Fine line rose on the wrist

The rose came aboard at Valparaíso in a biscuit tin, wrapped in wet sacking, and Captain Oddie swore it would be dead by the Horn. It isn't. Every morning I carry the tin up from the scullery and set it on the sill above the range, where the heat keeps the tips from curling, and every morning there is one more leaf on the thin stem than the day before. Two now. The bud is no bigger than a barleycorn, but it has begun to lean towards the porthole the way the men lean towards the rum ration.

You'll laugh, but the bosun has taken to checking on it before he checks the bilge. Mr Pryce, who once threw a ship's cat overboard for stealing a kipper, sat with his chin on his fist for a whole watch watching that bud. He asked me what colour it would be. I said I didn't know, that nobody aboard had seen the flower, and he said that was the only fair way to grow anything.

We are near the Falklands now and the galley is cold enough that I can see my breath over the pans. I keep thinking about the stem, how it reaches out sideways to find the light, as if it had somewhere particular to be. I ought to wrap it up for the rest of the passage, but I won't. Tomorrow I'll move the tin to the window and let the wind have a go at it.

Write back and tell me whether Mother's roses in the yard ever came out pink. I'd like to know what I'm waiting for.

Yours, Tom