Small black and grey rose tattoo on a woman's lower abdomen above the waistband of a black and white bikini, with the face cropped out of frame.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small rose tattoo above a bikini waistband

Botanical · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A woman in a black and white bikini is photographed from the chest to the hips, with her face cropped out of frame. A small rose sits on the lower abdomen just above the bikini bottoms, drawn in black ink with grey shading. The rose is set against bare skin on a sunny outdoor background.

Botanical Other Rose Flower Bikini Abdomen

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now then, sit down where the lino's dry and mind the pram. You want the rose story, so I'll tell it proper. Up on the eleventh floor of Haverley House, past the lift that had been broken since the Jubilee, lived a widow called Maureen Pask, and she kept one rose in a biscuit tin on her balcony rail. Nobody gave her that rose. She took a cutting off the bush by the bus station, wrapped it in a wet tea towel, and carried it up eleven flights with her knees going like castanets.

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Every morning she watered it from a plastic jug and talked to it the way other women talked to the wireless. The estate thought she was soft. The lads on the bottom step thought she was mad. But the grey weather came in off the river that winter and the concrete turned the colour of wet ash, and still that rose kept one red bloom open on the rail like a match that wouldn't go out.

Then the council came with their clipboards to say the balconies were unsafe, and a young man from the flats below, Kwame Osei, who mended bicycles in a lock-up on Ferris Road, offered to carry the tin down for her. She said no. He came anyway, two days later, with a bag of compost and a lift part he'd begged off a depot. He stood on her landing puffing, holding that tin like a birthday cake, and she laughed so hard she had to sit on the stairs.

She gave him the cutting that afternoon, and he planted it against the shutter of his lock-up. And that's why, if you ever walk past Ferris Road, there's a rose climbing the metal, red as a stop sign, and nobody at all has ever had the nerve to cut it down. Pass the biscuits round, would you. Mind the pram.