Three-panel collage of black and grey tattoos: a tall pine tree on an upper arm, a detailed house with clouds on a forearm, and 'gone fishing' in script on a wrist.

Pine tree, house and 'gone fishing' script

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

The collage shows three separate tattoos. The left panel is a tall, solid pine tree with textured branches in black ink, the right is a shaded house with a porch, dormers and clouds below it, and the bottom panel is the words 'gone fishing' in thin, joined script. The pine and house use black and grey shading, while the lettering is a fine black line, and each piece is shot close up against plain skin.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody at the Carrick Road reunion could agree on who had the old Hallam house now. Dennis Pryce said a dentist from Leeds, Marion said a couple who had painted it yellow and were sorry about it. I stood by the trestle table with a warm lager and a name badge that still said Lorna Beck in biro, and I let them argue, because I knew. The house with the wraparound porch on the hill above the Tay had been mine for one July, when Gran rented it for six weeks and we had nothing to do but walk down to the water.

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Everyone from that year remembered the pines. They stood in a dark ring behind the house, straight as masts, and the wind made a noise in them like a radio left on in another room. Tom Rennie was the only one of us who had actually climbed one. He came over now with a plate of sausage rolls, grey at the temples, and said, "You still owe me a fish."

"You never caught one either," I said.

He laughed the way he had at twelve, all at once. We had a pact that summer, scratched in pencil on the porch rail: gone fishing, whenever either of us needed to be anywhere else. Gran found it in September and painted over it, which was the first time I understood that grown-ups could be sorry about a thing and tidy about it in the same breath.

Tom took out his phone and showed me a photo of a loch under low cloud, with a rowing boat tied to nothing. "Still go," he said. "Every time the kids get on my nerves." Then he put the phone away and looked at the hall clock. Half nine. The caretaker wanted the chairs stacked. Neither of us moved for a while.

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