Realistic barn owl on upper arm

The barn owl is back in the rafters of the Palais, the pale one with the face like a heart that Mr Okonedo from the council swore he'd net on Tuesday. He spent the afternoon under the beams with his hat in his hand instead, watching it watch him. I told him a barn owl won't bother with anything bigger than a vole, but nobody asks the cloakroom girl anything, so he carried on looking foolish.

Saturdays are the worst for it. After the last waltz and the lights go up, the floor is a sheet of chalk where the dancers have counted their steps, and the owl comes down quiet as a dropped glove. It walks the boards in small deliberate paces, head turning, reading the marks as if someone had left it a letter. Sam on the bandstand says it's after mice that come up through the sprung wood. I say it's looking for Walter, who taught the Saturday foxtrot for thirty years and never once missed a count.

Walter went out in March, and the owl came in the week after. I don't say that to the council men. I just take the sweeping brush down slowly and leave the chalk lines alone.

Last Saturday it dropped a single grey feather right on the mark where he always started his left foot. I didn't sweep it. It's in the glove box of Walter's old van now, and it's the nearest thing to a dance I've had since. Love, Maureen