Pocket watch, angel wing and lily design

The shop on Harrow Street has been shut since Tuesday, and I wear the key on a string round my neck like a pendant I can't take off. Mr Ashby's pocket watch is still on the bench where he left it, lid open, hands at twenty to four. He had it open when he dozed off over the escapement, and I haven't had the nerve to close the case. Customers press their faces to the glass and ask if we're open. I tell them the clocks are resting.

Yesterday the flower man came up from the market with his barrow, as he does on Thursdays, and left a bunch of white lilies on the step without a word. Their pollen got everywhere. I found a dusting of gold on the watch glass that I couldn't wipe off without taking the glass out, so I left it. Mrs Ashby sent round a string of pearls from her jewellery box, the ones she wore to the Mechanics' Institute dances, and asked me to put them in the case with him. I haven't. They're in my apron pocket, clicking against the bench whenever I lean.

He always said a watch only tells lies when nobody winds it. So this morning I wound it, very gently, the way he taught me, and it ticked. Twenty to four became ten past. I sat on the floor among the lilies and laughed until my ribs ached.

I'm enclosing the pearls in this envelope, so you'll have to take them round to Mrs Ashby for me. Tell her the watch is running. Come home in the spring if you can, and bring the good oil.

Your loving brother, Tom