The Alphabet Project, Part 10: "Ink"

My mother died in March – a Tuesday.  At the crematorium the vicar spoke of her warm, kind, loving personality and sense of humour – all things of which I had almost no memory as she had always been rather argumentative with me and my father.  Still, he cried by my side as the coffin disappeared behind the closing curtain, and I too choked back a tear.

“I want you to take this,” Dad said a few days later, handing me the urn.  “Despite what you may think she adored you and was so very proud of everything you did.  If I kept her with me I’d only end up knocking the bloody thing off the shelf and lose her in the fireplace, so please, take her with you.”

So that explains why mum’s ashes now reside on the table next to my computer, between the wireless router and the plastic effigy of Homer Simpson.

A few days later I found myself looking at some old photographs.  In the middle of the pile I found one of a beautiful young woman, smiling directly at the photographer, her face full of happiness, warmth, and love.  I almost failed to recognise my own mother in her twenties.

“She was quite a looker back then,” said Dad, holding the picture at arms’ length to focus, smiling at the memory.  “Everyone was after her but I got her in the end.  I was handsome too believe it or not.  Better looking than you anyway, son,” he laughed, jogging me with his elbow.

An idea came to me.  “Can I borrow this photo, Dad?  Just for a few days?”

He nodded.  “Of course you can.  Are you getting it reproduced?”

I smiled.  “Kind of.”

I did my research, finding the best person for the job, checking they were happy to go through with my idea.  Some expressed concerns but eventually I found one who said he had done something similar before.  I checked the quality of his work and, impressed with what I saw, I booked an appointment.

“Very nice,” he said, looking at the picture.  “Your mother, you say?”

“Late mother,” I replied.

“Yeah.  Well, I can’t see the resemblance, but whatever.  Anyway, I would.  You know.”  He smiled.  I didn't return it.  “Anyway, let’s have a look at her.”

I handed the urn to him.  He broke the seal and looked at the ashes inside.

“Looks fine enough,” he said.  “Brown hair, brown eyes you say?”

I nodded.  “Her hair was grey at the end, but back then, yes, brown.”

“No problem,” he said, sniffing, and turned to his shelves.

The inks were stored in bottles and together we looked at the array of colours, choosing the correct shades.  It took a short while to decide but eventually we had made our selections.  He decanted some of the inks into smaller bottles, mixed a tablespoon of the ashes into each, then took the seat opposite mine.

“Right or left?” he asked.

“Right,” I replied, and removed my shirt.

I’d never had a tattoo before and wasn't really expecting it to hurt as much as it did.  After two hours he had finished, and despite having to squint a little I recognised the picture of my mother through the multi-coloured bloody mess on my upper arm, her name – HELEN – in script below. 

Two days later. I removed the bandage for the first time.  My arm still felt sore but as I washed the tattoo I saw my mother looking back at me.  The image however was not quite as it had appeared back in the tattoo studio or on the photograph.  Her face looked a little harder, her expression more stern, lips pursed rather than smiling, and then there was the text.  Her name had been replaced by something else.

YOU BLOODY IDIOT, tattooed beneath her face.

I phoned the tattooist and asked for an explanation.  He told me he had taken a photograph of the tattoo once had completed the work and cleaned my arm, and would email a copy of the image to me.  A few minutes later I checked my PC and there was the email, the photo attached.  I looked at the picture and sure enough, there was my arm complete with the smiling image of my mother, exactly as on the photograph, HELEN below.  I remembered him taking the picture a few seconds before applying the dressing and taking my payment, so there was no way he could have made the tattoo look the way it did. 

I could only think of one explanation: As ridiculous as it was, my mother was haunting me from inside my own arm.

That evening I looked at the tattoo again and saw my mother’s face contorted by anger, and the text below now read WHAT WILL YOU LOOK LIKE WHEN YOU’RE 70?

The next morning I took the photograph back to my father.

“Did you get it blown up onto one of those canvas things?” he asked.  He looked excited at the prospect.  I suddenly felt I should have taken this more conventional path as a tribute.

I shook my head.  “I had a tattoo done of her.”

“A tattoo?  Why did you do a thing like that?  You know your mother hated them.  Every time she saw a young one like you with a tattoo she’d say What will they look like when they’re 70?”

I thought of my own arm on the previous evening, and the words which had appeared.

“I had some of her ashes mixed with the ink, so she would always be a part of me,” I said.  “I thought it was, well, kind of a nice idea.  But it’s gone a bit wrong.”

“Allergic reaction?” he asked.  “Could be a bit like getting muck in a cut.  Go a bit septic-y and all that.  You might need some Germolene on it.”

“Not quite.  I asked for a tattoo of that picture, and this is what I got instead.”

I started to roll up my sleeve, remembering the look of disgust that had stared at me from there that morning and the words I'M SO DISAPPOINTED WITH YOU below.

My father smiled.  “It’s gorgeous, son.  What’s wrong with it?”

I looked at my arm and saw my mother smiling back, exactly as in the photograph, her name below her face as requested.

“It was just a bit… Maybe it was still a bit sore or something.”  I tried to sound convincing, knowing what I had seen was real, but trying to understand what I could see before me now.

“We were great, me and your mum.  Always laughing back then.  She was the life and soul, well liked and all that, and not just by the fellas.”  He smiled at my arm, giving a wink.  “Can I touch her?”

“What?”

“The tattoo.  Can I touch it?”

It sounded strange, my father asking if he could touch my arm.  I nodded, and he reached across, running his fingertips across my skin, following the lines of her face, smiling as he traced.

“I miss her already,” he sighed.  “She might have gone a bit crabby in her old age but she was still my girl, still the girl I fell in love with inside.  We brought out the best in each other, we did.”

“I can imagine.”

I stayed for a few hours, Dad becoming increasingly drunk and emotional as he sat by my side, stroking my arm.  Sometimes he spoke directly to the tattoo, reminiscing, occasionally choking back a tear.  Of course I found it more than a little strange and when he went to leave he asked me to look away.  When I complied he placed a gentle, tender kiss upon my arm.

That night as I got into bed I looked at the tattoo and saw my mother was crying, I MISS HIM below her face.

The next morning I was woken by the doorbell.  Dad was outside, smartly dressed, a bunch of flowers in his hands.

“I brought these for your mum.”

“Dad – you can’t give flowers to a tattoo.  It’s… weird!”

He shrugged and smiled.  “I don’t care.  They’re freesias – her favourites.  She loved the smell.”

“This isn't right, Dad.  It isn't normal.  Mum’s gone and now you’re trying to seduce a tattoo.” I felt my arm itch but didn't look.  “ You've got to admit it’s a bit strange.”

His expression fell, and suddenly he seemed to shrink, almost ageing before me.  “I just miss her so much.  You don’t know what it’s like.”

I took pity.  “Come on in.  We can watch the football on TV or something, eh?”  I stepped aside.

He nodded, and his smile returned.  “Yeah.  And I’ll put these in some water,” pointing to the flowers.

“That’ll be nice,” I said.  “Haven’t got a vase though.”

“I’ll sort something out,” he replied.

He stood them in water in a beer glass.

As we watched the game Dad sat by my side on the sofa, and after a while he started to talk to Mum as though she was in the room.  At times he would reminisce about something, ending with “ didn't we, love?” and on occasion he would touch the tattoo softly, almost a caress.

When he left I looked at my arm.  Mum was smiling.  I'VE HAD A LOVELY DAY appeared beneath her face.

“Good,” I said, smiling.

Dad fell ill a few months later and his condition deteriorated rapidly.  I spent many hours round at his place, trying to care for him, but eventually he was moved into a hospital, then a hospice.  Weeks, I was told, maybe less.

“Make the most of your time together,” a nurse said to me.  I nodded and vowed to go every day, and I kept my promise.  It was hard seeing him fading so quickly, but I couldn't leave him.

I’d sit by his side, talking, and place his hand over the tattoo.  He would smile a little, his eyes remaining closed.

“You know what to do,” he said one afternoon, his voice a weak, low rasp.  I nodded and kissed his brow.  He drifted into sleep, and died that evening.

I pulled the dressing away after a few days.  It still looked and felt sore, still itched, but it would improve in time.

They looked happy by each other’s side, both smiling.  I had chosen a photograph of him taken at about the same time as the one of Mum, so they were the same age, young and happy.

Over on my desk, between the wireless router and the plastic Homer Simpson there are now two urns, each missing a little of their contents, but once again my parents are together, here in my arm.

*

Written by Peter Lee in lots of places, 31^st July 2011 – 21^st May 2013

(C) 2013 Peter Lee.  For Andy Dodds