Neo-traditional tattoo of a woman with waved hair and orange earrings, holding a fan with a hand and eye design, on an upper arm.

Portrait of a woman with a fan on the upper arm

Neo-trad · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A greyscale portrait of a woman with side-swept, waved hair and orange drop earrings fills the upper arm, with a large open fan and a hand holding it below. The linework is bold and outlined, with soft grey shading on the face and hair. Orange and dark orange accents on the earrings and fan add colour against the grey tones.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Lyric Hall on the harbour front has been shut since the war, but on Thursdays Mrs Abernethy still unlocks the side door for the old crowd, and you go in anyway, because the fish market has nothing to offer a man of your years except its smell. You sit in the back row where the velvet has worn down to the cloth. Someone has left a folded fan on the seat beside you, painted with a sailing barque, and you know without looking whose it is.

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Nell Varley danced the last season before the hall closed. She came off the Liverpool boat with one trunk and a reputation she never bothered to explain. Her hair was set in the tight waves the girls copied from the pictures, and she wore orange paste drops that caught the stage lamps like a struck match. She kept her face still while the band played, and the fan did all her talking, opening and closing like a slow argument she was winning.

The night the chandler's boy went missing off the mole, she took you by the sleeve in the wings and pressed a card into your palm with a drawn eye on the back. "Look at what the sea keeps," she said, "and it'll keep looking back." You laughed. You were twenty. Two days later the boy turned up in Grimsby with a story nobody believed, and Nell had gone south with the fair.

Now the fan lies on your knee, its ribs gone yellow, and you run a thumb over the little painted barque. Mrs Abernethy dims the lights. You open the fan halfway, the way Nell taught you, and the whole room seems to lean in to watch you not look at the door.

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