Watercolour-style crab on upper back

The rain has been coming sideways off the estuary since Tuesday, and the fish stalls at Tollgate Market have given up pretending to be cheerful. Mr Abara still stands under his tarpaulin shouting prices at nobody, but the gulls have taken over the front row. I sold eleven crabs this morning, which is eleven more than I expected and four fewer than your father would have bought just to be sociable.

The blue ones came in on the early boat, rinsed and sulking, their claws tied with red twine so they wouldn't go for each other in the tubs. I kept the best of them back for you. You'll remember the one with the cracked shell and the teal wash along its back, the colour of the bottles old Pryce kept on his windowsill. I told him he was a fool to waste a fine specimen on a girl who only ever wanted to paint them, and he said a painter who can't tell a crab from a cloud should try cooking.

I left it in the tank by the back door, under the wet sacking. When I went out at dusk to check, it had walked itself to the top corner and was waving one claw at the lamp as though it had been waiting for someone to notice. I suppose it had. I took the twine off, carried it down to the slipway in the drizzle, and set it on the wet stone where the tide would reach it. It stood there a moment, bright as a bruise, then went sideways into the weed.

Bring your paints when you come on Saturday. The rain is supposed to clear by noon.

Love, Mae