Close-up of a hand with the word grace in black script lettering on the back of the hand, beside a coffee mug and an open book.

Grace script lettering on the back of a hand

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand rests on a white blanket with the word grace written in black, flowing script across the back of the hand. The linework is solid and even, with no shading, and the lettering sits slightly towards the wrist. The palette is neutral, with cream fabric, a brown ceramic mug of coffee, silver rings and bangles, and black nail polish, all set against an open book with printed text.

Lettering Hand Script Hand Coffee Mug Book Ring Bangle Nail polish

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nell had the kettle on the hob and the big Bible open on the scrubbed table when the knock came, two raps, and then the latch lifted before she could answer. Mr Ridley from the colliery office stood in the doorway with his cap crushed in his fists and rain running off the brim. "They've brought Tom up from the east drift," he said. "He's not dead, Nell. Not yet."

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She did not sit down. She took the good cup from the dresser, the brown glazed one with the chipped lip, and filled it with tea strong enough to stand a spoon in, because that was what her mother had done through the winter of the long strike. She pressed it into his hands and told him to drink. Then she went to the window, where the pit-head wheel turned slow against the cloud, and she said the only word she could find that was big enough to hold what the company owed them. Grace. Not as a prayer. As a debt.

Ridley looked down at the open book on the table, at the line she had underlined in Ephesians with a pencil stub, and said the doctor was already at the top of the shaft. Nell pulled her coat from the hook. Behind her the tea went cold in the cup he had forgotten to drink, a thin skin forming on it, and the book stayed open at the page she had marked with a bootlace.

They walked down Front Street with the rain going sideways. In the surgery corridor the doctor said Tom would keep his leg if the fever held off, and Nell leaned against the cold tiles until her breathing slowed. Afterwards she went home alone, sat at the table, and wrote the word on the flyleaf in pencil, small and careful, the way the minister wrote the names of the dead. She underlined it once, then closed the Bible and left the cup where it stood.