Colour traditional tattoo of a pin-up woman with bangs, a blue feather fan and teal clouds across an upper arm and shoulder.

Pin-up woman with feather fan on upper arm

Traditional · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A woman with dark bangs and wavy hair is shown in profile, wearing a beaded necklace and a red and pink bodice, with a large blue feather fan across her lower body. Bold black outlines frame solid colour fills, with soft shading on the skin and hair, and teal clouds sit behind her head. The design fills the upper arm and extends over the shoulder, centred on the arm.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fan was the only thing in Ashgrove that had ever come by post from London, and by the third Saturday of the strike you had taken to sleeping with it under your bed like a bottle of good brandy. Your mother called it vanity. Mr Pryce, who thumped the Institute piano with two fingers and no shame, called it the finest thing in the valley. You called it yours, because you had paid for it out of three weeks of stitching collars for the Co-op, and nobody else in Ashgrove had a right to an opinion on that.

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On Saturday the hall smelt of wet wool and Woodbines, and the lads stood three deep at the back with their caps in their fists, not yet ready to be men who had spent their wages on a dance. You walked out with the fan held high, the way the girl in the magazine did, and the teal plumes swept the rafters and sent a little drift of dust down onto the trestle tables. Somebody whistled. Danny Rhys, who had gone down the Deep Seam with his father at fourteen and come up with a cough he never lost, did not whistle. He only looked at you as though you had struck a match in a gas room, and you forgot the next step entirely.

After the last waltz you walked home with him up the cinder path past the winding house, the wheel silent for the first time in a month. He carried the fan under his arm as if it might bruise. At the tip, where the spoil heap rose black against a sky going green at the edges, you took it from him, opened it once, and let the wind have it. The feathers lifted, caught the light from the pithead lamp, and went sailing over the rows towards the allotments where the children were already up. Danny watched it go. Neither of you said the fan had cost three weeks of collars. Neither of you needed to.

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