Silhouetted figure in a sunset landscape

The Lowther Green fair pulled into the field behind Hollis Wood on Tuesday, and the dip tank went up before the candy floss stall had its awning tied. You'll remember Dad's rule about the high dive: nobody jumps at dusk unless the lamps are lit and somebody is holding the ladder. Last night Pell forgot the ladder. I'm writing this from the caravan steps with my boots still wet, so forgive the smudges.

She went off the platform at half seven with the sun dropping into the beeches, arms out as if she was taking a bow to nobody. The water took her clean. For a long moment there was only the sky doubled in the tank, orange on top, bruised green where the trees leaned in, and then she came up laughing and shaking her hair like a dog. The crowd clapped. Tom from the hook-a-duck stall swore he saw a heron go over at the same instant, black against the red, and I told him herons don't fly that late, and he said that was exactly what a heron would want me to think.

I keep returning to that moment, Mags. Not the dive itself, but the wait before it, when the whole field went still and every face turned toward the one figure against the light. Pell says it's her best trick because she doesn't have to do anything except stand there. Tell Nan I'm eating properly. Come in August if you can. We'll be on the Sunday pitch by the church.

Love, Iris