Cross and script on a back
Lettering · Back · Mixed · Photo
A woman in an orange one-piece swimsuit sits at the edge of a swimming pool, seen from behind with her head turned away. A large solid black cross sits centre back, with a smaller red cross higher up near the neck and several lines of fine script running down the spine and beside the shoulder blade. The composition is a candid outdoor shot with bright blue water and sun loungers in the background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit down, you lot, and let the fire have your boots. I'll tell you about the road out past Sallow Wells, where the sand comes over the tarmac like it's been waiting all year to get back in. Ada Venn kept the tin shop at the last bend before the wash. Every cross you saw nailed along that road was hers, cut from old oil drums and painted black, with a name stamped on a red tin plate and wired to the crossbar.
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People paid her by the letter, a shilling a word, the old rate, and most families kept it short. Ada didn't mind. She had a tin punch, a hammer and a cough that came in winter, and she was content with a life spent in small, exact work.
Then a lorry driver named Teodor Mahr came through in the June heat, asking for a cross with no name at all. He wanted only the words his brother had shouted from the cab before the wash took the truck. He had them on a scrap of paper, scrawled and blotted. Ada read them twice and laughed, because they were so plain: 'Hold the wheel, the road is the road, and I am still coming home.'
She punched the letters one by one, backwards, the way she'd learned, and wired the plate to a black cross the size of a man's chest. Mahr set it up at the bend himself, sinking the foot into the sand, and walked off without paying. Ada found a shilling under a stone on her bench the next morning, with a second scrap of paper beside it. It said only: thank you, the road is the road. The sand has been over that cross three times since, and every time it's been dug out again, standing straight.
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