Black and grey script lettering reading No Regrets, with a shaded outline, tattooed on a forearm near the elbow.

No Regrets script lettering on an arm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows the words No Regrets written in flowing script across the arm, with a thin black linework outline and a soft grey shadow beneath each letter. The lettering runs diagonally from lower left to upper right and fills most of the frame. Only black ink and grey tones are visible against the skin, and the edges are slightly soft, with a partial second tattoo at the bottom edge of the frame.

Lettering Forearm Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sign-writer at Porthkell kept his sable brushes in a biscuit tin that had once held Bath Olivers, and he never let the apprentice touch them. On a grey Tuesday in March, Joan Tregear came up the cobbles with a fistful of coins and a request scribbled on the back of a tide table: a name for her husband's crabber, in gold leaf, with a shadow beneath each letter so it would read from the quay.

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He asked her what the name was. She said it was No Regrets, and that her husband, Dennis, had chosen it himself the night before he bought the boat, sitting at the kitchen table with a pencil behind his ear. Pascoe had painted a hundred names on a hundred transoms, Mary Ann and Providence and Good Intent, but he had never painted a sentence. He sketched it first in looping copperplate, the N curling back on itself like a fishing line, the s at the end flicking up like a gull's wing. Joan watched him ink the outline and said it looked like a promise someone had been too proud to finish.

The boat went out every morning for eleven years and came back every evening with the hold full. Then one October the fog came in off the Manacles and the crabber did not come back at all, only the lettering, which was found on a slab of transom drifting in the lee of the breakwater. Joan brought it to Pascoe in a fish box. The gold had gone green at the edges, the shadows had held. She asked if he could paint the words again, on the wall of the chapel, so the people who had hauled her husband's pots could read them.

He did. The letters still face the harbour, a little faded now, and each morning he walks past them on his way to the slip and reads them aloud under his breath, slowly, the way you might check a debt was settled.