Small fine line anchor tattoo in blue-grey ink on the side of a hand, between the knuckles, beside silver rings.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small anchor tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand with a small anchor tattoo on the side of the finger, near the knuckle. The anchor has a thin outline and a simple ring and shank, drawn in blue-grey ink with no shading. Several silver rings sit on the fingers, and the blurred background shows a patterned tablecloth.

Fine line Hand Anchor

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Pull your chairs in, the band's taking a breath and I've got the floor till the tea urn boils. You'll have seen the painted anchor above the ballroom door at Hollins Pier, the one the decorators keep touching up. That's where this starts, with a deckhand called Walter Pryce who took the Saturday steamer out past the breakwater and never once came back dry.

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Walter danced badly and knew it. Every Saturday in the summer of '52 he stood by the lemonade table turning a brass ring round and round his finger, while Nell Corbett, who sold the tickets, pretended not to watch him. The band played Glenn Miller and the boards shook under forty pairs of shoes. He said nothing until the night fog held the ferry in harbour and he walked up the pier in his oilskins and asked her, plain as a tide table, whether she'd mind a fellow who smelt of tar.

She said she'd mind the tar but not the fellow. He had a small anchor inked on the side of one finger that week, done cheap by a man in Bristol, and he held it up under the lamp as if it were a ticket. Nell laughed so hard the cashbox rattled. Walter sailed for the last time in October. The fog came in off the channel and the steamer never reached the pier. Nell kept the box office open all the same, and every Saturday she turned a brass ring on her own finger, the way he used to, and watched the door.

It opened in 1961. A stranger came up the pier on a borrowed boat, the blue on his finger faded to the colour of slate, and asked the girl at the box for one ticket. Nell was sixty by then and stamped it without looking up. Now, who's for the Gay Gordons?