Free The Lights of London by Gilda O'Neill Page A

your feet and let’s go. Don’t let the others hear, but I’ve got a few coppers left in my pocket. It’s a bit of a walk, but I know somewhere up the other end of Brick Lane where I can get us some cheap hot grub.’ She smiled sardonically. ‘You do know, don’t you, Kit, that one day people’ll be calling these the good old days.’
    ‘I knew we should have gone to the terrier fight,’ Buggy complained. ‘They reckon that little bitch of Limpy Mick’s can do twenty rats in as many seconds. We could have earned a nice few shillings on that little dog. Mind you, I ain’t seen much of Limpy lately. Not since the night he went arse over tit down Pickled Herring Stairs, and me and Big Harry Wright had to pull him out of the drink. Had the right hump, he did. Can’t stand getting wet, that one.’ Buggy droned on, unaware that the conversation had degenerated into a monologue. ‘Or we could’ve gone down the boxing booth. That Welsh feller, you know him, the one with the big head and the funny earholes, he’s fighting tonight. Got a good chance they reckon. Would’ve been a good night out and a bit of easy money.’
    Buggy yawned and scratched thoughtfully at his belly. ‘Mind you, a game of gin rummy with me oldAunt Mary’d have been more interesting than this lot. Don’t you reckon?’
    Teezer answered with a loud, whistling snore.
    ‘Well, Teeze, you’ve finally proved you’ve got a bit of taste at last.’
    As the snoring rose to a crescendo and rattled around the now almost empty auditorium, Jack Fisher dashed his empty rum bottle to the floor in despair and buried his face in his hands.
    Kitty was so light-headed with hunger that when she sneezed she had to stop walking to recover her sense of balance.
    ‘It’s only a bit further, love. Come on, keep moving and it’ll warm you up.’
    The streets gradually became busier and Tibs had to help Kitty thread her way through the late-night strollers and traffic, as the cries of hawkers and traders filled the air.
    Kitty seemed to perk up a bit as she caught the sweet smell of an Indian toffee man’s stall and the mouth-watering aroma of hot chestnuts roasting over glowing coals.
    ‘Know what I could fancy, Kit?’ said Tibs, sniffing at a big copper pan of peanut brittle and wiping the back of her hand across her drooling lips. ‘A nice big slab of pickled belly pork. Handsome.’
    Kitty’s mouth filled with juices. ‘That’d do me just fine,’ she said weakly.
    ‘Half a mo’, just listen to that. It’s the pie-man, ringing his bell.’
    Kitty’s stomach gurgled longingly as a big, fat man, swathed in a long, starched white apron, appeared round the corner. On his head he balanced a tray draped with a blue-and-white checked cloth.
    Tibs scampered over to him like an eager child. ‘I’ve only got a few coppers, mister,’ she said, counting out some change. ‘Can I just have three ha’p’orth’s for me and me mate?’
    ‘Go on with you,’ he barked, ringing his bell at her as if it were a weapon. ‘You don’t get round me with your pretty smiles. These pies are thruppence each and that’s final.’
    Tibs sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘All right, but let’s have a look and see if they’re worth it first.’
    As the man lowered the tray, Tibs’s hand shot out as quick as a flash and, before he realised what she was doing, she’d lifted one of the pies, had grabbed Kitty by the hand and was dragging her along through the crowd. ‘Hook it, Kit!’ she squealed, her face a picture of mischievous glee. ‘Move yourself!’
    The pie-man was furious. A bit of a girl had duped him. Him, a pie-man for forty years, and he’d let a little scrap like her get the better of him.
    Too bulky to give chase himself, ‘Stop thief!’ he hollered, but no one helped him. They were all too busy enjoying the spectacle of the pie-man turning blood red to the very tips of his ears, and with the added attraction, of course, of seeing someone getting