Spartan helmet silhouette

The helmet came off the lorry at Sudbury with the rest of the Trojan booth, wrapped in a feed sack and smelling of paraffin. Dad had painted it black years ago, back when the booth was still called the Ancient Wars and nobody on the midway knew what a Corinthian was. Mrs Ferrier at the chip van swears the crest is real horsehair. I told her it's nylon off a broken mop, and she said that's what they'd say.

I spent three evenings on it with a tin of gloss and a fine brush, picking out the highlights where the metal would catch the lamplight. You can't paint white onto black without it looking like a ghost, so I went thin, one stroke at a time, following the ridge over the cheek guard. Dad always said the trick with a silhouette is to leave the light alone and let the dark do the work.

Yesterday a boy of about seven stood in front of the booth for ages, not looking at the coconuts at all. He asked whether the man who used to sit inside had been a real soldier. I said I didn't know, which was true. Then he asked if the helmet still fitted anyone, and I had to say nobody had worn it since before the war.

I'm sending you the old reel of the big wheel at night too, the one you wanted. Tell Ma the cough is no worse. I'm keeping the helmet on the top shelf of the van, where it's cold and the crest won't crack.

Love, Nell