Wing and scrollwork on upper back

We played the last Saturday at Harrowgate under a sky the colour of wet slate, and nobody came except the Pearson twins and a man selling pies from a cart. Mr Haddon has sold the big top to a scrapyard in Leeds. He kept the scroll-painted wagon, though, because he says a show without a wagon is only a rumour. Ivo spent three winters on those scrolls, gold leaf on black, curling round the door like smoke that had learned manners.

Ivo came to the wagon this morning with a tin of black paint and a brush worn to a point. He wanted to touch up the bird on the step, the one Mrs Garland used to call our wing, because the rain had lifted its feathers. I told him it was not worth it, that the wagon would be sold by Michaelmas. He said that was exactly why. He worked for two hours without speaking, and when he finished the feathers looked sharper than they had in years.

When he stood back he asked me to hold the lantern. The light caught the curl of the scroll and the lift of the wing above it, and for a moment it looked as if the whole thing might take off down the lane. Then he handed me the brush and said I should finish the last one. I did, badly, with a little blot at the tip. He laughed and said nobody would ever find it.

I keep thinking about that blot. I am coming home on Thursday with the wagon, the wing and the blot. Put the kettle on.

Nell