Colour tattoo of a pink Truffula tree with a green stem above a black quote reading Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, on a forearm.

Truffula tree and quote on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A pink, fluffy Truffula tree top sits on a curved green stem with a green base, drawn with black outlines. Below it, black lettering in a handwritten style reads Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not, wrapping around the stem in a curve. The ink is shown on pale skin against a dark background, with the lettering set in a tight, centred composition.

Lettering Forearm Tree Quote Text Stem

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ruth had been told the seedling would die before the Azores. The cook of the coaster Marguerite had heard it from the mate, who had heard it from the skipper, who said it the way he said most things, as if the weather had already decided. Ruth kept the pot on the galley shelf above the paraffin stove anyway, wedged between a tin of Ovaltine and a jar of pickled onions, and every morning she tipped a cup of rainwater into it from the bucket she hauled up from the scuppers.

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The stem had begun to curl like a question mark by the time they raised the Bristol Channel. Dusty Alcock, the deckhand, came down for his tea and found her crouched over it with a torch, checking the tuft at the top, which had gone the colour of a boiled sweet. He laughed. "Nobody on this boat cares whether that thing lives," he said. "Nobody on this boat cares about much at all."

Ruth stood, wiped her hands on her apron and set the kettle on the ring. "Then it'll need someone who does," she said, and nothing more, because she had decided years ago that arguing with men over tea was a poor use of hot water.

When they docked at Avonmouth, the pot went under her arm down the gangway, past customs and onto the number 9 bus. She got off at the end of a terrace where a strip of rough ground had been fenced off for a sewer job that never came. She dug the hole with a bread knife and watered the roots from her thermos. Dusty, who had followed at a distance with a sack of coal he'd promised to carry, dropped the sack and started digging with his bare hands. By the time the bus came round again, the tuft was lifting in the wind off the Severn, pinker than it had any right to be, and neither of them had said a word about caring.