Raven with key and birdcage design

The pears came in early this year, so I've been up the ladder since Tuesday with Mrs Penrose's boy holding the bag. You'll be glad to hear the wasps have given up on the Conference trees and moved on to the plums, which is more than can be said for the raven. He's back on the top wire of the east row every morning at six, sitting there as if he pays rent.

Your grandfather would have had the gun out. I haven't got the heart. Last week the bird took the key off the nail in the tack room, the little brass one for the cage your mother brought from Ludlow, and flew off with it in his beak, a ribbon trailing behind him like a loose end off a Sunday hat. I stood in the yard and watched him go over the hedge toward Coker's, and I thought, well, that's the first thing to leave this house in a year that wasn't a bill.

The cage is still hanging on the hook by the back door, empty. I keep meaning to take it down, but it swings when the wind comes off the orchard, and the little lock catches the light, and I find I'm standing there longer than I ought.

Come up at the weekend if you can. Bring the boots. I've left you the bottom row, the one with the windfalls, and I've told Mrs Penrose's boy you're not too old to climb. The raven can keep the key. I've got a spare somewhere, I'm nearly sure of it.

Love, Nan