Sailing ship and anchor banner design

The stationmaster's note said to hold everything until the Harbour Board rang back. The line gave up nothing but wind. Her father had worked the tugs out of this harbour for thirty years, and he used to say that a pilot who waits for permission ends up on the rocks. She had taken it for sailor's bluster. Standing under the lamp now, she was less sure.

She walked to the signal box, where the lever was stiff with salt, and pulled it down herself. The distant signal swung green. Back on the platform she took a station form, wrote the stops and times in capitals, and signed her name at the bottom. Mr Pryce from the cannery tried to stop her at the gate. She handed him the pencil instead. 'Put your name on it too, if you like,' she said. He looked at the pencil for a long moment and didn't take it.

The train pulled out through the spray at a quarter past seven, its lamps swaying, and Ruth watched the red tail-lamp until the rain swallowed it. On the hook by the kettle hung a tin anchor a child had left behind in the summer. She lifted it, felt the weight of it in her palm, and hung it back where it belonged. Then, for the first time since the telegram, she sat down.