Free yourself script with feather on chest

The cook's boy Eli found a gull feather on the foredeck this morning, grey on one side and white on the other, and he came into the galley holding it like a dropped coin. I told him to stick it in the bread bag so the damp wouldn't get it. He didn't. He pinned it above the range, where the steam from the coffee urn turns everything the colour of weak tea, and every time the door bangs the feather lifts a little, as if it means to go.

You'll think me soft for writing this, but I have been watching the gulls off the Humber lately the way you used to watch the sparrows from the kitchen step. Eight weeks out and back, the same scrubbed deck, the same squabbles over who empties the grease trap. The skipper says a man can't be bought loose from a berth, but the sea doesn't argue. It just goes on being the sea.

Last night the swell came up hard and a tin of peaches rolled off the rack and under the stove. Eli laughed until he choked. Then he asked me what the words were for wanting to leave something and not being able to yet, and I said "patience" because I'm a cook and that's the nearest seasoning I have. He looked at me like I'd served him cold porridge. Then he asked what you call it when you finally do it, and I had no answer for that either.

I've written to the agent about a shore job at the Hull fish market. Don't tell Mam yet. If it comes through I'll send you a feather of your own, and we'll see whether it knows which way to fly.

Your brother, Tom