Sarah handed it to him. It was round and silver with a chain attached. He wiped the round part on his shorts, then pushed in a tiny catch on the side which flipped a lid open.

‘Wow, Sarah, look. It’s a clock.’

Sarah took the watch from Tommy and noticed the time read half past eleven. She guessed it must have been the time it had fallen into the water, but she didn’t know if that had been in the night or morning. Then she looked closer at the silver lid and saw it was engraved with the initials A. S. and dated 1903.

A wave of guilt washed over her. It was easily identifiable so she should take it to the police station, but she already knew she had no intention of doing so. She reasoned Tommy’s well-being was more important than a watch. Whoever had lost it was obviously wealthy. If she could sell it, it would be a small loss for the owner but a life-saver for them.

George was pleased to have sold several garments from his stall, and the continual flow of customers had kept him from thinking about Sarah. Now, as lunchtime loomed, and with a lull in custom, his stomach groaned.

‘George, fancy a pie?’ Roger called.

‘Cor, do I, yes, great idea,’ George answered, thinking Roger must have read his mind.

‘Do you want to nip to the pub and get them? I’ll keep an eye on yours, only I’ve got my hands full here,’ Roger said as he weighed out some carrots for a middle-aged woman.

George clapped his hands together and headed off towards the pub on the corner of the market. He thought the landlady, Violet, baked the best pies in Battersea, even better than his mum’s, and he was looking forward to biting into one. Several people said hello to him as he passed them. He was well known in the market and his old wounds had left him easily recognisable. The pub was busy, so George found himself having to wait a while to be served, but it’ll be worth it, he thought to himself, as he discussed the weather with a couple of acquaintances at the bar.

Eventually, with two pies in hand, he headed back to the stalls. He could see Roger had his fingerless gloved hands cupped to his face and was blowing on them to keep them warm. ‘There you go, mate, this’ll help keep the chill out,’ he said and handed Roger one of the hot meat pies.

‘Cheers, George. You’ve been gone a while, and you’ll never guess what?’ Roger said.

‘You’ve sold all my stock and made me a small fortune?’ George joked.

‘No, you only bloody well missed that girl … what’s her name … Sarah.’

‘You’re kidding me.’