God's Son lettering on the back of the neck

The ovens were lit at half four, and I am writing this on a flour sack by the back door while the first tray proves. You will laugh, but Mr Haddow has finally let me sign the proving log instead of just reading it. My hand is steady enough now, though I still put the wrong day on half of them.

The sign above the shop door has not been repainted since before the war. Black letters, heavy at the joins, done with a brush and a steady wrist. It carries his father's name, and underneath, smaller, the words that made Mrs Okafor laugh the first morning I came: Gods Son. She says it is the best advertisement in Hull, because customers come in asking whether the bread is blessed, and Mr Haddow says only the flour is.

Last Tuesday the power cut at five, so we baked by torchlight with the torch wedged in my jumper. He told me to keep the peel moving and not to look at the clock. We pulled out forty loaves that were not perfect, and he gave every one to the man who sleeps in the doorway of the chemist. Nobody paid. He said bread belongs to whoever is awake first.

I walked home along the harbour wall with the light coming up grey over the cranes, and when I looked back the sign was catching the sun before the street did. Come up in the spring. There is a spare bed above the shop, and I will show you how to score a loaf so it opens the right way.

Yours, Tom