Black and grey rose and florals on a forearm

The crate came off the Penhallow boat on Tuesday, smelling of brine and wet straw, and I nearly wept when I saw the roses. Mr Tregear swore the cuttings had died in the hold, but he was wrong. Three of them had put out green at the joints, pale as the inside of a shell. I wrapped them in my good shawl and carried them up Quay Lane myself, the way you carried the lamp for Father the winter the lighthouse went dark.

The garden behind Gull Cottage has been a yard of nettles since Mother went. I have been digging it over with the spade Uncle Joss left, and every evening the gulls come down to inspect my work like customs officers. Yesterday I turned up a broken clay pot with a painted daisy on its rim, the spiky sort that grows wild along the cliff path. I set it on the wall and planted the largest rose beside it, so the two could argue about the light.

Mrs Oddy from the chandlery asked whether I meant to sell the roses or simply hoard them. I told her neither. I am keeping one back for the wall by the steps, where the fishermen's wives wait with the tea when the boats are late. They will need something to look at while the tide makes up its mind.

Write soon, and tell me whether Tom has finally stopped sulking about the sweet peas.

Your loving sister, Marian