Nautical lettering with anchor and lifebuoy

The four fifteen from Lime Street is late again, so I have the bench at the far end of the platform to myself and a pencil that keeps going blunt. The porter says the sea fog came up the Mersey before noon and is still sitting on the signals. I told him you would have laughed at a fog that thick, and he said sailors never laugh at weather, they only curse it, which I suppose comes to the same thing.

Your mother sent the blue jersey back with the buttons sewn on properly this time. I did it myself by the lamp, badly, and she will tell you so. The lifebuoy from the pier still hangs in the waiting room beside the ticket clerk's kettle, and every time the wind rattles the shutters I think of the rope you tied to it in March. Mr Galloway says the Marguerite is three weeks overdue at Valparaiso and the owners are talking of insurance. I have no wish to hear about insurance.

So I went to the ticket window this morning and bought a third class return to Southampton, which the clerk thought was a madwoman's request until I showed him your last letter with the ship's name written across the top. He stamped it without a word. Perhaps he has a brother at sea too.

The signal has dropped at last. I can hear the engine coming up the line, slow and sure as a tide. I am going to meet it at the end of the platform, and I will not be sensible about it. Keep your head up, and listen for the wind's song. It has never once lied to you yet. Yours, always, Nell