Skull and rose on a calf

The lamps came up from Hull on Tuesday, two of them packed in straw, and Mr Abbot swore the glass was Venetian, though I'd not trust a man who sells cough sweets from a barrow. I've fixed them behind the eyes of the big skull on the ghost train, the one your mother called too cheerful for a funeral. Orange, like a pub fire seen through a bottle. When the bulbs warm up the sockets glow and the lads on the track go quiet. Fine work, if I say so, though my hands shook at the nose, where the bone is thin as a biscuit and Abbot wanted a second hole drilled for the wire.

Mrs Pryce from the tea stall brought the rose up last week. Grey paper, she called it, cut from an old wedding card and pressed flat under the mangle until the petals went soft. She said nobody should ride past death without something to smell. I told her the ride smells of nothing but hot oil and sawdust. She pinned it to the crossbar anyway, above the painted face, and now every car that comes round the bend has a flower looking down at it.

Last night the power dipped at nine and the whole track went dark except for those two orange eyes. A courting couple had stopped their car halfway round, and I heard the girl laugh, not frightened, just surprised that the dark could be lit so warm. I stood by the switch and didn't pull it. It seemed a shame to fix it.

Come home at Easter. Bring the boy. I'll show you where the wire runs.

Your loving dad, Walter