Read Online Rough Justice by Gilda O'Neill - Free Book Online Page B

said. ‘All the way from Spain. I’m partial to oranges. Bought a few last week, and that one was left over. Thought you might like it.’
    Nell took the bag and looked inside. ‘I’ve never had an orange before,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them though. Matron used to have them. In the home. Sylvia, she prefers apples, so we have them sometimes. They’re nice. Do you like apples?’
    ‘They’re all right.’
    He didn’t sound that interested, and Nell wished so hard that she could have said something funny or clever instead of making herself sound like an idiot.
    ‘Shall we go then?’ he said, looking around. ‘Time’s getting on and I’ve got things to do, and this bloke to meet.’
    ‘I’ll just run this up to my room.’
    When she came back downstairs, Nell felt her stomach churn – there was no sign of Stephen Flanagan. But Sylvia was there, standing behind the bar fussing about with a crate of quart bottles of pale ale.
    ‘He’s waiting outside,’ said Sylvia coolly. ‘I don’t think he fancied the thought of a little chat with me.’ She let the crate drop with a loud crash. ‘Cos he knows I don’t approve.’
    Nell nodded, not knowing what to say, and started towards the door, but before she reached it Sylvia had skipped around from behind the bar and dodged in front of her, blocking her way.
    ‘You will keep your wits about you, won’t you, darling?’
    ‘Course I will, I promise I’ll be back before opening time.’
    ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Sylvia said, flashing a look over her shoulder at Stephen, who was standing outside on the frosty pavement with his hands in his pockets and his chin in the air. He looked, to Sylvia’s eyes, as if he thought he owned the place.
    ‘How exactly do you think he’s going to pay for this pitch he’s going after in the market?’
    ‘I don’t believe it’s my place to think about it, Sylvia. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go, Stephen’s waiting.’
    Feeling helpless, Sylvia could only watch as Nell walked off along the street with Stephen Flanagan. OK, the man seemed really taken with Nell, but as Bernie said, what man wouldn’t be?But why didn’t the girl wonder where someone like him, a washed-up casual from the docks, could find the money for the pitch? Since he’d started making a play for Nell, Sylvia had wondered constantly about where the cash could possibly have come from, and now she had more than a good idea. And she didn’t much like it.
    Nell had been to the Petticoat Lane market on Sunday mornings before, she’d gone with Sylvia on clothes-hunting expeditions, and she had loved every brightly coloured, overexcited minute of the whole experience. But never had the market seemed as wonderful as it did today. With only a few weeks left until Christmas, the streets were heaving, and alongside all the regular stallholders and the pavement traders selling their herrings, beigels and cucumbers from wooden barrels and baskets, there were stalls stacked high with festive decorations, brightly painted tin toys and glowing, foil-wrapped sweetmeats and fruits. They were perfect for filling Christmas stockings like the ones Nell had seen in books, and, making it all seem even more magical, the gloomy December morning light had been banished by the naphtha lamps that lit up the market with a soft warm glow. She was so looking forward to having what Sylvia called a ‘real Christmas’ for once – something she had never experienced before.
    And she was with Stephen Flanagan.
    It was so exciting, nearly all the stallholdersseemed to know him, and they acknowledged him as he walked by with a nod of the head, a lift of the chin or a call of: ‘All right, Steve-o?’
    He replied in turn with a slight lift of his eyebrows or a flash of a thumbs up – no words, simply gestures.
    Then there were the winks and looks directed at Nell, and the saucy observations about the old so-and-so Stephen Flanagan finding such a looker for himself, and how it must