Fine line black tattoo of three drooping bell flowers on a thin curved stem, placed on the inner wrist and forearm.

Bell flower sprig on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white close-up of a wrist showing a small tattoo of three drooping bell-shaped flowers on a single curved stem. The linework is fine and even, with light shading inside the petals and a thicker outline on the stem. The subject sits centrally against plain, softly lit skin, with the hand visible at the left edge.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bell flowers pushed up through the flagstones of the chapel court the same week the rooks left the north tower, and my father swore the monks who planted them had been dead three hundred years. He cut the leaves back with the shears he kept for the yew hedge, but they came again, pale green and stubborn, each stem hung with its row of tiny white bells.

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I was nine when Mrs Ashby from the village asked if she could have a clump for her daughter's wedding. Father said the castle had no use for flowers that could give a person a bad heart if they drank the water they stood in. So I went out at dusk with a trowel and a jam jar, lifting the roots carefully, the way I had watched him lift the old bridge timbers, counting the bells as they came free. Eleven, twelve, thirteen.

Mrs Ashby never came. Her daughter married in London instead, and the jar sat on my windowsill until the water turned cloudy and sweet. I could not bear to pour it out, so I walked it down to the gatehouse, where the moat had dried to a crust, and tipped the roots into the crack between two stones.

Next spring there were bells in the moat bed, then along the causeway, and the year after, a single stem standing on the gatehouse lintel as if someone had left a message there. Father stopped cutting them back. He said some things learn where they are wanted before the rest of us do.

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