Sewing machine and rose on upper arm

The foresail came down off Cape Finisterre with a tear in it you could post a letter through, so I have spent the whole of the middle watch with the sailmaker's palm strapped to my hand, pushing a needle through canvas that smells of tar and wet hemp. I am writing this by the stub of a candle in the sail locker, so forgive the smudges. Mr Pardoe says the men will think me soft if they catch me singing, so I am writing instead.

You will want to know about the machine. It came aboard at Liverpool in a crate with your name on the bill of lading, though you never signed for it, and I have carried it as far as Valparaiso and back without a scratch on the black paint or the gold lettering. The bosun asked whether I meant to take up tailoring. I told him I meant to make a dress for a girl who has never once set foot on a ship, and he laughed until he had to sit down on a coil of hawser.

I have made the banner for the bow, the one with the red rose at its centre and your initial worked in purple thread across the ribbon. Each stitch is crooked in the way you always said mine were, and I have left the loose end trailing so you can tie it off yourself when I am home.

The ship makes port in six weeks if the wind holds. Keep the lamp lit in the shop window and the machine oiled. I will come up Market Street with the sea still in my coat, and you can tell me exactly how badly I have sewn the hem.

Your loving brother, Tom