‘Better than being a short-arse.’
He yawns and stretches his arms. ‘You lot can stay here and spoon with ugly lasses if you want. I’m getting bored.’
He saunters off, shooting a wily grin over his shoulder. His sheep follow, one by one. Maggie watches his cock-of-the-walk strut with something approaching wistfulness. The last lad to desert me tugs my arm.
‘You coming?’
‘I’ll follow when I’m ready,’ I declare.
I’ll be damned if I’ll be a rat trundling after that particular piper. I’ll show him. I’ll get half a pound of humbugs out of Maggie, so I will, and share it with them all, except ruddy Cyril. Then we’ll see what’s what and who’s who. Maggie weighs out an ounce of monkey nuts for a pair of lovebirds. I take off my cap and, hugging it to my chest, furnish her with my nicest smile.
‘What a rude boy,’ I chirp with a virtuous expression that’d shame the angel Gabriel. ‘I wouldn’t address a young lady so.’
‘You still here?’ she says with a glare that could curdle milk.
It’s Cyril she ought to be angry with, not me. Female thinking. It’s got me stumped. I gear up to give her a piece of my mind when my eye is drawn to a lady hovering over the table.
It may have been months and months ago, but I recognise Jessie, the woman who tipped the scales in my favour over that nasty business with Reg. She’s dressed in fusty taffeta and on her feet are velvet slippers trimmed with beads around the toe. They’ll last a couple of weeks, I muse; if she steps into a puddle, a lot less.
I buck up considerably. I draw closer, full to bursting with tales of my new cronies, when I notice how queerly she is behaving. She points at a dish of treacle toffee, yet as soon as Maggie prepares to weigh a portion, she interrupts.
‘No, not that!’ she says. ‘Here now!’
She indicates the sugared almonds, as if they’re what she meant all along. When the jar is lifted for approval she shakes her head.
‘Dear me, no,’ she says. ‘Not the almonds.’
She waggles her fingers in the direction of a canister of humbugs. As she does so, the long tippets of her muff dangle across the table and obscure what she’s doing with her other hand. Calm as you like, she is plucking chocolates from the shelf and sliding them into the side of her skirt, secreting them in what must be a hidden pocket. With a grunt, Maggie hefts the humbugs.
‘No, no!’ pouts Jessie, tossing her head. The flowers on her hat tremble with indignation.
Now she wants the barley sugar. What a pretty glove she wears on her right hand: crimson leather with emerald stitching, bright as a banner. Only a philistine would pay attention to her light-fingered left hand when distracted by the display of the right.
Maggie scowls at this tiresome female who can’t make up her mind. She remains polite, for the customer is always right, even if they spend an age choosing between an ounce of Everton mints and an ounce of liquorice. Jar after jar is proffered, to pretty shakes of the head. All the while, Jessie fills her pocket with steady grace, stealing the sweets as if she has a claim to them.
Finally, she decides upon the treacle toffee, the very thing she started with. While Maggie weighs out two ounces, Jessie extracts pennies from the embroidered purse hanging on her arm. She accepts the twist of paper and inclines her head in thanks before gliding away. She cocks her elbow and turns out her toes, kicking them to each side so that passers-by may glance down and remark on the trimness of her ankles. I follow her along the line of tables and draw up alongside.
‘Give us a toffee, missus,’ I say, just loud enough for her to hear.
She looks down her nose. ‘In your dreams. Hop it, you little twerp.’
‘Give us one of those chocolates, then.’
‘What chocolates?’ she says with a dangerous tilt of her eyebrow.
I slide closer and pat her skirt, which crackles with something very like brown paper. She must’ve lined the pocket.
‘That’s clever,’ I say. ‘So they don’t melt.’
‘Shut up,’ she hisses.
‘You must have quarter of a pound in there,’ I continue. ‘You won’t miss one.’ I jerk my chin in the direction of the confectionery stand. ‘Maggie will, though. Sooner or later. Specially if I tell her.’
She looks me up and down, swinging her purse on its chain. ‘You’re a cheeky toad. I’ll give you one and no more. Not here, though.’
‘Course not,’ I say with a grin. ‘I’ll stand you a cup of tea. Fair exchange is no robbery.’
She brays laughter. ‘Charmed, sir. Quite charmed.’
I crook my elbow. She laughs again, gently this time, and places her scarlet glove upon my arm. As we proceed through the market hall I have the odd sensation of being a tugboat pulled up alongside a freighter. I spot Cyril and the lads, treat them to a roguish wink and am gratified to see their silly mouths flop open as they get an eyeful. I may only come to her shoulder, but I’m in the company of the finest lass in Shudehill and that trumps anything that Cyril can muster. No one’s ever going to get the jump on me again. Never. And certainly not a worm like him.
At the tea-stand I order two cups and slap down sixpence, chest puffed up with pride. The tea-man leans across the counter and fills up our mugs.
‘Got yourself a new bully, Jessie?’ he says with a chuckle.
She barks a quick, businesslike laugh. ‘Him? He’s my bonny lad.’
She puts her arm around me and squeezes. I don’t push her away; not this time. It’s over as fast as a sneeze, so it’s not like anyone notices. She shovels spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her cup.
‘You’ll suffocate that tea,’ I say.
She takes an enthusiastic slurp. ‘The cup that cheers,’ she declares. ‘Well, now. A gently brought-up lady such as myself ought to be formally introduced to a gentleman before she takes tea with him, don’t you think?’
‘Indubitably,’ I reply, warming to the theme. ‘Yet I see no appropriate soul upon whom I may call to accomplish such a task. Should I go? Must we part so soon?’
‘That would be a pity,’ she sighs.
With her index finger she taps her chest, as though sounding out the heart beneath the bodice. There’s a light in her eye that suggests she’s used to playing games, but rarely of this sort. I raise my cap.
‘You have forgotten. We are already acquainted, fair damsel.’
‘We are?’ She looks me up and down, appraising me as keenly as she would a fur coat for moth-holes.
‘You came to my aid, many moons ago, when I was sore affrighted and in need of succour.’
‘Oh my Lord. You’re that Little Lord Fauntleroy. You’ve had your hair cut. Aww, what a crying shame. I liked those curls.’
‘Get away,’ I grunt, but not harshly. I am having too much fun to be out of sorts. ‘May I make so bold as to effect my own introduction?’
‘How presumptuous,’ she says with a grin, fanning her cheek with her glove. ‘See my maidenly blushes.’ Her face is unruffled.
‘Madam, miss, my lady,’ I say, doffing my cap. ‘I am your humble servant, Gnome.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘Mine, and none other.’
She laughs. It is a surprisingly delicate sound.
‘Gnome