Single palm tree in black ink

The lorry gave up outside Weston again, so we're parked on the common until a part comes up from Bristol, and that's left me with nothing to do but rummage. Dad sent me to the back of the generator van for paint tins and I found the old sea backdrop rolled up behind them, the one with the palm tree. You'll remember it from the Ferris wheel booth, the one Nan painted the summer before she stopped climbing ladders. The varnish has yellowed and the sky has gone the colour of weak tea, but the tree still leans out over the water as if it has spotted something on the horizon and wants a closer look.

Dad unrolled it across the grass and went quiet for a long time. The trunk is the part that worries him. Nan gave it that slow bend, thicker at the root, as if the wind had been pushing on it for years, and nobody since has got the curve right. Mum says it's because Nan never drew a straight line in her life. We spent the afternoon with a fine brush and a jar of burnt umber, feathering the fronds back in, one drooping stroke at a time, and the tree came up out of the canvas darker than I'd remembered.

This evening we hung it on the back wall of the caravan so the lamp could catch it, and Dad sat in front of it with his tea going cold, not saying much. I think the tree is his favourite thing we own, more than the wheel and more than the lorry. It's got no fruit and no shade worth mentioning, but it stands there bending toward somewhere better.

Come down when the season starts and see it. Bring your good brushes, the ones you left in the drawer.

Love, Fern