Close-up of the word beloved in fine-line cursive script in dark blue-black ink on the inner forearm, near the wrist.

Script word beloved on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of the word beloved written in flowing cursive script across the inner forearm, running from near the wrist towards the elbow. The linework is thin and even, with the looped letters sitting on a gentle upward slant. The ink is a dark blue-black against pale skin, set against a blurred dark background that keeps the focus on the lettering.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

No, sit where I can see you, because this is the part people always get wrong. Mrs Halloran at the post office told the whole of Wrenfield that Thomas Keel never wrote a word to Ada Pryce, and that was a lie. I carried the sacks up from the station every Thursday for three years, and I knew his hand. He wrote the same word at the top of every page, slow and careful, like a man threading a needle so the loops would hold.

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Ada kept them in a biscuit tin under the counter at the sorting office. Three hundred and eleven letters. She never opened the tin in front of anyone, though I could tell what was in it by the weight when she lifted it. Then one Thursday in March the ship's news came in from Halifax, and a letter came back stamped return to sender. The only thing written on the front in her own pencil was that one word, leaning towards the window the way his always did.

She didn't cry in the office. She went down to the river with the tin under her arm and sat on the wall by the mill race until the light went off the water. I went after her with my coat, and she held out the returned envelope without a word.

I read the word again. Then she took out her pencil, licked the point, and wrote it once more underneath, loops and slope exactly as he had made them. She posted it to the church, for the poor box, where it would be read by nobody who knew him. That was the last of it, and it was the only time I ever saw her smile.

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