Black and grey realism tattoo of two roses and a pocket watch on the upper arm, shown from two angles side by side.

Roses and pocket watch on an upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A half-sleeve tattoo of two large roses framing a pocket watch with Roman numerals, with ornate scrollwork and a chain detail beside the watch. The shading is smooth and detailed, with strong highlights on the petals and glossy metal on the watch case. The image is a split view of the same arm from two angles, with the tattoo filling most of the frame against a dark background.

Realism Upper arm Rose Pocket watch Clock Roman numeral Scrollwork Chain

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The last up train had gone through Thornby at ten past nine, and by the time you had drawn the ticket hatch shut the platform was so still you could hear your grandfather's watch ticking in your waistcoat pocket. It was a silver hunter with a dent in the lid from the day he dropped it between the sleepers, and it had kept the company's time for thirty-one years. Mrs Pryce from the end cottage had left a bundle of dark red roses on the bench that afternoon, their heads heavy with rain, and a note asking whether the signalman could hold the 4.40 a minute or two for her nephew. You had said yes without consulting the timetable, which was the sort of thing Mr Ashby would have written up.

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The platform clock had stuck at twenty to four since March, and nobody had thought to mention it until the church bell across the valley began striking ten. You climbed the ladder with the watch in one hand and a screwdriver between your teeth, unhooked the dial, and held the silver case up to the lamp. Its hands read a quarter to ten. The chain, which Mr Ashby called a fob and you had always called a leash, swung against the rung and chimed faintly. You stood there longer than you meant to, watching the second hand sweep round the Roman numerals, and wondering which of the two clocks had been wrong all these years.

Then you understood it was neither. The watch ran a little fast in cold weather, your grandfather always said, and you had simply been setting it by the wrong train. You wound it, set the platform clock to match, and the minute hand jumped with a sound like a dropped coin. Down on the bench the roses had begun to open in the warm air from the boiler house. One petal let go and drifted onto the rails, and somewhere past the signal box the 4.40 sounded its whistle, a minute or two late, exactly as Mrs Pryce had asked.