Rayed sun with three stars on an upper arm

The big top came down on Sunday in Hexham, and nobody cried except Dad, and he only did it into the tent poles where we couldn't see. You'll want to know about the sun. Ray had it repainted before the autumn season, the way he always swore he would, eight rays fanning off the crown above the ring, each one shaded grey at the root so it looked like it was sliding out of the canvas. I held the ladder while he worked. Your old stitching is still in the third panel, the one with the torn star, though I hid it under two coats of size.

The money went in small ways after that. The lions went to a zoo in Yorkshire, the elephant to a sanctuary near Carlisle, and the band's van was sold to a man who paid in notes he counted twice. We kept the sawdust and the smell of it, and we kept performing, because a circus that stops advertising is only a field with some tent pegs in it. Ray still sent the boy out with the handbills every morning. Most of the towns just kept walking past them.

Last night we unpicked the three stars from the old banner and sewed them onto a clean square of cotton, like we used to do for birthdays. Ray sat on an upturned crate and watched me do it without saying much. When I was finished he took the square, looked at it for a long time, and asked me to keep it for whoever ends up with the pitch next year. Then he went out into the field, switched off the generator, and stood there in the dark with the plain circle of the sun above him, where the lamp used to hang.

Write when you get to Leeds. Bring thread.

Love, Mags