Sketch-style colour tattoo of a woman's face in a harlequin diamond hat, with red cheek blush, on the outer thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Woman portrait with harlequin hat on thigh

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A woman's face in a harlequin diamond headpiece, with a small heart above one brow and a braid over the shoulder. The portrait uses loose black linework with shading, and red cheek blush and patches of blue, yellow, orange and green sit across the diamond pattern and the surrounding skin. The design fills the thigh, with the subject centred and a dark skirt visible at the top left.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hat came into lost property on a wet Tuesday, folded into a carrier bag and wedged under the bench on platform two. Harlequin diamonds in red, blue and yellow, the sort a busker might wear to make children laugh. Nobody claimed it, so I hung it on the hook by the kettle, where it could keep an eye on the tea and the timetables.

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That was when the drawings started. Every few days I found a sheet of paper tucked inside the lost-property box, torn from the back of a departures board printout. Pencil first, then ink, then smudges of watercolour that had dried in the damp of the waiting room. Always the same woman, her hair in a plait over one shoulder, a patch of red on each cheek and a small dark heart drawn above one brow. Always wearing the hat. I started leaving the sheets pinned to the corkboard beside the kettle, so I could see how the drawings were getting on.

She came back in March, on the 6.10 from Leeds, asking after a brown leather satchel. There was no satchel, but I told her about the hat, and she went very still in the way people do when a train they've missed turns out to be the one they needed. She said the hat belonged to a painter who had once drawn her on every surface the trains allowed, and that she had been trying to finish the portrait ever since. I asked why she had left it behind. She said the platforms were the only places that stayed still long enough to be looked at.

She didn't take the hat. She took one sheet from the corkboard, folded it into her coat, and walked out to the northbound. I still have the hat. It hangs by the kettle, and some mornings the diamonds catch the light from the platform and look almost finished.

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