Fine line black script tattoo reading All was well across the upper back near the shoulder blade.

All was well script on upper back

Fine line · Back · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a small script tattoo reading All was well, set across the upper back just below the shoulder line. The letters are drawn in thin, even linework in a dark ink with a slightly grey tone. The background shows long dark hair, a wooden shelf and a blurred sign, with the tattoo placed in the lower left of the frame.

Fine line Lettering Back Text Script Phrase

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down, the lot of you, and mind the bent leg on that chair, it has been bent since the Coronation. Mrs Gilchrist kept the house at number nine on Cliff Terrace for thirty-one years, and in all that time she never let a lodger leave without a slice of her seed cake wrapped in greaseproof. The winter I'm telling you of, the wind came off the Channel so hard it lifted the slates, and there was a young man in the back attic who had not had a letter in a month.

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His name was Tom Varley, and he was a cable jointer, up before the light to mend the line out to the lighthouse. Every night he sat at her kitchen table with the lamp turned low, listening for the postman's bicycle bell at the bottom of the hill. Mrs Gilchrist would set a cup of cocoa in front of him and say the same thing each time, as if it were a prayer she had learned from her own mother: "Whatever the sea has done, all was well by morning." He never asked her what she meant. He only drank the cocoa.

On the ninth night the bell rang, and the boy at the gate had a telegram gone soft with rain. Tom opened it at the table. It said only, in capitals punched out by a tired clerk in Penzance: ALL WELL STOP CAME IN ON THE TIDE STOP. Tom laughed until he cried, and Mrs Gilchrist, who had been carrying her own dread for a week like a full bucket, sat down heavily beside him. Her brother had been out on the Mary Ann checking the buoys. He had been found clinging to a spar off Gull Rock, and he was asleep in the ward at St Ives with his arm in plaster.

So when you go home tonight and the house is dark and the kettle takes its time, say it over to yourself, quiet, and see whether the kettle doesn't come to the boil a touch faster. Now, who wants the last of the seed cake? It's wrapped in the same greaseproof, and I'm not giving it to the one who snored through the whole of the last story.