Sailing ship on the back of a hand

The 7.14 has been cancelled again, so I am writing this on the bench under the clock at Wexcombe Junction, where the pigeons have given up on the crisps and started eyeing my pen. Mam sent the parcel on ahead. You should have it before this letter, if the post out of Falmouth is as slow as the trains.

Inside the brown paper is the three-master Dad carved the winter before he died, the one with sails cut from an old pillowcase and stiffened with candle wax. I took the mast out to varnish it and found the rigging had come loose at the foremast. Mr Ashby at the ironmongers lent me a fine needle and a spool of black thread, and I spent Tuesday evening on the kitchen floor doing it the way Dad showed us, one knot at a time, counting the lines under my breath like he used to.

The stationmaster read the label over my shoulder and said a ship that size would never survive a proper blow. I told him that was rather the point. Ships are for the ones who go out on them, not for the ones who keep the kettle warm.

The last thing I want to say is that the sails are full now, which they weren't before. Mam pulled the threads tight and they caught the wind from the open window. Keep it somewhere the sea can see it.

Yours, Ellen