Wish you were here lettering on a forearm

The postcard you sent from Whitby came on Tuesday, the same morning the abbey bell cracked in the cold and Sister Agnes had to be fetched from the laundry with a face like thunder. I have it propped against the inkwell. The picture is of the harbour with gulls scattered across the sky, and on the back you have written, in that small upright hand of yours, wish you were here, then underlined it twice as though I might have missed the point.

I have been thinking about what you meant. Brother Edmund says the chapter house is full of mice this winter and the prior has forbidden anyone to disturb the cats. Mother Hilda sends her regards and says you owe her a letter. The bees did not survive the frost. Everything here is exactly where it was when you left, which I suppose is the trouble with a place like this.

Last night I walked down to the lower mill with the lamp, because the wind had dropped and I wanted to hear the water. A man was there mending a sluice gate, and he asked whose girl I was. I told him I belonged to nobody, and he laughed and said that was a shame, because the weir was about to give way and somebody ought to be holding the lantern.

So I held it. Your card is pinned above my bed now. I am writing to say the lantern is still lit, the weir has held, and I have not yet decided whether to come.