Black and grey blackwork and dotwork tattoo of a skull wearing a bowler hat, on a person's calf.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Skull in a bowler hat on a calf

Dotwork · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph of a tattoo showing a skull wearing a bowler hat, centred on the lower leg. The skull is shaded with stippled dots and fine linework, with heavy black fill on the hat. The image is tightly framed on the tattoo with a plain dark background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Ada Corder found the bowler on the peg in the packing shed the morning the last of the Discovery pears came down. It was not her husband's. Walter had never owned a hat in his life, and this one had a dent on the left side of the crown and a sweatband stained the colour of weak tea. Someone had pencilled a name inside it, J. Wrenfield, Lunnon Street, and a date from the year before the war.

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She carried it out to the lower rows, where the Bramleys hung heavy and the grass had already gone the colour of straw. Jack Wrenfield had sold cider presses up and down the Wye valley when she was a girl, always in that hat, always with a joke about the orchard's bad soil. He had owed her father a bushel of Russets, and in the end he paid by leaving a press behind when his business folded, rusted and useless. Walter used to say the man had a face like a bad harvest. Ada had thought him handsome, in a grim sort of way.

The wasps came to the windfalls in their dozens, drunk on the sugar, bumping into each other in the wet grass. Ada stood under the nearest tree with the hat dangling from two fingers and considered her options. She could take it to the police in Ross, or to the church jumble, or to the back of the shed where things went to be forgotten. Instead she set it on the stump where the old press had stood and filled its crown with the bruised pears nobody would buy.

The wasps found it at once. By dusk they had settled round the brim like guests at a wake, and not one of them stung her.

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