Close-up of a small black fine line crown tattoo on a bare ankle, resting on a wooden surface, with a tiny anchor on the other foot in the left panel.

Small crown tattoo on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A split photo showing a woman seated by a window with her back to the camera, with a close-up of her ankle on the right. The main tattoo is a small black crown outline with a cross on top, drawn in thin, even lines with no shading. A tiny anchor is also visible on the foot in the left panel.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cook on the Marigold Rose had a rule that nobody sat down in the galley until the kettle sang, and Tobias Penhale, who was nineteen and had only been aboard six weeks, sat down anyway, because his legs had given out after the night watch. Old Mags Trewin slapped the ladle against the rail and told him he'd have his tea when she was good and ready and not before.

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She made it strong enough to stand a spoon in, poured it into a tin mug with a dent in the side, and sat across from him with her own hands wrapped round a cup that had no handle. Outside the porthole the Channel was the colour of pewter, and the lighthouse on the Lizard blinked its slow count. She said her husband had gone down with the Sovereign Anne off Padstow in 'ninety-one, and that when they'd carried his effects ashore there had been a little brass crown on a chain, the sort a sailor's mother gives him for luck, and she had never once been able to make herself wear it.

Tobias asked why she told him that. Mags took the lid off the flour tin and looked inside as if the answer might be in there. Then she reached across, pulled up the hem of his oilskin trouser leg, and tapped the bone above his boot where a faded anchor sat in blue ink he'd had done in Plymouth, drunk and proud. "That's a sailor's mark," she said. "A crown wants a bit more than the sea gives you." She went back to her bread. The kettle started to sing, and he finished the tea before it went cold.

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