Vintage hot rod front on a lower leg

The Ford is out of the shed at last, though only as far as the back lawn, because Mrs Pargeter next door has complained twice about the smell of the blower oil. Dad would have laughed. He spent eleven years getting that grille straight, and the Maltese cross he welded onto it the winter Mum left still sits dead centre, a little crooked, like a thing he meant to fix later.

I've been pulling the supercharger apart on newspaper between the rhubarb and the water butt. Every bolt has a story. The rocker covers had gone chalky with age, and I found his notes taped inside the bonnet, in pencil, about carburettor jets and a girl called Winnie who wouldn't go for a drive unless the hood was up. I didn't know he'd been so soft about anything.

Yesterday the blower finally caught and the whole garden shook. Birds left the hedge. The roses by the fence bent flat as if they were bowing. I stood there with a rag in my hand and felt twelve years old again, waiting for him to tell me the engine was only a machine that needed listening to.

I'm sending you the spanner he used for the cross. His thumbprint is still in the grease on the handle. Come down at the weekend and we'll take her to the lane, the two of us, and you can drive. Bring a flask. The Ford doesn't do well without a cup of tea either.

Love, Ros