Robin and blossom with red hearts

The robin has taken the lamp bracket over platform two, the one by the bench where the Ashby ladies wait for the half past six. Mr Pryce wanted it swept down before the blossom came out, but I told him a bird that will sit three feet from a steam whistle has earned its keep. It stares at the timetable board as though checking whether the 6.12 is on time. Nobody has the heart to tell it that nothing on this line has been on time since the cutting flooded.

The cherry by the signal box has come out pink all at once, the way you said it would the spring before you left. I counted six buds on the low branch this morning and one already open, with its little red middle like a pin cushion. Somebody has tied two paper hearts to the fence wire, cut from a seed packet, red side out. I did not ask who. Mrs Oakes from the tea room says it is a courting thing, but I think it is only a child with a pair of scissors and too much time on a Sunday.

Here is the thing I have not written before. Last Tuesday the robin flew at the window of the waiting room, twice, the way they do when they see their own face in the glass. I went out with a broom meaning to shoo it, and it did not move. It just cocked its head and looked at me with that white ring round its eye, as though the porter was late and it had been kept waiting. I left it be. Mr Pryce can have his bracket back in October.

Come home for the blossom if you can. The last train in on Saturday gets you here at quarter to ten, and I will leave the lamp lit.

Your brother, Tom