Sauvée script word on upper arm

The big top came down on Tuesday in a wind off the Mersey, and Mr Vell stood in the mud with his hat in both hands as if waiting for a verdict. Eleven of us are left. The elephant went to a farm near Rhyl in March. The takings cover diesel for the lorry and not much else, and the bank has sent a letter with a red stripe down the side, which Ada says is the colour of a warning, not a joke.

We played the village hall at Ashby Parva because nobody else would have us. Forty people came, mostly pensioners who wanted something to shout at. Ada went up the rope ladder to the rafters for the wire walk, which should not be allowed in a hall with a sprung floor, and halfway across she sat down on the cable and would not go on. Nobody moved. Then a girl of about eight in the front row stood up and said, very clearly, "You're nearly there," and Ada laughed so hard she almost came off.

Afterwards Vell took a brush and a pot of gold leaf and painted one word along the side of the ticket wagon, the letters loose and running into each other: sauvée. I asked him what it meant. He said saved, then said that was the trouble with French, it made every hope sound like a fact.

I'm sending you the last of my wages with this. Don't argue. Come to the field at Halton on Saturday if you can, and bring the kids. We open at two, and for once I think somebody will be there to see us land.

Love, Nell