Two views of a colourful silhouette tattoo on an upper arm, showing a figure holding an umbrella above rooftops with a pink, purple and blue sky behind.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Silhouetted umbrella figure and rooftops on upper arm

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

The tattoo shows a black silhouette of a woman in a hat holding an open umbrella, with smaller silhouetted figures and rooftops below. Solid black silhouettes sit over soft, blended pink, purple and blue shading that forms a sky-like background. The two photographs show the same limb from different angles, with the design filling the outer side of the arm.

Upper arm Silhouette Umbrella Woman Hat Chimney Figure Sky Cloud

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody on Cutler Row believed Ada Pennick when she said the umbrella came down the chimney first. We had the soot on our faces to prove it, and her cap was missing, and the sky over the rooftops that Thursday was the colour of a bruise going yellow at the edges. Dad said she'd been at the gin again. Mum said it was the wind.

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What I saw was a black shape coming down through the cloud like a dropped glove, the umbrella open and turning, a woman beneath it with her hat tilted against the weather and a carpetbag swinging from one hand. She did not hurry. She stepped onto the leads of the Hallam place as if it were a pavement and bent to count the chimney pots with one gloved finger, and then she looked straight at me, where I sat on the parapet eating a heel of bread.

She asked the name of the street. I told her. She asked whether the pots still smoked on a Monday. I said they always did. She nodded, not surprised, and said that was the trouble with Mondays. Then she lifted the umbrella to the wind and went up over the roofs, with the sweeps' brushes knocking together in the yard below her like a choir warming up.

Ada swore the woman left her a shilling and a scrap of blue sky tucked in the lining of her cap. I still have the shilling. The cap went to the rag man years back, but I think of that sky whenever a flue goes quiet on a grey morning, and I climb up with my brushes to see who is still waiting on the leads.