Ink

by Alice Broadway

  “I wish I was ninety, then I could just stay inside and be warm.” Verity makes an exasperated face at me and takes my hand, once she’s found it under all the layers.

  “Come on, Grandma, you’re not getting out of this one.”

  Julia’s in the kitchen and she laughs at us both as we traipse upstairs.

  Verity has been planning how she’s going to look tonight for weeks. She is wearing her thick dark hair loose; it has been curled and she pins the front back with little golden grips that look like buds and which shine and glint. She looks like she’s wearing a crown. Her brown skin gleams. It’s like she was born to wear our traditional dress.

  “You know we’re going to be outside all night, don’t you?” I grumble as Verity unwraps my shawl.

  “We’re not dressing for a woodland hike, Lor – this is a party. No sensible footwear, no giant shawls, no holey cardigans!” I grudgingly take my warm, comfortable camouflage off and Verity puts my stuff in a pile on her bed. I shift my breastplate to make sure my stretchmark can’t be seen; it’s more pronounced than ever. Verity sits me on her chair and pulls my hair into little twists, clipping it back. She makes it look easy. She lends me jewellery and we rub our skin with oil and shimmering powder, taking care not to catch our sore wrists.

  When we’re both ready, Verity turns me to look in the mirror. I open my mouth ready to complain, but I close it again when I see that I actually look good. Not Verity good, (that’s never going to happen), but good nonetheless. My bare arms and shoulders show how few marks I have, but the golden dust has made my skin look less pasty. Verity doesn’t have any chosen marks either, but she is beautiful enough already; she doesn’t need any adornment to look enticing.

  “You look amazing,” Seb tells me when we go downstairs. He’s in pyjamas already, his straight brown hair mussed a little. He goes to bed so early now that he has to be up to bake.

  I give him a hug and whisper into his ear. “I wish you could come too. It would be more fun.” He laughs and backs off, shaking his head.

  “One leaving party was enough.” He smiles. He is so like Simon; he’s lovely.

  Julia is in her work clothes, about to leave. She looks tired and her hair seems a shade greyer than since I last saw her. Her blue eyes gleam though and she holds our hands and looks like she might cry.

  “Would you two just stop growing, please?” Verity has been taller than Julia for a couple of years. “You’re both gorgeous.” Verity rolls her eyes but I can tell she’s pleased. Julia puts an arm round Simon who kisses the top of her head. They both look so proud of Verity, I feel a pang of envy. We head out with promises to Simon that we will be good and that Verity will be back on time. On the way there, Verity stumbles in her heels and I feel a little triumphant that I am wearing my “sensible footwear”. Nothing of Verity’s would have fit. I may freeze, but I won’t twist my ankle. Anyway, I like my boots.

  The party is happening in the little patch of woodland near the school, and as we get closer to the site we can hear music and shouting and screechy singing. The comforting fragrance of smoke wafts our way as we walk into the woods. Verity “oohs” at the lanterns hanging from trees and I’m glad to see a brazier in the middle of a clearing. There are old classmates sat on blankets around it, some toasting marshmallows, some chucking on bits of whatever they find on the floor and watching it burn. It’s fairly busy already, I notice with relief; we can just sort of blend in. So far everyone is excessively friendly; Verity and I have already been hugged by about ten people that we hardly spoke to at school. It must be the mixture of alcohol and freedom from school and exams.

  A guy from my inking classes gives me and Verity bottles and shouts, “Cheers.” It’s Karl – one of those good-looking, over-confident types who intimidate me. He’s blond, tall, and I suppose some people must think he’s charming because loads of the girls at school seemed to fancy him. I don’t see it myself. At the start of the course he realized how easily I blush, and after that he made it his mission to embarrass me as often as possible. Now all it takes is for him to be near me and I tense up. He always claimed he was only doing the inking training as a backup; he was sure his dad would have a job for him in the family business. He’d never tell anyone what the business actually was. Something dodgy, probably. I’m too shy to tell him I don’t want to drink, so I take the bottle, but put it straight down on the table with the rest of the drinks when he looks away, content that he doesn’t seem to be trying to single me out tonight. We walk across to the brazier (well, I walk, Verity staggers – heels and forests don’t mix) where Verity sees a boy she knows from her politics lessons. He and his friends make space for us on their blanket. I’m not sure how to sit without showing my underwear to the world, so I kneel, feeling totally awkward. I half listen to Verity and her friend chatting and have a look around, taking it all in. This is what I’m like at parties, on the rare occasions that I go; I’m happiest if I can be quiet and just watch people, soak it up.

  Most people seem to have taken tonight as their chance to show off their marks. They’re all checking out each other’s new trade marks on their wrists and squealing or hugging or bumping fists. Our school uniform hid most of our marks and, of course, it’s only in the final year that students are old enough to choose their own ink. The guys’ outfits are made of soft leather too. They all have bare chests, but at least they get to wear trousers. Some of them have made up for their lack of marks by using mud as warpaint on their chests. They holler and wrestle, showing off to anyone who will look.

  I naturally switch into reading mode, watching the tales that people’s previously hidden tattoos tell. I notice one girl, whose blonde hair reaches her collarbones and whose smile is wide and relaxed, has already gone for a large mark on the back of her thigh. A snake curls over her skin. As I watch, its tongue flicks, and I see that it’s a mark inspired by her boyfriend; in fact, it looks as though it might have been chosen by him. I can sense the way the snake’s scaly body jars with the softness of her soul and the way it dominates her, taking up too much space on her leg. I feel relief as I read that she’s not with this guy any more, but filled with sadness that he has left such a mark on her.

  What would it be like to be a snake – to be able to shed your skin and begin again?

  Some people, like Mum and Dad, choose a theme for their marks – a kind of framework for all their future marks to fit inside. That’s often people’s approach. All Mum’s marks are flowers. Not bouquets; she’s more like a living herbarium. Each bloom is inked on her like a botanical specimen, neat, ordered and annotated. Just like her, the flowers are beautiful, restrained, discreet. When you first see her you are overwhelmed by the detail that adorns her – you can almost smell their scent. But look closely, really read her, and you will see that each flower has a meaning. Some are buds preserved at the moment they are ready to burst open. Some are blooms so ripe you just want to touch them. And some have the brown curled edges of a pressed flower past its prime. She’s hard for me to read though; whether that’s because I’m too close, or because she’s so good at being closed off, I don’t know.

  Dad’s marks all spoke of the ocean. He visited the coast once when he was a child; we’ve still got some shells and pebbles he gathered that day. He was all waves of blue and green, all fish and gulls and mermaids and seahorses.

  Apart from the crow.

  I shake away that thought. Looking around the party now, I can tell that lots of my peers have chosen their first marks in a less methodical fashion. In lessons, my inking tutor would talk about people like them in sneering tones; people who chose their marks without thought. He said they would regret their decisions. He said their very tastelessness would be marks against them for ever. Maybe he’s right; but all I can think right now, looking at all of them laughing and chattering in the firelight, is that at least they’ve done something – at least they’ve gone and got a mark, put a line on their skin. At least they weren’t afraid.

 
; Verity sees another friend and tells me she’s going to say hello. She slips off her shoes and strolls over, leaving her beer on the ground next to me. The other guys on the blanket leave too. I smile and wave, then go back to watching the fire, hypnotized by its flames. I imagine my body covered in flames and ash and inhale the smoke as it drifts from the brazier. Perhaps fire could be my theme. But fire isn’t really “me”; I’m not sultry enough. I could never smoulder.

  There’s a movement to my left and a group of boys sit down on the rug. They’ve been drinking; I can tell from their slurred voices. One of them knocks over a bottle and I quickly move Verity’s shoes out of the way. Suddenly one of the boys turns to me and I realize it’s Karl.

  He smells of beer, and from the way he blinks a bit too slowly as his eyes pass over me I can tell he’s had quite a lot. I fix my eyes on the fire again, hoping he will forget I’m here. A yawn takes me over and I shiver. How early is too early to leave a party like this?

  “Whoa, don’t fall asleep, Laura!” Karl shakes my shoulder as if trying to wake me up. I give him a tight smile and shift a few centimetres away from him.

  “My name’s Leora,” I say coolly, smoothing down my skirt.

  “Yeah, I know. But I can tell it annoys you when I call you Laura. You go all red.” I scowl but feel myself blushing. “See! You’re doing it now!”

  I shrug. “I’m sitting right next to the fire, Karl. Don’t be too pleased with yourself.”

  But Karl is staring at my inker’s mark, his bleary eyes suddenly focused. “You passed too, then?”

  I nod, just barely.

  “Me too.” He holds out his wrist and I can see his own inker’s mark there too.

  I raise my eyebrows. “I thought you were going to work with your dad?” He runs a hand through his hair, looking thoughtful, then leans forward and speaks quietly. His breath smells of beer.

  “Change of plan, Laura. Dad wants me to have a trade.” His disappointment is plain.

  “You’ll be really good though,” I say, trying to reassure him. “I’m sure it’ll be for the best.” In spite of coming across as a bit of a fool, he was always one of the most talented on the course.

  He doesn’t seem to know how to react to me being nice to him and he goes quiet for a moment. Then he blurts out, “I never knew they let girls do inking. But for ages I thought you were a boy.”

  I stare at him.

  “No, not that you look like a bloke or anything,” Karl is saying. “It’s just I never expected to see a girl taking inking class, so I assumed…”

  “You assumed I was a man because I wanted to be an inker? Thanks, Karl, you’ve made my night.” I move to stand up but he grabs my hand.

  “No, don’t go. Listen, I’m just teasing. You don’t look like a man. Actually, you look really pretty tonight.” I roll my eyes and reach over to pick up Verity’s shoes; when I look back Karl’s face is close to mine and I realize with a shock that he’s going to try and kiss me.

  “Urgh, Karl, get off!” I put both hands on to his chest and shove him away, hard. His eyes open wide as though he’s just woken up, and I see anger flash across his face. A couple of his mates start to laugh at him.

  I stand up, brush the dirt from my knees and walk quickly towards the trees. As I leave I hear Karl saying, “What a freak, as if I’d kiss her.” But his friends are still jeering.

  I find Verity chatting to Rahul, a boy she’s fancied for ages. He’s totally her type – neat hair and tidy clothes that belie a wicked sense of humour. I hand over her shoes and whisper in her ear that I’m going home. She says she’ll leave with me but I can tell she wants to stay, so I give her a wink and hope she has better luck than me.

  I probably shouldn’t walk back on my own, but I have the distinct feeling that I’ve left any real threat behind at the party. Karl. What an idiot. Still, at least now school is finished I’ll never have to see him again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My training starts on Monday. I spend a lazy Sunday going through the information pack, laying out my new uniform (steel-grey tunic and trousers – thrilling), looking up where to go for my placement (a little studio in the centre of town, which is pretty new but already very well thought of – the owner, Obel Whitworth, is semi-famous) and flicking through my old textbooks. I attempt to draw a few marks in my sketchbook, but everything looks stupid and childish. I’m too nervous about tomorrow.

  I wake up with that sinking feeling that is halfway between nerves and excitement. Like deep down, I’m excited, but the excitement is really, really deep below the nerves I’m experiencing. My mind is full of questions – what will Obel be like? What if I make a mistake? Will I be awful? Will I be the only girl? What if I need to pee and there are only men’s toilets? But then whispering in the background of my noisy mind I can hear a tiny voice asking, “What if it’s wonderful? What if I love it? What if I’m meant for this?”

  Mum’s prepared breakfast: fresh fruit, yogurt and what smells like freshly baked bread. Mum must have gone out early to buy it specially. She cuts it and tiny shards of crisp crust scatter on the board. This would usually be my perfect breakfast but I’m too nervous to eat.

  “You look nice, love,” says Mum as she brushes creases from my uniform and reties my sash.

  “Mum, I’m wearing grey from head to foot. I don’t look nice, I look like a mouse.” Mum pulls me in for a hug and kisses my hair.

  “You’re no mouse. Eat some breakfast and then we’ll light the candles and ask the family to take care of you today.” She takes a bite of toast, and while she’s still chewing says, “I remember my first day. It’s scary – but believe me, by the end of the week you’ll feel like you’ve been there for ever. I’m sure you’ll be great. You were born to do this.” It feels like she’s working hard to be gentle with me, almost like she’s trying to channel Dad and say what he would have said to me if he were here. It’s sweet of her. “I remember my mentor’s advice: don’t say you ‘just want to make a difference’ and try to remember people’s names. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”

  I smile. “Do you think you’ll let me mark you then?”

  Mum’s eyes widen and she coughs on a crumb that’s gone the wrong way. “Ask me again when you’re fully trained, love.” She grins back and we both get the giggles. It’s only then I realize she might be nervous too. It matters to her that I’m happy; it matters to her that I do my best and flourish.

  Mum and I leave the house at the same time – she’s doing a reading for a client who lives on the edge of town, but the studio where I’ll be working is in the town centre. We hug goodbye at the end of the street, and then I walk on alone.

  I breathe in the warm smell of bread from the bakery and dodge the florist who is bringing autumnal planters out to display in front of the shop. I walk through crisp leaves on the ground and relish the feeling of the warm sun on my face. The wind is chilly though and I hug my arms around myself while I walk. I can almost hear Dad’s voice saying, “These are my favourite kind of days – bright with a bite in the air.” I smile and then feel the choke of sadness. Not now, Leora, I tell myself. You can’t show up at your new job looking tear-stained. And, as I pass the museum, I have a comforting thought; I can go and see his book after work. You’re allowed to visit. I’ll be able to tell him about my day and he’ll give me strength.

  Feeling brighter and braver, I lift my chin and walk on. I pass other people walking to work; some are starting their training today, just like me. Each wears a different colour to represent their role, but I’m the only one wearing grey. Inkers are few and far between.

  I find the little side alley where the inking studio is, and turn down it. As I get nearer, I see a figure dressed in grey: another apprentice, it must be. And as I walk closer, my heart sinks.

  Karl. Of all the apprenticeships, he would have to be on mine.

  What would Verity tell me to do? I think. Verity would say I should ignore him – “He’s nothing, Lor –
you’ll look back and wonder why you let someone so insignificant have any impact on your life.”

  Which, of course, is fine for her to say.

  Karl doesn’t look pleased to see me, either. He had been leaning against the wall but now stands to face me. He’s broad, and although his blond hair has been pushed back, a few strands fall in front of his blue eyes. He suits the grey uniform and, typically, shows no sign of nerves.

  “You aren’t serious?” he says. “This is a joke, right? No one told me I’d have to share my training.”

  I shrug. Saying nothing, I keep my arms crossed over my chest and stand with my back against the wall to wait. I don’t get too close. The alley is quiet; I look down at my shoes and try not to do anything to attract his scorn. This is not how today was meant to go.

  Just then the sound of a bolt being pulled and the door being unlocked makes us both stand up straight. The door opens and the most beautifully marked man I’ve ever seen stands in the entrance.

  “Karl? Leora? You had better come this way.”

  Inside, everything is either wooden or grey. Wooden tables, pale grey walls, steel seats. The man who has ushered us in stands in glorious contrast to the surroundings. I’m no good at guessing ages, but he’s younger than Mum – mid-thirties, probably. His head is shaved and his bare arms are strong and pale. There’s something about him that feels off, unusual, but I can’t put my finger on it – something aside from the colours and the beauty of his skin and his undeniable presence. I can’t quite work it out. I realize I’m gaping at him when he says, “You OK there, girl?” I flush and nod, embarrassed to be caught staring.

  “Right, you two. Aprons on. My name is Obel. You may have heard my name and you’ll definitely have seen my marks. You’re training with the best and I expect exceptional things from you. Please remember that.” His words are arrogant but spoken so matter-of-factly it comes across simply as confidence. “And remember this too: I don’t care about you, I care about me. If you don’t meet my expectations I will drop you without a second thought. Everything you do is a reflection on me, so – do well. Understood?” Karl and I both murmur our agreement and I’m pleased that Karl seems as awestruck as I am.