Vespa scooter with leaves and swirls

The scooter is finally out of the shed and parked in the middle of the lawn, between the rhubarb and the old washing line, because Dad said it needed sun more than it needed a garage. It is cream and mint and only slightly rusty at the mirrors, and he has spent three evenings polishing the handlebars with a tea towel and the face of a man defusing something.

Mrs Pryce from over the fence came round with a sponge the first afternoon and stood looking at it for a long while. She said her Gerald had one just like it in 1961 and rode it to Brighton with a tent strapped to the back and a girl called Irene on the pillion. Dad went quiet at that, then asked her what colour the tent was, and she laughed until she had to sit down on the bench.

The strangest thing is the flowers. The elder by the gate has come into berry this week, black and heavy, and the bay has crept round the front wheel as if it means to take the scooter in for the winter. Dad says they're just weeds. But every morning he brushes the moss-coloured cloud shapes off the seat with his sleeve, the way you'd lift a sleeping cat off a good coat.

Yesterday he turned the key and it caught on the third try, a small blue puff rising past the bean canes into the sky. He didn't ride it anywhere. He sat with both hands on the bars, grinning at the leaves, and said he'd finally found somewhere it fitted.

Write soon, and tell me if Irene ever got her pillion seat back.

Love, Lil