Roaring lion tattoo on a leg

The banner came down off the Institute wall on Tuesday, torn clean through from the top corner to the fringe, and Mr Pearce says it cannot go to the strike fund nor hang again as it is. You will remember the lion. Dad carried it at the Whit walks the year before the roof came in, and it has stood behind the bench in the reading room ever since, yellow-eyed and roaring over the newspapers. The wind got under it in Thursday's gale and the tear ran straight through his mane.

I took it home on the handcart with Mrs Gallagher's lad pushing. Mam's tin of ochre is still on the dresser, so I mixed what was left with linseed and sat up two nights matching the old yellow. The claws were the hard part. Somebody had painted them in a stubby black, like a child's drawing, and I could not improve on that without spoiling it, so I left them stubby and only worked the paw underneath where the cloth had gone soft.

Ellen came round this morning and said the men will not be shamed by a rag. I told her it is not a rag, it is the lodge. She laughed and said that was the trouble with lodges. I think she is right, though I did not say so.

The banner is drying in the mangle room now, roaring at the ceiling. Come home when the shift changes and bring your boots, the drain by the lamp house is up again. The lion will look better in the lamplight than you will.

Love, Nell