Pink gladiolus tattoo on the shoulder

The gladioli came up along the back wall of Mrs Pryce's allotment the same week you left, as if they had been waiting to be told. I cut the first spike on Thursday and carried it down Chapel Lane wrapped in the Gazette, and the whole shop smelt of wet earth and that sharp green note they have. Mr Dunning at the post office said he had never seen such pink in September. I told him it was the rain.

Your mother came round on Saturday with a jam jar of her own bulbs, pale ones she swears are from her cousin in Ledbury, and she asked after you before she asked after the weather. I said you were well and working nights at the Co-op depot, which is true, and that you sent your love to the garden, which is not something you ever said, but I thought it would do no harm to say it.

The bud at the bottom of the spike has not opened yet. It is closed tight as a fist, and I keep checking it before bed, the way you used to check the kettle. I think it will open once the frost has gone, and then I will cut it and bring it to the station so you can see it on the platform when the 4.15 comes in. Don't tell me it is too cold for flowers. They climbed the wall anyway.

Yours, with the mud still on my boots, Edie