Cluster of small dots on a foot
Other · Black and grey · Photo
A close photograph of a small cluster of six solid dark dots tattooed on the side of a bare foot, with the heel and sole visible below. The dots vary slightly in size and shape, with a few irregular or elongated forms, and are filled in with black or dark grey ink. The plain skin and softly lit background keep the focus on the small grouping.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit nearer the grate, you lot, and mind the coal that spits. This is the tale of Ada Pennock, who kept six black pebbles in a biscuit tin on the kitchen shelf at Hollin Row, and every one of them was a promise her father made to the pit before he went down for the last time.
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Her father, Samuel, worked the Kestle seam, where the roof sang at night. Each morning he dropped one jet pebble into his pocket, rubbed it smooth with his thumb, and said the name of a man still under the fall. Six pebbles, six men. Ada used to count them when he came up blackened to the eyes, and she counted wrong once, and the whole row heard about it for a month.
The day the Kestle flooded, the pit captain sent word that the shaft was lost. Ada walked to the top of the spoil heap with the tin under her arm. She shook the pebbles out into the wind, one at a time, and each one landed on the wet slag and stayed where it fell, though the ground was sloping and any sensible stone would have rolled.
The rain stopped on the third night. Men came up the old airway with their lamps lit, one after another, and Samuel was the last of them, carrying nothing but his cap. I never saw that tin again, mind. But the marks are still on the spoil heap, six dark spots in the grey, and nobody in Hollin Row has ever tried to wash them away.
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