Watercolour rib cage on forearm

The paints came back from the conservators this morning, all twelve tubes of them, and the man who signed for the crate asked if I was the one who painted ribs. I said I only ever painted what sits behind the ribs, which is the heart, and he looked at me as though I'd confessed to something. You'd have laughed. You always said I'd make a poor doctor because I cared more about the colour of things than how they worked.

The ledger from the anatomy room at St Brannoc's has a page of Mum's sketches tucked in the back, the ones she did while Dad practised his foxtrot in the kitchen. Ribs drawn in a loose black line, curling round like the hoops of a barrel, and a pink wash bleeding past every edge because she never once waited for the first colour to dry. The curator wants them scanned and catalogued. I told him they were not drawings of anatomy at all. They were drawings of the Saturday night at the Majestic on Crown Street, when the band stopped mid-bar and everyone stood still with their hands in the air, and the spatter of dust in the light looked like a rain of purple dots.

I have kept the orange tin she used for the teal. It still smells of turpentine and something sweeter underneath. Could you come on Saturday? There is a tea dance at Lantern Hall on Quarry Road, and I have bought two tickets I have no intention of using alone.

Bring the good tin, the one with the dent. I'll bring the ledger. We can decide between us which of her ribs were broken and which were only tired.

Love, Rosie