Small anchor tattoo on the ribs

The winding cable at Hartley Bank frayed through this morning, and the men had to cut the cage rope loose before anyone would go near the shaft again. Father stood at the pit head with his cap in both hands the whole time and said nothing, which is how I knew it was bad. He was a keelman's boy before he ever came underground, and he still talks about the river as if it owes him money. He has never been one for prayers, so I suppose Uncle Tom's anchor is the nearest thing we have to a church.

Tom had it pricked into his side at a shop off the Shields quay the spring before he married Aunt Mabel, with a length of rope coiled round the shank. He swore it would bring him home from anywhere. He has been on the night shift at the coke ovens since Michaelmas and the grey has crept into the ink over the years, so the anchor looks more like a shadow than a promise now. Mabel says he won't let anyone wash him at the bath house in case the rope comes off.

I went down to the lamp room on Tuesday with a tin of Brasso and a rag and I rubbed the brass tags until they shone, because someone had to do something with my hands. Tom came up the steps at half past five, black to the eyebrows, and looked at me as if I were a ghost. Then he laughed and said the rope was still there. I told him I would mend the cable myself if they asked me to. He said he would hold me to it.

Send the postal order when you can. Tell Grandad the anchor is still holding.

Your loving niece, Jean