Blue forget-me-nots and pink dahlias on a forearm

The market in Penzance had dahlias the size of saucers this week, so I bought six bunches off a farmer's wife who would not stop talking about her late husband's pigs. I have wedged them in the bucket by the galley door until the cook complains. He says flowers belong on the mess tables, not in a ship's kitchen where the onions sweat. I told him the onions have never once been grateful.

The forget-me-nots were harder. Mr Pell at the chandler's swore he had none, then produced a paper cone of seed from under his counter, saying his sister grew them along the churchyard wall and she would not miss a few. I have sown them in the old biscuit tin with a hole punched in the lid. They are fussy, Ada, they want shade and nobody to fuss over them, which is much how I remember Father.

You asked in your last letter whether I still look at the sea. I do, though mostly I look at the tin. This morning two blue heads had opened on the windowsill, each with its tiny yellow eye, and I laughed out loud so that the boy scrubbing pots asked if I had gone soft. Perhaps I have. The dahlias are sulking already, dropping their petals onto the flour sacks, so I will press a few between the pages of the ship's log before the bosun finds them.

Write back and tell me whether Mother has kept the window box. Tell me the forget-me-nots came up along the wall, too. I would like to think of them doing that without me.

Your loving sister, Nell