Fine line black script tattoo reading family with a small heart beside it, on the side of a finger held against a white fluffy surface.

Family script and heart on finger

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand with the word family written in cursive script along the side of one finger, with a small outlined heart to the right. The linework is thin and even, in dark ink that appears black. The plain light background and soft focus keep attention on the small lettering.

Lettering Fine line Hand Family Heart Script Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are still stitching the last panel of the big top when Dorrie Lusk comes across the frosted field with two mugs and the council letter folded under her thumb. The canvas has gone the colour of weak tea and sags in the middle like a wet hammock, and every rope you haul brings down a little rain of old sawdust from the seams. She hands you a mug without looking at it. 'Friday,' she says. 'They want the field back by Friday.'

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The count is the same as it was yesterday. Eleven people, down from forty the summer your father died, and you know them the way you know the joints in your own hands. The twins who juggle badly on purpose to make the children laugh. Old Anselm, who still fires the cannon though nobody has paid for powder since March. The horse, Brassica, who has no act left but insists on her oats. You keep the ledger now, in your father's cramped capitals, and the numbers in it never get any kinder however often you add them up.

That night a man from a bigger outfit in Hull comes to the gate with a cigar and an offer for the horses and the two good wagons. Dorrie walks him back to his car and you hear them laughing, which is worse than arguing. When she returns she sits on the steps and does not ask what you have decided, because she already knows.

In the morning you take the sign-painter's brush from the wagon where it has rested since your father's last season and dip it in the black paint. On the side of the caravan you write the word family in the looping hand he taught you, and beside it a small heart, slightly lopsided, the way he always drew them. Frost melts off the canvas as the sun comes up. Nobody says anything about the field, and for one more day the tent stays standing.