Two forearms with fine line botanical tattoos, ears of wheat on the left arm and lavender sprigs on the right, with the two wearers holding hands.

Wheat and lavender on two forearms

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

Two forearms are shown side by side, one with a tall spray of wheat ears and the other with two stems of lavender, both drawn with dark outlines and soft shading. The wheat is rendered in olive and yellow-green tones, while the lavender is mostly grey and blue-grey with green stems and leaves. The subjects are set against a plain white shirt and dark clothing, with the hands clasped in the centre of the frame.

Botanical Forearm Wheat Lavender Stem Leaves Sprig Hand

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The envelope arrived at Haddon Cross with its corner singed, which Nell took as a sign of something, though she couldn't have said what. Inside were two paper twists of seed. One was labelled in her father's square capitals WHEAT, BRAMLEY FIELD, and the other LAVENDER, RECTORY WALL. Neither plot had been worked in eleven years. She sat on the step of the old shop with the twists in her lap while the lane went gold in the late sun.

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Her father had always said the two plots would never share a hedge. The wheat had gone to the Pascoe brothers after the flood, and the lavender had sprawled over the rectory wall until the vicar pulled it out for a car park. Yet here was proof he had kept both, hidden in the potting shed and dated the spring before he died. Under the lavender packet, in pencil, he had written: sow when the other one is ready. Nell did not know who the other one was meant to be.

She walked the Bramley field at dusk with a trowel and a coffee tin. The stubble had been ploughed, and in the furrows a few old ears still stood, bleached grey and bent by rain. Where the hedge ran into the rectory brick, a clump of lavender had come back on its own, purple and wild, with bees working it hard. She knelt beside it, dug two holes a hand's width apart, and tipped the seed in, wheat first, then lavender. She pressed the soil down with both palms.

By the first frost there was nothing to show for it but a green smudge and mud on her knees. She left the gate open after that, so the neighbours could see the two patches growing up side by side. Her father would have called it sentiment. Nell called it sowing, and the bees did not seem to mind which one it was.