go on Tuesday's post. I said Tuesday was fine. Keep the feathers somewhere dry, and when the light comes through your blind, hold them up and count the eyes. I left eight in the nettles for the cat. Write back soon and tell me which way the wind is blowing over there.

Love, Ilse