Pine cone tattoo on the upper arm

We lost the wind off Gotland and have been drifting since Tuesday, so I have had time to look at the cone I picked up at Memel before we sailed. It is the size of my fist and shut tight as a purse, every scale laid over the next like slates on a roof. Mr Halloran says they open in dry heat and close in damp, which is why the ones in the forward hold are all gaping and the one in my shirt pocket has stayed shut since I bought it. I have been holding it near the galley stove to see what it will do.

The mate caught me at it this morning and asked whether I was courting a tree. I told him I was sending it home to you, since you once said you had never seen a pine up close, only the tall black shapes on the Scarborough road. He said a cone that stays shut will rot in the post. I said then it will arrive with its secrets still in it, and he laughed, which he does rarely.

Here is the thing I have not told Mother. The seller said the cones that open are the ones that have already dropped their seed, and the closed ones are still keeping something back. I did not know whether to believe him. I am keeping this one closed for now. Put it on the parlour windowsill when the sun comes round in the afternoon, and watch it come apart in the light.

Write soon. The wind is back.

Your brother, Tom