Black ink script lettering reading Faith with looping flourishes on the side of a hip, with a pink top in the frame.

Faith script lettering on the side of the hip

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a bold black script word, Faith, with large looping flourishes and a tall swash on the F and th. The lettering is solid and even, with some shading in the thicker strokes, and it runs diagonally across the side of the body above the thigh. The skin tone and pink clothing are the only other colours, and the framing sits low so the tattoo occupies the centre of the picture.

Lettering Other Faith Script Lettering Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourself down, duck, the kettle's only just gone off, and I'll tell you about the summer old Ernest Dunstable painted that one word across the front of the chapel hall in Stannard Cross. Nobody asked him to. The vicar wanted a notice about the harvest supper, and Ernest came back from Ely with a pot of enamel and a head full of ideas about swashes.

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He worked from a ladder with the board balanced on two trestles, and he would not let a soul near him while he did the F. Mrs Bright from the post office swore she saw him stand for twenty minutes with the brush lifted, not moving, like a man waiting for a bird to settle. Then he came down the ladder and the loop came out in one stroke, round and round, as if the wind had been let into a ribbon. The th he did last, with the tall swash that climbed up past the gutter, and the paint on it was still wet when the rain started at four.

The trouble was the rain. It ran the black down the boards in grey tracks, so by the Sunday the word looked like it had been written by someone in a hurry, and half the parish said it was a disgrace. Ernest said nothing. He stood across the road in his good coat every evening until the light went, looking back at it. Then one morning he went up with a rag and some turps and took off the bottom swashes so the letters sat square against the brickwork.

Here's the thing I always tell people. From the road, the word reads as plain as day. But stand on the pavement by the lamp and you see it was never meant for the road at all. The flourish on the F curls back round to meet the letters like a hand closing over something small. Ernest died the winter after. The board's still there, faded to the colour of weak tea, and when I walk past I say the word out loud, just to hear it come back at me off the bricks.