Back of a woman with a black and grey tattoo of Alice holding hands with the White Rabbit on her upper back, with a small blue butterfly near her shoulder.

Alice and the White Rabbit on upper back

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A woman with dark red hair in an updo is photographed from behind, showing a tattoo of a young girl in a pinafore dress holding hands with a waistcoated White Rabbit. The figures are drawn in fine pencil-like linework with soft grey shading and a cast shadow beneath them. A small blue and teal butterfly sits higher up near the neck and shoulder, and the background is an urban skyline under a cloudy sky.

Back Alice Girl Rabbit Butterfly Dress

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Walter came into the Palais at a quarter past eight every Saturday, which was always after the first waltz had started, and he handed me his hat across the cloakroom counter with the air of a man apologising to a train. 'Late again, Mrs Pell,' he'd say, tapping the watch on its chain. I told him the hat had never once been late, only the head under it, and he'd laugh the way people do when they've been caught out and don't mind.

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That spring the girl arrived. She was about ten, in a pinafore her aunt had let out at the hem, and she stood by the counter with a stub of pencil and the back of a ticket, drawing whatever came past. Mostly it was Walter. She had him as a rabbit in a checked waistcoat, hurrying, his watch held up like a lantern, and she drew herself beside him, small and solemn, holding one of his paws. When he saw it he bought her a lemonade and made her promise to draw the butterflies in the rafters too, which she did, blue ones, smudged with her thumb until they looked ready to lift off the paper.

In June he didn't come. The band played the waltz without him and the hat rack stayed bare. The girl kept coming on Saturdays, sitting on the bench with her aunt, and on the last one before they moved north she slid the drawing across the counter and said, 'For when he's late.'

I pinned it behind the counter, beside the rota and the lost property tags. The clock over the door still runs five minutes slow, because Walter once said that was the only way to get a room of dancers to leave on time. Some nights I still catch myself glancing at it, the way he used to, and waiting for the door.