Ornamental owl on an upper arm

The gannets have gone off the Ness and Mrs Halcrow says the herring will come late this year, so you'll want the good twine when you're back. I've mended the net you left on the drying poles. Forty-two knots before the light went, and my fingers still smell of tar. Mum says I should stop sitting at the window like an owl, but I can't help it. Somebody has to watch for the lamp on the Sheep Rock.

Last Thursday the Verity came round the headland with her sail patched in three colours, and I thought it was you. It was only Davie Gunn, who swore he'd bring the boat in on the Sunday and did not. He said to tell you the Maggie's engine is running sweet at last, so you can stop your complaining about that.

I found your old pocket compass in the drawer under the stairs, the brass one with the leaf scratched on the back. I've put it in the tin with your birthday letters. If the weather turns, sit in the wheelhouse with it and count the stars the way Grandad taught us, the ones he called the watchers. Don't let the skipper talk you onto the western grounds before the wind goes round.

Come home with the fish and the salt in your hair, and I'll make you a proper supper. The owl's been calling from the kirk roof every night this week. Grandad always said that meant someone was keeping a lookout for the boats, and I'd like it to be us.

Your sister, Ingrid