Rose stencils with cartoon faces

The tracing paper arrived this morning, rolled tight inside a cardboard tube with a bus ticket taped to the end, so I know Mr Okafor's boy must have carried it over from the parcel office. Two roses, both drawn by the same careful hand, and in the middle of each one a face that could only belong to a cartoon. One has round eyes and a long snout, like a dog who has seen too much of the world. The other is a boy under a hat with his mouth open mid-shout. Father always said the rose was for lovers, but I think he would have been happier with the hatched leaves, which are the only part of the drawing that looks done in a good mood.

The platform clock stopped at ten past four on Tuesday and nobody has bothered to fix it. I stand beneath it with the two sheets pressed flat between my palms and count the trains. Eleven so far. Each one brings a crowd of strangers who glance at the leaves and then at me, as though I had drawn them myself. A woman in a green coat asked whether the dog was meant to be a real dog. I told her he was the best sort of friend, the kind who waits at the bottom of the stairs with his tail going.

The 4.40 for Carlisle is late again, so I have time to say the thing I should have said at the funeral. Those drawings are not for a grave. They are for a fresh start, which is a phrase Father would have disliked, and which is why I am sending them to you.

Keep the second sheet. Come up on the Saturday train and we will take it to the shop on Fenwick Street together, and you can choose which face you want to carry about with you.

Yours, Maggie