Swirled tree with red hearts on the back

The rain has been coming sideways across the market since six, and Mr Okonedo's awning has given up entirely, so I am writing this on the back of a bread receipt with the ink running. You will want to know about the tree. Bernard finally let me hammer the scrolls for the gate he's making for the vicar's garden, and I spent three evenings bending iron until my wrists sang. Every curl wants to be a little fern, he says, and mine kept wanting to be a bird's nest.

Yesterday a girl from the flower stall came over with her coat over her head and asked whether we could make something for her grandmother's grave. She had two red enamel hearts in her pocket, the sort you buy at the church fete, and she wanted them hung from a branch. I said we make railings, not memorials, and she laughed at me, wet hair stuck to her face, and said I'd be surprised what I could do with a bit of wire.

So I made it. A tree with its branches all turned into loops, the trunk bare as a winter lane, and I wired the two hearts through the lowest curl so they'd swing when the wind came off the river. It sits on the stall now, under the tarpaulin. Bernard says it's rubbish and too fussy for anyone's garden. But the girl came back at four, dripping, and stood a long time with her finger on the nearest scroll.

She bought it. She paid in coppers and didn't ask for change.

Write soon. The weather here is the same as ever, Hattie