Peony and lily of the valley on upper arm

The big peony by the gate opened on Tuesday, the morning after the north wind finally dropped. By Thursday it had gone heavy and loose, its petals folding over each other like the good linen Mother kept for funerals. I cut the one bloom that was still tight and put it in the jug on the net loft windowsill, so you'll have something to look at when you come in past the breakwater.

The lily of the valley is up under the north wall where you said it would be. Mrs Harker from the chandlery came round to see what the fuss was and told me, as if I hadn't already been warned, that every part of the plant is poison, leaves and bells and all, so keep your hands away from your mouth. The bells hang in rows along the stems, small as drops off a ladle, and the leaves are already broad enough to shelter a hen.

I dug up the clump from Granny's bank before the frost could get to it, and wrapped the roots in wet sacking. It's in the crate by the door with the label in your handwriting. Plant it somewhere the sun won't reach until midday, the way she always did, and it will come back every spring no matter how far off you are.

Mr Ellery says peonies need leaving alone for three years before they bloom properly. I told him I've waited twenty for this one and can manage three more. Come home before the bells drop.

Your loving sister, Nell