A Sister’s Sorrow. Kitty Neale

to his, and said, ‘Slow today, mate, ain’t it?’

      ‘Yeah, if it carries on like this, I might pack up early,’ Roger replied.

      Unlike him, Roger was tall and slim, with a chiselled jaw, black hair and striking ice-blue eyes. His good looks always seemed to attract the housewives, which George thought was a blessing as it would inevitably bring business to his stall as well. After all, it wasn’t as if he could rely on his own looks, not with a heavily scarred face. However, it seemed Roger’s appeal was letting them both down today, and George sighed heavily as he thought back to the bomb that had killed his father and left himself almost unrecognisable. He still had flashbacks, mostly when he was sleeping, and would often wake in a cold sweat, remembering the smell of his own flesh burning and the searing pain as flames licked his once handsome face.

      This won’t do, George thought to himself, and shook his head. The bomb had dropped eight years ago when he’d been thirteen years old, and though the memory was vivid, he tried not to dwell on the past. He walked around to the front of his stall and began tidying some of the clothes that had been left strewn around when a woman had been rummaging earlier. As he folded a pair of striped pyjamas, he caught sight of a young woman sitting on the kerb at the edge of the market. He thought she looked very pretty with her long, dark hair and slim legs which she had pulled up in front of her. He could see she was holding something out to the few passers-by. It looked like gold, maybe jewellery, and he wondered what she was playing at. He knew PC Plod would be passing on his beat any time now, and if the young woman was trying to sell knock-off bits of gold, she’d soon find herself having her collar felt. By the looks of it, she had a young lad with her. George felt compelled to go and warn her.

      ‘’Ere, Roger, keep an eye on my stall, I’ll be back in a tick,’ he said.

      Roger gave him a nod, and George walked off. He passed a flower stall, then a book stall, and then approached the young woman. ‘What you got there then?’ George asked.

      She looked up at him and George immediately noticed her shocked expression. He was used to that sort of reaction from strangers when they saw his face.

      ‘It’s … I … erm …’ she replied.

      ‘Look, I’m only here to warn you. The Old Bill come down here and if they see you trying to flog that bracelet, you’ll find yourself down the nick. They don’t take kindly to stolen goods being sold on the market.’

      ‘But it ain’t stolen!’ the young woman protested, ‘I found it!’

      ‘Yeah, all right, if you say so. It’s up to you, I’m just giving you the heads up,’ George replied.

      He saw her unusually green eyes begin to well up and realised she was about to start crying. Judging by the state of her and the lad, he thought they looked like a pair of ragamuffins and had obviously fallen on hard times. He suddenly felt very sorry for her. ‘Please, don’t cry. I didn’t want to upset you. Tell you what, come with me to my stall. I’ve got a nice wool coat that would look smashing on you. You look half frozen,’ he offered.

      ‘Thanks, but I ain’t got no money,’ she answered, and sniffed.

      ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve had the bloody thing for weeks now, can’t seem to shift it. It’s nice, mind, and a gift to you.’

      George held out his hand to help her up and was glad when she accepted. He led her back to his stall, with the little lad in tow who was clutching a blanket around himself. Poor mite, he thought, hoping to find something suitable for the boy too.

      Sarah felt so uncomfortable. She hated accepting charity, especially from strangers, but she was cold down to the bone and her teeth were chattering. She welcomed the thought of a warm coat to wear.

      ‘I’m Sarah, and this is my brother Tommy,’ she said.

      ‘Pleased to meet you both. Me name’s George and this ’ere is that coat I was telling you about.’

      George held up a dark-blue coat, and then helped Sarah into it. She thought he was very gallant, and was pleased when the coat fitted well. She instantly felt warmer, but also embarrassed. ‘Thank you, George. I’m so grateful but I wish I could pay you for it. If I can sell this bracelet, I’ll come back and give you some money. How much do I owe you?’

      ‘I won’t hear of it. I told you, it’s a gift. Now, let me see what I can find for the young man,’ George said and turned to smile at Tommy.

      Tommy had been very quiet, but suddenly said loudly, ‘Sarah, why has that man’s face melted?’

      Sarah felt her cheeks burn and wished the floor would open up and swallow her. You couldn’t help but notice George’s scars, but she hadn’t expected Tommy to ask such a direct question.

      As if sensing her awkwardness, George quickly responded. ‘I like a man who says it as it is. That’s right, lad, my face has melted, but it was a long time ago. I got injured in a fire, so you watch yourself and stay away from fires. You don’t want to end up looking like me now, do you?’

      Tommy shook his head and asked, ‘What fire? Was it the Great Fire of London?’

      ‘Tommy, that’s enough. It’s rude to ask questions. Now say you’re sorry,’ Sarah chastised.

      ‘Sorry,’ Tommy said and pouted.

      ‘No need. Now, I’m sure I’ve got something in that box that’ll be good for you,’ George said and pointed to a crate under his stall. ‘Have a look through there and see if you can find yourself something to wear instead of that old blanket.’

      Tommy got down on his bare, dirty knees and began delving.

      ‘Right, let’s have a look at this bracelet you’re selling. My old mum loves a bit of gold and her birthday’s coming up soon,’ George said, clapping his hands together.

      Sarah took the bracelet from her pocket and handed it to George. ‘Honest, I did find it. Tommy spotted it down on the river banks off the bridge. I didn’t steal it, I wouldn’t.’

      ‘It’s all right, I believe you, thousands wouldn’t,’ George said. ‘Tell you what though, I’ve never seen anything quite as fancy as this. It must be worth a fortune. How much do you want for it?’

      Sarah knew it was worth much more than she could ask, but she didn’t care. She’d take whatever she could get. She pulled a figure from the air and answered, ‘Ten pounds.’

      George coughed and for a moment, Sarah thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.

      ‘Well, I wouldn’t normally spend that much money on a pressie for my mum, but—’

      Sarah quickly interrupted, worried she was about to lose her sale. ‘Five pounds,’ she said.

      ‘Whoa, slow down, girl. I was going to say—’

      Once again Sarah cut in. ‘OK, three pounds but that’s my final offer.’

      George laughed. ‘You drive a hard bargain. Tell you what, I’ll give you a fiver for it. That way, you’ve got it sold and I’ve got me mother a bit of tom that she’s going to love. You’d be hard pushed to get rid of it round here. People ain’t got that sort of money going spare. You’d be better off going up town to flog something like this.’

      ‘No, a fiver is fine. Deal,’ Sarah said, relieved she would at last be able to feed herself and Tommy.

      George handed Sarah a five-pound note. She’d never had so much money in her hand and studied the white piece of paper with its writing in black ink. It said, ‘Bank of England’ in fancy swirly letters and underneath was written, ‘promise to pay the bearer the sum of five pounds’. Sarah wasn’t sure if the money was real, and couldn’t afford to be ripped off.

      ‘What’s this you’re trying to fob me off with? Do you think I’m stupid, George?’

      ‘What do you mean? Of course I