Black and grey tattoo of two small footprints above the script words you are my sunshine, on the top of a bare foot with painted pink toenails.

Footprints and script on a foot

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A bare foot rests on a patterned blanket, showing a tattoo of two small footprints above the handwritten script words you are my sunshine. The footprints use soft shading and the script is drawn in a thin, even black line. The ink is black and grey, and the shot is taken at a slight angle with a dark, out-of-focus background.

Lettering Other Footprint Script Foot

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The footprints were still on the deck when we came round the Scar at first light, two small bare soles pressed into the salt film by the hatch, trailing off towards the wheelhouse and doubling back to the rail. Skipper Halloran stood looking at them with his tea going cold in his hand, and nobody on the Good Intent said a word for a full minute.

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Ruby had been on the quay the night before we sailed. She was six, in a yellow mac with the hood up, and she sat on the bollard swinging her wellies and singing the song her mother sang her, the one about the sunshine. Halloran swore he heard it over the diesel and the gulls. I'd have bet my share she was tucked up at home by then, and so, it turned out, was her mother, asleep in the Harbour Inn with the bar lights off.

We hunted the boat from the fish room to the bilge and found nothing but a pair of mittens stuffed behind the ice bin and a half-eaten ginger biscuit. Halloran chewed his lip and sent me to the radio. The coastguard at Wick had no word of a missing child, which was the only good news that morning, and I sat on an upturned crate with the handset warm against my ear while the prints dried to grey ghosts on the planks.

We ran for home with the engine pushing hard, and when we tied up at Kinloch Haven she came up the gangway in her yellow mac, still humming, sure as anything. Her mother was at the top of the pier in her slippers, running. Halloran laughed until he had to sit on the fuel tank. The footprints were gone by noon, sluiced away with the hose, but I still hear that tune when I haul a net, and I still count the boots before we cast off.