Swallow silhouette with grey swirls

The swallows came back to the big top this morning, three of them, perched on the guy ropes as if they'd paid for seats. Dad says they've nested under the stable roof at Hollins Field every spring since before the war. You'd have laughed at Mrs Pargeter flapping a broom at them while the Strongman stood by holding his barbell like it was the only thing in the county worth protecting.

We're in Cleethorpes till Sunday, then off up the coast to somewhere called Filey, which Dad says is nothing but chips and drizzle. The wheel's been playing up again. Jimmy from the generator crew reckons it's a loose bolt, but he said that about the bolt last August and it came down on the Waltzer's roof. I've been sleeping in the caravan with the window open because the air smells of sea and frying onions, and it makes me miss the way you used to sing badly on the dodgem track.

I went up the Ferris wheel last night after the last show, on my own, while Jimmy was fixing the lights. From the top you could see the whole ground in the dark, lamps turning, and out past the sea wall the swallows were skimming low over the water, black scissors cutting the dusk into pieces. One of them rose right under the car, close enough that I heard it, and for a moment I thought it was you, come back for the summer. Silly, I know. It's only a bird.

Write back, even if it's only a postcard. The swallows will be gone by September, Dad says, and so will we.

Love, Nell