Ornate black flourish on upper arm

The ferry didn't come on Tuesday, so the post sat in the sorting shed with the rest of the island's bad news. I have spent three evenings at the kitchen table with your uncle's old penknife and a tin of ink, trying to get the swirl on the board outside the harbour office right. Mr Galloway wants his name in gold leaf above the door, and he wants a flourish under it, the kind his father had on the chandlery before the storm took the roof off.

I have got the tail of it now. You start with a loop like a fishhook, bring the pen up over the top so it curls back on itself like a wave deciding against the shore, then let the last stroke drop away towards the water and taper to nothing. Your grandmother taught me that, and she never once let a stroke finish where she meant it to. She said the line should look as if it had somewhere better to be.

Galloway came round yesterday to see the sketch. He stood in the doorway, turned the paper to the light, and said it was too fancy for a fish merchant. I told him the fish would not notice. He laughed, which I took as a yes, and paid me in tea and a bottle of plum brandy I am not supposed to have.

So the ferry is due Thursday, if the swell allows. Keep the brandy for when you are back, and tell your mother the boards will be finished before the fair. I will leave the last loop open on purpose. Somebody ought to have a line on this island that does not quite know where it is going.

Yours, Nell