Matching hand and rays tattoos on wrists

The lamp on the Hask tower has been dark since Tuesday. Mother says salt has got into the lens again, so I have been climbing up each morning with a rag and a jar of vinegar before the bread van comes. The keeper's boy says it is only grease. I do not believe him. Yesterday two fishing boats came in without a light to steer by and scraped the breakwater, and old Pim stood on the quay shouting that the whole harbour had gone blind.

Every evening I still watch for your answer across the bay. You promised that when you took the post at Covenmouth you would turn the signal mirror toward our window, and that three flashes meant you were well and four meant you were lonely. I have seen nothing but gulls. Perhaps the Covenmouth lamp has been sold for scrap, the way the council talked about last winter.

Then on Thursday I saw it, four quick flashes low over the water, and I nearly fell off the ladder. I know you are not lonely. You only sent four because you knew I would be counting, so I have been counting too: nine nights, seven boats, one cracked lens.

Tonight I stood at the window and held my hand up against the glass, fingers spread, the way we did when we were small and Father rowed out past the rocks. The beam swept round, found my hand, and stopped there. I am not lonely either. Come home, or write, whichever is quicker.