Rose with banner and scrolling vines

The lock at Dunmere has swallowed another week of our lives, and Father has finally given up on the cabin roof. The rose he painted on the bow last spring has gone wild. Its vines run up over the chimney and down the rail as if they had somewhere to be. Mam says we should cut them back before the paint suffers, but I haven't had the heart.

The banner under the rose still says what he meant it to say, though the wet has lifted the gilt from the second word. Yesterday I found a spider had strung her web between the last curl of the vine and the frayed end of the ribbon, right where the lettering turns. She had been busy all night. Every drop on the line caught the sun when it came over the towpath, bright as beads of mercury.

I sat on the step with my tea going cold and watched her for an hour. Two boats came through the lock in that time, a dog on the bank barked itself hoarse, and she never once left the thread she was working on. I asked Father whether we should move her. He said the boat was hers as much as ours, and the cut had carried worse than a spider.

So we are leaving her be. When you come up in September, look for the web before you look for me. I will have the kettle on. Give Tom my love and tell him the rose is holding its colour better than he is.

Your loving sister, Bea