Three red roses with swirls on the upper back

The rain came down on Hallam Street market at seven this morning and hasn't stopped since, so the buckets of roses are doing what roses do in weather like this, which is sulking and then opening all at once. Dad would have sworn at them. I just pulled the tarpaulin over the front and let them get on with it. You'd laugh at me, standing in my wellies counting stems like a bookkeeper.

The three roses from the back bucket are the ones I keep thinking about. Bert Cole brought them in on Tuesday, a bundle of red stock he got cheap off a man in Spalding, and they're all at different stages now. The top one is still shut tight, a bud the colour of a post box, with its sepals curled back as if it's keeping a secret. The middle one is halfway, cupping itself. The lowest has given up entirely and is spread wide, showing its gold heart to anyone who walks past. I've tied them with green twine and a length of trailing ivy, and every time a customer asks I tell them the order matters more than the flowers.

Bert came by at closing with a tenner for the lot and a look on his face like he'd been waiting all day to ask. I said they weren't for sale. He said nothing, only nodded, and walked off into the wet. I've put them in the window under the lamp. I think you'd want to see them, so when you come up at Easter, come in through the side door and mind the step.

Love, Nell