Back and arm tattoos during a barbell lift

The lodger in number six has finally paid up, though he did it in coins he had dried on the windowsill, so you will forgive me if I counted them twice. Mrs Pryce from the chandlery says the Ange came into the harbour on Tuesday with her mainsail in ribbons and nobody aboard but a dog. I have put the dog in the scullery. He eats more than the Captain ever did.

The brass figurehead from that wreck is still in the back yard under the washing line, the one with its wings folded down like a man who has given up arguing. Father always said a figurehead should face the sea, so I turned it that way round, but the gulls kept leaving their marks on it, so now it faces the coal shed. I have been polishing the wings every morning with vinegar and a bit of your old shaving soap. Each wing has a feather for every week the boat was out. I counted them. Forty-one, which seems a cruel number.

The dog has taken to sitting on the step where the wreck papers were kept. Last night I found a note tucked under the mat, addressed to Mr Ellery in number four, in a hand I did not know. It said only, "Keep the lamp lit for the one who comes back by the lower road." I put it in the stove before I could think better of it, and that is all I will say on the matter, because you always did read my letters for hidden meanings.

Come home at Easter if the trains allow. The back bedroom is aired, the wings are gleaming, and the dog has learned to answer to Pilot.

Yours, Mae