Small illustrated tattoo on a forearm

The frost has held the yard for nine days now, and the pump has seized twice, so I have been carrying water from the trough like a Victorian scullery maid. Dad is no better. He will not admit his knee has gone and sits by the range with the dog across his feet, pretending to read the feed prices.

The fox came back on Tuesday. You will remember the one with the torn ear, the colour of a rusted gate, who has taken the speckled hens every January since you left. I saw her cross the top field at dusk, her tail low and that dull green cast the light gets off the hedges this time of year. I did not shout. I put the scraps out by the coop instead, the way you showed me when you were fourteen and thought you knew everything about foxes.

She ate the lot and left nothing. Nothing else has gone missing since, and I have not counted the eggs twice in a row, which Dad says is the most he has ever seen me willing to be wrong about.

Come home for lambing if the boat lets you. Bring the yellow tin of matches, the old ones are damp, and tell Mrs Pryce her kettle still whistles like a train. Dad says to say hello, though he would never say it himself.

Love, Jo