Bird in a birdcage with bleeding hearts on a thigh

The goldfinch is sitting on the cage roof again, the one you swore you'd fix before your ship left in March. I've left the little door open since the frost came off the windows, but she won't go, not even when the wind comes round the breakwater and rattles the brass hinges. She just fluffs her grey feathers and stares at the nest like it owes her money.

There are eggs. Four of them, blue-green as the bottles in Mrs Penhallow's window. I counted them twice with the lamp held close, then sat down on the stairs and laughed until I had to wipe my face on my sleeve, because it's the first good thing that has happened in this house since the telegram came.

Mr Ashby from the chandlery called round with the rent book and stopped dead at the cage. He said it was the finest thing he'd seen in a year and asked whether we might sell it to the Lindqvist woman who runs the tea room, since she collects ornaments. I told him the cage isn't for sale and neither is the bird. He went off muttering about sentiment and tide tables.

The bleeding hearts Mum planted along the wall have come up pink and heavy, dripping their little red lanterns down past the gilt. Every evening the sun catches the ruby set in the cage base and throws a bead of red onto the floor, and every evening I think of you out past the headland, counting your own lamps. Come home before the eggs hatch, or I'll name the first chick after you, and you can explain to the gulls why it's called Tom.