Fine line script tattoo on the ribs

The apple crop came in heavy this year, so heavy the boughs at the bottom of the Pennick orchard have split and Father has propped them with the old gate posts. I am writing from the packing shed, where the light comes through the slats in long gold bars and everything smells of cider and wet straw. You would hate it. You would be sneezing by noon.

The thing you asked about in your last letter, the wave Mr Haskett painted on the board outside the cider house, is still there. I climbed the ladder yesterday to check the paint and found someone had scratched a single word beneath it with a nail, very small, the letters leaning into one another as if they were tired. I could not make it out until I tilted my head, and then it read plainly: stay. I have decided not to tell anyone who did it, though I have a fair guess.

We pick the late russets next week. If the frost holds off, the lane will be full of cart wheels and shouting boys, and I will be too tired to write properly, so take this as my promise to write longer when the work slows. Bring the blue jug when you come, and that tin of tea you said your aunt sends from Bristol. I will put the kettle on before you reach the gate.

Your loving sister, Eleanor

P.S. Tell Mr Haskett the wave has been holding up well.