your stall?’ she asked him.
‘My dad’s.’
‘So you help him out.’
‘For the moment. I have to do what I have to do and this is what I have to do right now. Won’t always do it though. I’ve got plans. Believe me I’ve got plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘Plans to be better than what I am. Plans to be important and useful.’ He winked. ‘And to wear a uniform. I want to be like ’im.’
He pulled a battered novel from his back pocket and flicked his fingers at the lurid cover. Magda read the title.
Barton on the Beat.
‘I read loads of Bob Barton books. He’s a London copper.’
‘So you want to be a policeman?’
‘Shhh,’ he hissed, placing a finger before his lips. ‘Not so loud. Don’t let anyone round ’ere hear you saying that. They’d think me a traitor – selling ’em out so to speak. Still, beats selling fruit and vegetables.’
‘Selling fruit and vegetables is useful – where would we be without them?’
He threw back his head and laughed, which had the effect of sending his overlong hair spreading around his neck like a collar.
Magda frowned as a very serious thought occurred to her. ‘Will you find missing persons, things like that?’
‘You bet I will, though to start off with it’ll probably be just lost dogs. Why do you ask?’
She told him about wanting to find her family.
‘Could you help me find them?’
He looked taken aback. Reading about being a police detective and actually playing the part were two different things.
Magda misinterpreted. ‘I can’t pay you anything so can’t ask you to look for them for me, but if you could tell me what to do, how to find missing people, I would be really grateful.’
‘I’m not a policeman yet.’
‘No, but you will be. And you’re sure to be good at it after reading all those Bob Barton books.’
‘Well.’ He scratched the back of his head as he thought about it. ‘I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to get me hand in so to speak. Tell you what, let me ’ave a think and I’ll see what I can come up with. Trot along ’ere tomorrow about half an hourearlier than now. I’ll take my break and we can ’ave a bite to eat together over on the seat there. ’Ow would that be?’
She eyed him warily, wondering if he was making fun or really serious.
‘You mean it? You’re not making fun of me because I’m only a child and a lot younger than you?’
Looking seriously impressed, he shook his head. ‘No. Of course not. Now go on, clear off before I change me mind.’
She thought about asking if he had a pencil she could borrow, but didn’t want to push her luck.
She dashed round the corner into Beatrice Street so fast that she collided with what seemed like a green wall in front of her.
‘Blimey, you’re in a hurry. Been a fire or something?’
Magda looked up into a face that was round as a pumpkin above a dark green jacket and knee-length pleated skirt. There was something youthful about that face, as though the owner wasn’t much more than a child forced through circumstance to grow up too early.
Magda recognised her as one of the girls from the grand house across the road.
‘Looks like you done all right for yourself,’ said the girl, nodding down at the orange string sack.
‘It was all free. From underneath the stall. I didn’t pinch anything and Danny Rossi gave me a pig’s tail. I’m going to make a stew.’
‘Well, aren’t you the one! Going back now are ya?’
Magda nodded and thought how beautiful the young woman smelt. Roses. Flowers anyway.
‘My mother used to wear a hat like yours,’ said Magda, glad of someone to talk to besides Bridget Brodie. Not that she ever talked – not really. Just shouted.
‘Do you like it?’
Magda nodded.
The mustard hat reminded Magda of one her mother used to wear – a cloche she’d called it, but Magda had always called it her tulip hat because that’s what the shape reminded her of – a tulip – a dark red one in her mother’s case,
‘My dad’s.’
‘So you help him out.’
‘For the moment. I have to do what I have to do and this is what I have to do right now. Won’t always do it though. I’ve got plans. Believe me I’ve got plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘Plans to be better than what I am. Plans to be important and useful.’ He winked. ‘And to wear a uniform. I want to be like ’im.’
He pulled a battered novel from his back pocket and flicked his fingers at the lurid cover. Magda read the title.
Barton on the Beat.
‘I read loads of Bob Barton books. He’s a London copper.’
‘So you want to be a policeman?’
‘Shhh,’ he hissed, placing a finger before his lips. ‘Not so loud. Don’t let anyone round ’ere hear you saying that. They’d think me a traitor – selling ’em out so to speak. Still, beats selling fruit and vegetables.’
‘Selling fruit and vegetables is useful – where would we be without them?’
He threw back his head and laughed, which had the effect of sending his overlong hair spreading around his neck like a collar.
Magda frowned as a very serious thought occurred to her. ‘Will you find missing persons, things like that?’
‘You bet I will, though to start off with it’ll probably be just lost dogs. Why do you ask?’
She told him about wanting to find her family.
‘Could you help me find them?’
He looked taken aback. Reading about being a police detective and actually playing the part were two different things.
Magda misinterpreted. ‘I can’t pay you anything so can’t ask you to look for them for me, but if you could tell me what to do, how to find missing people, I would be really grateful.’
‘I’m not a policeman yet.’
‘No, but you will be. And you’re sure to be good at it after reading all those Bob Barton books.’
‘Well.’ He scratched the back of his head as he thought about it. ‘I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to get me hand in so to speak. Tell you what, let me ’ave a think and I’ll see what I can come up with. Trot along ’ere tomorrow about half an hourearlier than now. I’ll take my break and we can ’ave a bite to eat together over on the seat there. ’Ow would that be?’
She eyed him warily, wondering if he was making fun or really serious.
‘You mean it? You’re not making fun of me because I’m only a child and a lot younger than you?’
Looking seriously impressed, he shook his head. ‘No. Of course not. Now go on, clear off before I change me mind.’
She thought about asking if he had a pencil she could borrow, but didn’t want to push her luck.
She dashed round the corner into Beatrice Street so fast that she collided with what seemed like a green wall in front of her.
‘Blimey, you’re in a hurry. Been a fire or something?’
Magda looked up into a face that was round as a pumpkin above a dark green jacket and knee-length pleated skirt. There was something youthful about that face, as though the owner wasn’t much more than a child forced through circumstance to grow up too early.
Magda recognised her as one of the girls from the grand house across the road.
‘Looks like you done all right for yourself,’ said the girl, nodding down at the orange string sack.
‘It was all free. From underneath the stall. I didn’t pinch anything and Danny Rossi gave me a pig’s tail. I’m going to make a stew.’
‘Well, aren’t you the one! Going back now are ya?’
Magda nodded and thought how beautiful the young woman smelt. Roses. Flowers anyway.
‘My mother used to wear a hat like yours,’ said Magda, glad of someone to talk to besides Bridget Brodie. Not that she ever talked – not really. Just shouted.
‘Do you like it?’
Magda nodded.
The mustard hat reminded Magda of one her mother used to wear – a cloche she’d called it, but Magda had always called it her tulip hat because that’s what the shape reminded her of – a tulip – a dark red one in her mother’s case,
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