Bird and ship on an upper arm

The gull came back again this morning, the grey-backed one with the torn left wing, and it landed on the wall outside the chandler's as if it had an appointment. Mr Pryce says it has been carrying bits of rope and a brass button from the pier to his roof for a month, building something he won't let anyone climb up and see. I told him gulls don't build with buttons. He said that's exactly what a gull who was going somewhere would say.

You'll laugh, but I went up the cliff path on Sunday with the spyglass you left in the hall drawer and looked out past the Carrick rocks for your boat. Nothing but the Lantern Bay steamer and a grey line of cloud sitting on the water like a lid. Mother says I should stop looking. I say the sea has never had the manners to tell us when it's sending anyone back.

Here is the thing I meant to tell you. Last night the wind swung round to the north and the gull came down onto the sill of my window, bold as brass, and dropped a folded square of oilcloth. Inside was a pencilled ship with three masts and a little chart of the channel, and underneath, in a hand I'd know anywhere, "Tell Ada the tide is kind on the ninth." It is the ninth tomorrow.

So I am going down to the slip at first light with the lamp and a loaf, and if the gull comes I won't say a word. I'll only wave.

Love, Ada