Tiny cross on a finger

The officer in the Dover booth wanted to know why I was carrying four tins of pickled beetroot and a jar of Mam's plum jam through the green lane, and I told him they were for the kitchen at home, which was true. He turned the jars over in his hands like they might be hiding something, then looked at the little cross on my finger and asked if it was new. I said it was older than I was, in a way, because it's Grandad Piotr's cross, the one he kept on his watch chain after Przemysl and never once wore on a neck. Remember how he used to hold it up to the window to check it was still there?

The needle man in Leeds laughed when I explained what I wanted. He said a cross that small would blur in ten years, so he drew it finer than I thought I could stand, and I sat very still in that leather chair while the wasp-buzz went on and on. It stung more than the big ones I'd seen on other people. I didn't mind. You can't lose a thing you've put under your skin, and Grandad always said the things that go missing are the ones you keep in a drawer.

The officer stamped my passport and handed it back with the jam jars, and for a second I thought he might ask about the cross again. He didn't. He just nodded at the window, where the grey water was going dark behind the ferry, and said, mind the step, love.

I'm on the boat now with the tins in my bag and the wind taking my hair. The cross is warm from my hand. I'll ring when I land, and you can tell Mam the beetroot is safe.

All my love, Kasia