Standing figure within an A-shaped frame on a wrist

The crows have given up on the top field entirely, which Dad says is down to the man in the hat, though he won't say who the man is. He cut the poles himself back in March, hazel from the hedge by the mill race, and lashed two of them into an A with baler twine so it would stand up in the wind. Then he hung the old brown coat from the crossbar and pushed a broom handle through the sleeves for arms. Mum called it a waste of good twine. I think it looks like someone waiting for a bus.

The strange part came after the storm in April. The frame had blown flat into the furrows and the coat was gone, and Dad went out at six in his boots without a word. When I got down to the lane I found him standing in the wet grass with his arms out, like a man being searched, and he said the poles had been set upright again, neatly, the way he had never managed himself. Nothing was torn. The hat was hung on the gatepost, dry as biscuit.

I didn't tell you on the telephone because it sounded daft. But the crows have stayed off, and the ewes in the bottom field lie down in a ring facing the frame every evening, and Dad has stopped locking the shed. He says we're not to touch it. He says whoever is standing out there has been doing a proper job and doesn't need us getting under their feet.

Come home at the end of the month if you can. Bring the good thread, though I doubt I'll mend the sleeve now. I think he'd want it left as it is.

Love, Margaret