writing.
A large man put down his needle and emptied his glass of beer.
‘Yes, Miss? Want a tattoo, do you?’
Phryne ignored the laughter and said coolly, ‘I want a transfer. I remember that when I was a child one could produce an ink picture on the skin. I do not want a permanent tattoo. Can you do it?’
The Professor removed his hat and scratched his head, where the black hair was thinning.
‘You don’t know what you are asking,’ he complained. ‘My skill is with the needle. I don’t do transfers.’
‘How permanent is your ink?’
‘My ink lasts forever. You’ll go to your grave with one of my tats.’
‘I see. And is it waterproof?’
‘Yair, but once it’s under the skin it don’t have to be. You can’t wash off skin.’
‘And how do you mark the design?’
‘Like this.’ He reached for a template, inked it with a roller, and curved the inked side around his own arm. He peeled the celluloid off with great skill and left on his skin the reverse of the picture scratched on the template.
‘See? I don’t do freehand drawings. Illustrations, that’s what they are. Some of them come from America.’
‘But you could make one?’
‘Sure.’
Phryne produced her design. The Professor took a square of celluloid and carved the design into it.
‘There you are, lady. Now, since you don’t want a tat, I must ask you to leave.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t, I need the right coloured ink. You can apply it, if you please. I will pay a standard fee.’
‘Whatever you say. What colour?’
‘Blue.’
He inked the template and gestured Phryne to a chair, beside another sufferer at whose arm she did not like to look. It was a mess of ink and blood and must have been very painful.
‘Where do you want this?’ asked the Professor resignedly, approaching with the template. Phryne unbuttoned the drab dress and exposed her cleavage.
‘Oh, cripes no!’ he recoiled. Phryne was firm.
‘Come on, now, be a brave Professor. Just here, if you please, and don’t smudge.’
Averting his eyes, the Professor applied the template with unstudied efficiency, peeled it off. The circled capital A was as clear as print and definitively blue.
‘Good. How long does it take to dry?’
‘Ten minutes,’ gasped the Professor, who had only applied such decorations to ladies of very light repute indeed. His present client did not fall into that class and he found her very disturbing. She, however, was as cool as a halibut on ice and was chatting in a social tone, holding her dress apart so as not to touch the ink.
‘Have you seen that design before? Oh, do go on with your work,’ she offered generously. ‘I would not like to interrupt you.’ The news of what was happening in the tattoo salon had emptied the pub. More drinkers crammed into the shop, until Phryne found it difficult to breathe and the Professor was forced to clear the place with a full-throated roar which drove them onto the street again. The crowd attracted Bert and Cec, who took one look into the salon and ducked out again.
‘You reckon we should wait for her, mate?’ asked Cec. Bert nodded.
‘There might be trouble.’ He took up his post leaning against the wall. ‘So we stay.’
‘No, I never seen that design before,’ answered the Professor, concentrating on the arm in front of him and wiping blood away with cotton wool. ‘There you are, son.’
The patient managed a grin and smiled across at Phryne.
‘It don’t hurt much,’ he lied. ‘Why not give it a go?’
The Professor groaned, but Phryne answered collectedly, ‘Not today. I’ll think about it.’
‘That’ll be dry now, Miss. It will last about a week, and then it’ll wash off. And be nice, Miss, don’t think about it. You don’t want a tattoo. You don’t want to go spoiling them nice…I mean, you really don’t want one. It ain’t right for a lady. That’ll be five bob,’ he added, grossly overcharging to compensate for having his afternoon ruined.
A large man put down his needle and emptied his glass of beer.
‘Yes, Miss? Want a tattoo, do you?’
Phryne ignored the laughter and said coolly, ‘I want a transfer. I remember that when I was a child one could produce an ink picture on the skin. I do not want a permanent tattoo. Can you do it?’
The Professor removed his hat and scratched his head, where the black hair was thinning.
‘You don’t know what you are asking,’ he complained. ‘My skill is with the needle. I don’t do transfers.’
‘How permanent is your ink?’
‘My ink lasts forever. You’ll go to your grave with one of my tats.’
‘I see. And is it waterproof?’
‘Yair, but once it’s under the skin it don’t have to be. You can’t wash off skin.’
‘And how do you mark the design?’
‘Like this.’ He reached for a template, inked it with a roller, and curved the inked side around his own arm. He peeled the celluloid off with great skill and left on his skin the reverse of the picture scratched on the template.
‘See? I don’t do freehand drawings. Illustrations, that’s what they are. Some of them come from America.’
‘But you could make one?’
‘Sure.’
Phryne produced her design. The Professor took a square of celluloid and carved the design into it.
‘There you are, lady. Now, since you don’t want a tat, I must ask you to leave.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t, I need the right coloured ink. You can apply it, if you please. I will pay a standard fee.’
‘Whatever you say. What colour?’
‘Blue.’
He inked the template and gestured Phryne to a chair, beside another sufferer at whose arm she did not like to look. It was a mess of ink and blood and must have been very painful.
‘Where do you want this?’ asked the Professor resignedly, approaching with the template. Phryne unbuttoned the drab dress and exposed her cleavage.
‘Oh, cripes no!’ he recoiled. Phryne was firm.
‘Come on, now, be a brave Professor. Just here, if you please, and don’t smudge.’
Averting his eyes, the Professor applied the template with unstudied efficiency, peeled it off. The circled capital A was as clear as print and definitively blue.
‘Good. How long does it take to dry?’
‘Ten minutes,’ gasped the Professor, who had only applied such decorations to ladies of very light repute indeed. His present client did not fall into that class and he found her very disturbing. She, however, was as cool as a halibut on ice and was chatting in a social tone, holding her dress apart so as not to touch the ink.
‘Have you seen that design before? Oh, do go on with your work,’ she offered generously. ‘I would not like to interrupt you.’ The news of what was happening in the tattoo salon had emptied the pub. More drinkers crammed into the shop, until Phryne found it difficult to breathe and the Professor was forced to clear the place with a full-throated roar which drove them onto the street again. The crowd attracted Bert and Cec, who took one look into the salon and ducked out again.
‘You reckon we should wait for her, mate?’ asked Cec. Bert nodded.
‘There might be trouble.’ He took up his post leaning against the wall. ‘So we stay.’
‘No, I never seen that design before,’ answered the Professor, concentrating on the arm in front of him and wiping blood away with cotton wool. ‘There you are, son.’
The patient managed a grin and smiled across at Phryne.
‘It don’t hurt much,’ he lied. ‘Why not give it a go?’
The Professor groaned, but Phryne answered collectedly, ‘Not today. I’ll think about it.’
‘That’ll be dry now, Miss. It will last about a week, and then it’ll wash off. And be nice, Miss, don’t think about it. You don’t want a tattoo. You don’t want to go spoiling them nice…I mean, you really don’t want one. It ain’t right for a lady. That’ll be five bob,’ he added, grossly overcharging to compensate for having his afternoon ruined.
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