Winged cat with ankh pencil design

The crate came off the Alexandria boat on Tuesday with the harbour master swearing at the damp, and inside the straw was the little bronze I told you about on the phone. You'll laugh, but it's the cat again. Same ankh hung on its chest, same beaded collar, bangles stacked on the forelegs like the ones Aunt Ivy used to rattle at the bus stop. The wings are the real surprise. They fan out behind its head like a pair of mackerel tails somebody spread to dry.

Mr Pennock says it's a copy made for tourists in the nineties, and he may be right, but the patina is wrong for that. Someone rubbed the left wing smooth with a thumb for a century before it ever reached a shelf, which takes patience or a lot of nights at sea. I've been sitting with it after closing, a lamp pulled close, hunting for a maker's mark under the base. There's a scratch there, a tiny cross, and beneath it a date I can't read in this light.

Last night the tide came up over the slipway and the bell buoy started its sulky ringing. I carried the cat to the window to watch the water. The lamps from the fish quay laid gold across its face, and for a moment the wings caught the light as if they'd been opened rather than cast. I know, I know. I'm going to bed. Tell the girls I'm not eating biscuits for breakfast, I'm eating them for research.

Love, Nell