Anchor with rope and scripted text

The rain has been coming in off the North Sea since six, and Mr Harrower has thrown a tarpaulin over the herring trestles so the fish don't drown before they're sold. I'm writing this under the chandlers' awning with the anchor across my knees. You'll remember it, the one Dad bought off the scrap man for two shillings and painted up so the flukes looked like a Sunday hat. Mrs Pike has finally sold the shop and the new man wants everything out by Friday, so I've taken it down and wound the rope round the shank the way Dad used to, careful as if it were a sleeping baby.

Mum's sampler is still in my bag. THE LORD IS MY ANCHOR, stitched in black thread that's gone grey at the edges, the same words she fixed over the range every winter you were at sea. I told Mr Harrower I'd carry the anchor down to the quay myself, and he laughed and said a girl with a rope and a rusted hook would be taken for a smuggler. I let him laugh. Let them think what they like about a woman who won't leave a dead man's ironmongery to a stranger.

The Mary Ellen is loading at the bottom step now, and her skipper says the glass is dropping fast. I'm going to tie the anchor to the stern rail where you'll see it first when you come round the breakwater. Don't argue with me about the weight. It's only iron and a bit of old hemp, and it's been holding things still for longer than either of us has been alive.

Come home on the morning tide. I'll hang it back on its hook the minute you're through the door, and we can argue about whose turn it is to paint the flukes.