Sailor robin with lifebuoy on a forearm

The gulls have gone quiet over the Pool and the dock lamps are flickering the way they do before rain, so I'm writing at the kitchen table with the window open and the smell of tar coming in off the water. Mrs Abernethy downstairs has been feeding the robin again. It sits on her railing each morning in a little waistcoat of its own feathers, puffed up against the cold, and she swears it's waiting for the ships to come home. I told her robins know nothing about ships. She said that's exactly what a sailor would say.

Your orange ring is still hanging on the hook by the back door, the one you said would keep the damp out. It doesn't. I keep meaning to take it down to the harbour office, but every night I walk past it and think of you on the Mary Ellen with your collar buttoned to the throat, and I leave it where it is.

Last night the fog came in so thick that the lamp on the breakwater vanished halfway up its pole. I stood on the step with my cardigan over my nightie and heard a foghorn somewhere out past the Rock, and for a moment the whole street smelled of salt and the chimney pots seemed to sit in cloud. It was only the late ferry from Hull, but I stood there until my feet were cold.

The bird came down this morning and perched on the rim of that old ring in the yard, as if it had been sent to check the water. It looked at me with one bright eye, then flew off towards the estuary. I've written today's date on the back of this page. Come home on the first spring tide and bring the tide tables, because I've decided I want to be there when the boat comes in.