Small sun tattoo on upper back

The boats came in late again on Tuesday, so I'm writing this on the back of the chandler's receipt while Dad sleeps off the night shift. You'll want to know about the sun. Mum found the drawing you left in the tin, the spiral in the middle like a coil of rope, rays going out in short black strokes, and she stood it against the teapot and said it was the only thing in the house that had any sense of direction.

Harbour gossip says the Margaret Ann lost her second net off the Dogger edge, and Tom Oddie swears he saw a seal wearing it. Nobody believes him but the seal, I suppose. The men have been out since four every morning, and the light comes up over the breakwater so fast it looks like someone's struck a match behind the fish market. I counted seven boats on the water yesterday, all of them burning gold at the edges, and I thought of your drawing and felt cross with you for being in the city when the good weather came.

Here is the news you actually want. Dad signed the papers for the lease on the yard. He hasn't said so, but he's had the old ropes out in the sun for three afternoons, coiling and recoiling them as if he's waiting for someone to ask him to do it again. Last night he took the chair out to the quay and sat with his face turned up. I brought him tea, and he said, "Put that drawing somewhere I can see it, love," so I've pinned it above the sink.

Come home when the weather turns. The sun's still high over the harbour, and it doesn't ask anybody to be anywhere.

Love, Jess