Crossed knives on a forearm

The Hallam order came back crooked again, and I had to tell Mr Ibbotson that the pair would never cross true unless he filed the tangs himself. He laughed and said I was always fussing over a bit of steel. You would have liked him, though he has the patience of a wet Sunday. I have been on the big wheel since five, so my fingers smell of hot tallow and iron, and the grit has got into this letter already.

The trouble is the pivot. Two knives crossed like that have to sit on one rivet, and if it is too tight the blades bind, too loose and they wobble in the hand like a drunk man at the door. I spent Tuesday with a broken file and a cup of cold tea. On Wednesday I found the fault was only the tan horn on the left handle, swollen with the damp. Mother's old bowl still sits on the shelf, and I keep thinking of the way she used to scrape potatoes with the knife you snapped.

Anyway, the pair is finished. I polished the blades until they looked like two sheets of rain caught in the grey light, and put them in the window with a card that says Made in Sheffield, which I fear means nothing much any more. When you come home at Christmas, bring that tin of Swedish matches you promised and I will show you. The left one is yours if you want it. I told Mr Ibbotson it was for a sailor, and he did not ask which one.

Yours, Ned