Colour and grey realism style tattoo of an anchor wrapped in rope and decorated with pink roses and blue flowers, on the inner forearm.

Anchor with roses and forget-me-nots on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A grey shaded anchor with a coiled rope runs vertically across the forearm, with pink roses and small blue flowers climbing around the shank and crossbar. The anchor has smooth grey shading that gives it a three-dimensional look, while the flowers and green leaves are rendered in soft pastel colour. The design is centred on the arm with plain pale skin around it and a dark leather surface behind.

Realism Botanical Forearm Anchor Rope Rose Flower Forget-me-not Leaf

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The raffle tickets had run out by the time Dora found the class photograph propped against the urn, and she was still holding it when Terry Marr asked whether she had ever gone to sea after all.

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"Once," she said. "Ferry to Lerwick. I was sick off the stern and the purser gave me a barley sugar."

Terry laughed through his nose, the way he had at fifteen, and tapped the girl in the front row whose hair was a yellow storm. Someone had written Mrs Tait's name on the back in biro and someone else had crossed it out. The hall smelled of urn water and floor polish. Every trestle held a jam jar of forget-me-nots, pale blue against the paper cloths, and Dora thought of her mother's tub by the chandlery door, which bloomed every May long after the boats had stopped going out.

The Ship was pulling down its old bar, Terry said. The anchor above the fireplace had gone to a dealer in Scarborough who wanted it for a garden gate. He had been trying to decide whether to tell the landlord to keep it or to let it go, and he wanted to know what she would have done. She could not say. The anchor had hung there her whole childhood, with its shank wrapped in rope and a rose someone had painted in pink on the crossbar, and she had never once wondered who painted it.

She left before the raffle was drawn. On the step she pulled one sprig from the nearest jar and tucked it into her coat pocket. Down past the lifeboat house the tide was turning on the slipway, and the water came up over the stones in slow, grey tongues, as if it had all the time in the world to decide.