Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
R2-D2 and red rose on a calf
Traditional · Calf · Colour · Photo
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Tuesday, ten past four. Mrs Adeyemi rang twice before the bins were out, wanting the rose on her husband's cake the exact red of his old postbox. I said I would do my best, which she took as a yes. Dev is at the proving cabinet with his sleeves rolled, muttering at a silver dome he has fashioned from a mixing bowl and two tins of custard. It is supposed to be a droid. I told him nobody will know what it is. He said Mrs Adeyemi will know.
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By half four the shop smells of brown butter and the radio is doing the shipping forecast in its low voice, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, as if the sea needs calming. Dev has piped a banner across the sponge in orange, YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE, and the letters have slumped in the warmth. He is furious. I tell him the slump suits it. Nothing that has come out of this oven has ever looked the way it did on the tray.
Ruth taught me that line years back, when the big oven gave out on a Friday. She stood in the flour with her hands on her hips and told nobody in particular that the whole town relied on her, and her only hope was a man from the council with a spanner. Dev thinks it is a film quote. I have never corrected him. Ruth is at her sister's in Hull now, and the phone on the wall has not rung since.
At twenty to six I slid the last tray out. The rose was finished, its petals curled as though they had been argued into place, and Dev stood back with his icing bag and let the grey light come up over the car park. Mrs Adeyemi collects at nine. I will tell her the red is the closest we could get without a fire. Dev will tell her the droid is a tribute. Neither of us will mention the spanner.
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