Pink lily tattoo on the top of a foot

The lily came up on the Tuesday after the gale, which I took as an insult from the sea. Mr Pryce had left the bulb in a cracked tin on the gallery rail, meaning to throw it over, and I found it wedged in the gutter with its nose already green. I put it in a pot of rainwater and grit from the boat shed, because that is all the soil this rock has, and stood it on the sill of the lamp room where the glass catches the first of the morning.

Nobody on the island believes anything grows here. The gulls sit on the wall and watch the pot as though it owes them money. But it opened three days ago, pink as the inside of a shell, the petals curled back so far they look as if they are trying to leave. Beside it a bud has come up, shut tight, as if it has decided to wait for a better week.

I told the relief keeper he would have to climb past it every night, and he said it was a poor sort of lamp that needed a flower to keep watch. He is young and has never seen the light go out in February. I did not argue. I only moved the pot a hand's width closer to the glass so the leaves would catch the beam when it swung round at dusk.

Tell Mother the bud is still closed. I think it is waiting for the ship that brings the post and the grey tea, and I want to see its face when it opens. Write back soon, and tell me whether the tulips came up in the yard, because I need to know something on this rock has gone right.