Two wrists held together, each with a black fine line crown above script lettering, reading Queen on the left and King on the right.

Matching queen and king crown wrist tattoos

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

Two people hold hands, showing a matching pair of wrist tattoos. Each has a small black crown above a cursive word, Queen on the left wrist and King on the right. The linework is fine and solid black with no shading, set against pale skin and a grey and navy background.

Fine line Lettering Other Crown Queen King Script Matching Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, the lot of you, and stop pretending you remember Mr Pargeter's hall. Right then. Summer of 1963, the term the Dunmore Road lot painted crowns on the bike sheds. It was Rosie Kettle who started it, because she said a school with a queen and no king was a school with half its sense missing. She drew hers in biro on the back of her left hand, three points and a little wobble at the base, then wrote the word underneath in joined-up letters that made the headmistress stop in the corridor and stare.

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Eddie Marsh would not be outdone. He sat on the wall by the coal bunker with his father's drawing compass and a bottle of Quink, and spent the whole of dinner break inking a king's crown with five points, because he had counted the points on the crown in the Coronation programme. Every afternoon their hands met over the atlas and the aniseed balls, and every afternoon the ink spread a little further into the creases, until the two crowns looked less like a dare and more like a pair of sums that came out right.

Then came the Whitsun fête, and the ink would not come off in the washing trough. Mr Pargeter sent them both to the headmistress, who held their wrists side by side under the lamp and said, quite reasonably, that a queen needs a king the way a kettle needs a hob. She promised a letter home. Nobody ever found the letter. Rosie married a bus conductor from Ilford and Eddie went to sea for eleven years, and when they finally met again at the reunion of 1998 they both wore long sleeves and talked about the weather until the vicar asked them to hold hands for the photograph.

So there you are. Go and look at the photograph on the wall by the urn, if you can find it. The biro has faded to the colour of weak tea, but the words still read plain, which is more than can be said for most of us who ever sat in that hall.