Close-up of a small black fine line tattoo of a cross above two wavy lines on the side of a finger, with black nails.

Small cross and wavy lines on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of a cross sits above two wavy horizontal lines on the side of a finger. The linework is thin and even, with a slightly uneven, hand-drawn quality. The image is in colour with a soft, warm background, and the hand fills the frame at an angle.

Fine line Hand Cross Wavy line

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The beck had come up overnight, brown as stewed tea, and by the time you reached the chapel steps it was lapping at the lowest stile. Nan was already inside, arranging chrysanthemums bought with the last of the coal club money. She didn't look up when you came in. She said the early shift had gone down at six, that the cage had jammed at four hundred feet, and that Tommy Shaw's wife had been sat in her kitchen since dawn with the wireless switched off.

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You went out again with the wet wind on your neck and walked the long road past the washery to the pit gates. Nobody stopped you. The crowd stood in their Sunday coats, shifting from one foot to the other, while the rope crew kept their backs to the headgear as if they could not bear to watch the wheel. You had brought a pencil and the back of a wage slip, because your hands needed something to do. You drew what you could see from the gates: the chapel roof on its rise, the small cross on the gable, and below them the two lines of the beck where it bent round the spoil heaps.

Somebody shouted, and the crowd moved as one. The cage came up slowly, lamps first, then a man with his helmet in his fist, then another. Tommy Shaw was third. He looked for his wife across the yard, found you instead, and lifted one hand, fingers spread, as if to say that was that for today. You folded the wage slip in four and pushed it into your coat pocket, where the paper went soft against your palm.

Later, on the chapel steps, you unfolded it again. The rain had got at the pencil, so the beck and the roofline ran together into one grey line, and you did not try to pull them apart.