Black and grey rose tattoo on a thigh

The rose by the net loft came into full flower the week after you left, and I thought you would want to know, because you were always the one who noticed when things turned. Dad says it is a dog rose gone wild from the wall, but it is not. The petals go so dark in the evening they look grey, like the slate on the chapel roof after rain. Mr Penhallow at the chandlers has been asking after the cutting you promised him, so I have wrapped the last of the stem in wet newspaper and put it in the biscuit tin with the broken compass.

I went down to the quay on Tuesday to see the Mary Ann come in. The tide was out and the boats sat on the mud at lazy angles, like dogs asleep. Tom Gilly was on the slipway shouting at the gulls, and he asked me to tell you he still has the lamp oil you lent him, which I have decided not to believe. A stranger was sitting on the upturned crab pots with a sketchbook, drawing the harbour wall and the rose climbing over it. When I looked over she turned the page round and said the petals were the hardest part, that shading them made them fold inward to keep warm. Then she tapped the corner of the drawing where a line of handwriting ran under the bloom and said it was a promise her grandmother had made her copy out, and that she had never once managed to finish it.

I thought about that all the way up the hill. Some things you keep wanting to finish long after anyone is waiting for the end. I have put your letters in order by date and tied them with the green string from the shop, so you can read them in the right sequence when you come home. Come in October. The bush will be over by then, but I will save you the last bloom in the jam jar on the sill.

Love, Eve