The Nightingale Girls - By Donna Douglas Page 0,68

boy?’ He looked up at him sharply. ‘You didn’t pinch it, did you?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Nick glowered back at him. ‘It belongs to someone I know. Are you interested, or what?’

‘That depends, doesn’t it? I need to examine the merchandise closely first.’

Nick tried to control his impatience as Mr Solomon fetched his magnifying glass from under the counter and began scrutinising the charm against a square of green baize. He took ages doing it, turning it this way and that.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘In a hurry, aren’t you? Are you sure you didn’t nick it?’ The old man set down his magnifying glass and looked up at Nick. ‘It’s not a bad piece, I suppose. I’ll give you a pound for it.’

‘A quid? You must be joking! Anyone can see it’s worth more than that.’

‘They’re not standing here, though, are they? I am. And that’s my offer. So what do you say?’ Mr Solomon’s bright eyes fixed on him expectantly, waiting for his next move.

‘I say you’re a robbing . . .’

‘Now, now, Nicky boy, that’s no way to talk, is it?’ The old man looked more amused than insulted. He had been called a lot worse in his shop over the forty years he’d been trading in Bethnal Green. ‘Look, since your mother is such an old and valued customer of mine, I’ll be generous with you. How about I make it a nice round guinea?’

‘I need a fiver.’

‘Then you need your head looked at!’ Mr Solomon cackled. ‘Look, the chain’s a piece of cheap tat, worth next to nothing. The hamsa – well, it’s a nice piece, but nothing special. I’d be cutting my own throat if I offered you any more. I’m practically robbing myself as it is!’

I doubt that, Nick thought. If old Solomon was offering a guinea then it must be worth three times that at least.

Nick looked down at the charm lying on the green baize mat. Maybe a guinea would be enough for Dora to get her books secondhand?

But then he thought of the way she’d looked at him. ‘I trust you,’ she’d said. He couldn’t let her down.

‘Well?’ Mr Solomon’s bright brown eyes were fixed on him keenly. ‘Do we have a deal, Nicky boy?’

Nick looked from the charm to the old man and back again. ‘No chance.’ He picked it up off the counter. ‘I’d sooner chuck it in the Thames than let you have it.’

‘Suit yourself.’ The old man shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘But you’ll be back, I’m sure. Turn the sign round on your way out, will you? And give my regards to your mother,’ he called after Nick as he slammed the door behind him.

Nick walked back through the market. The traders were packing up their wares on to barrows, leaving only the wooden skeletons of their stalls behind. A little boy, eyes bright in his grimy face, oversized trousers rolled up to reveal worn out boots, dodged and weaved his way between them, swooping in under the stallholders’ feet and the rumbling barrow wheels to gather up the squashed, bruised fruit and veg that had fallen on the cobbles.

‘Watch it!’ one of the stallholders shouted, as he narrowly missed being run over to rescue an apple. ‘Do you want to get yourself killed, son?’

He picked an orange off the stall and tossed it to him. The boy caught it with one hand.

‘Thanks, Mister.’ He grinned cheekily and darted off, his bounty gathered up in the tails of his grubby shirt.

That was me once, Nick thought as he watched him go. Ducking and diving around the stalls, looking for something to bring home. Or roaming the streets, collecting bottles to get the deposit, or even shovelling up horse manure to sell. Anything to earn a few pennies to keep his mum happy and his dad from using his fists.

Dora’s charm was still clenched in his hand. He’d let her down. She’d trusted him to get the money for her and he’d failed. He couldn’t bear to think of the disappointment in her eyes when he told her he hadn’t got the money for her books.

‘All right, Nick?’ He looked round. Ruby Pike was picking her way across the cobbles towards him, spectacular curves swaying. She was dressed up to the nines as usual, her blonde hair carefully waved. She looked as if she was coming back from a night out, not a day at work.

He carried on walking and she caught up with him. ‘Lovely day, innit? Not that I’ve