Compass rose and script quote on shoulder

Your mother has stopped asking when the Margaret Ann will be in, so I am writing instead, which I suppose is the next best thing to a telegram. The harbour office says the weather holds until Thursday, and the lads on the quay reckon you'll have the best haul of the season if the ice doesn't shut the grounds. I don't pretend to understand any of it. I only remember what you said at the kitchen table the night before you sailed, with your big hands flat on the oilcloth: a man who keeps his bearings never gets lost, only late.

Mum has given me Grandad's brass compass to mind. The one with the lid that sticks. I took it out of the drawer on Sunday, prised the lid open with a butter knife, and the needle swung round and settled on north as if it had been waiting all week to be asked. I sat on the back step with it in my lap for an hour, watching the gulls wheel over the fish market, and thought about the postcard you sent from Lerwick with only four words on the back. To seek a great perhaps. I laughed at you for being so soft. I'm not laughing now.

I've pinned that postcard above the kettle, beside the tide tables, where Mum can see it while she waits with me. She says you'll come in on Friday with salt in your beard and a story you've already polished for the pub. I hope she's right. I've put the compass in my coat pocket so it stays warm.

Come home and tell me what's out there. Don't make me wait for the next postcard.

Love, Nell