Heartbeat line with watercolour splashes

The cardiograph arrived on Tuesday in a crate that smelled of pine shavings, and Dr Fenwick has had me feeding the paper roll through it every morning since. You would laugh. The needle scratches a black line across the graph paper, up and down, up and down, and when the old man in bed four takes a breath the line jumps like a sprat thrown onto the quay. Matron says it is the most honest thing in the building.

Yesterday the needle went quiet for a moment and I forgot to breathe myself. Then it caught again, a sharp peak and a soft fall, and the line ran on past the edge of the paper where the tape held it. Dr Fenwick tore off the strip and laughed at me for staring. I have it pinned above my washstand now, next to the postcard of Scarborough.

Mr Pryce, who keeps the paint shop on Harbour Street, asked whether he could have a spare sheet for his window display. I said yes, if he gave me his old watercolours in return. He painted blue and violet washes behind a pencil trace of the line, and when it dried it looked as though the sea had come up under the heartbeat. I have sent you a copy, so do not let Mother fold it.

Write soon, and tell me whether Ted has stopped whistling at the dog.

Love, Margaret