Black script tattoo reading Previously on Lost across the fingers of a hand, with striped fabric in the background.

Previously on Lost script across fingers

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand with the words Previously on Lost written in flowing black script across the fingers. The linework is solid and even, with the letters following the curve of the knuckles. The image is black and grey against a pale skin tone, with a zebra print fabric and a dark surface behind the hand.

Lettering Hand Script Quote Text

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, flour off the stool first, and mind the tray, it's hot. Right. Previously on Harrow Lane. The back oven went cold on the Tuesday, and Mrs Pennock swore on her late husband's rolling pin that the bread had turned against her, not the other way round. You remember that. Nobody remembers the rain, though, which came down so hard the gutters sang the whole night through.

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Wednesday, Tom Fairley came in before the sparrows with his coins counted out in pennies and asked for a loaf he could not afford, and I gave it to him, which was the first mistake and not the last. Thursday the cat got into the proving drawer and sat there like a bishop. Friday the council man came with his clipboard and his opinions about the bins, and went away with a custard slice he did not pay for either.

Here is the bit you've been waiting for. Friday night, after the last of the custard had gone, I found a brass key wedged in the flour bin, the cellar key nobody had turned since the war. Down there, behind the sacks of spelt, was a shoebox tied with string. Inside were nine letters addressed to Mrs Pennock in a slanting hand she had never once mentioned to me, every one postmarked the week he went missing, every one ending with the same two words: back soon.

So that's where we are. Pass me that scraper. I'll take the letters up to her after the first batch comes out, and she can decide for herself whether to read them standing up. The shutters go up at six, and whatever comes through that door this morning will have to wait its turn behind the rye.