Heartbeat and heart on the back of the neck

The tide turned at four this morning and Dad went out in the yawl without his oilskin, so I've been on the quay since dawn with a flask and your old chart pencil. Mrs Pryce says the drifters should be back in by Thursday if the wind holds north, so you'll read this on the dock, I expect, with salt in your collar.

I finally opened the tin box you left under the stairs. Inside were your sea letters, a packet of tobacco gone hard as slate, and the folded strip the surgery machine printed when they tested you before you signed on. You'd drawn a heart over the top of it in biro, the way you used to doodle on my schoolbooks, and then let the line run straight out from it like a wake. I keep thinking about how steady the peaks are, one after another, as if something out there is counting for us.

Last Sunday the lifeboat went out to a motor launch off the Skerries and everyone stood along the wall until the flares went up. I held your strip up against the lamp post and the spikes lined up with the iron rungs of the ladder. It was a daft thing to do, but I felt better for it, and Dad said nothing, which from him is a blessing.

I've pinned the strip above the kettle. When you come up the slip, I'll show you where I stopped, because I left the rest of the line blank for you to finish. I'm not telling you where it ends.

Love, Maud