JNE 858. 36 LWR FANT

She’d made them boiled eggs and soldiers for their supper. Round eight thirty, once the dark set in, she’d told her brother, ‘All right, get your stuff together. Time we got you back.’

Charlie hadn’t moved. ‘Ah, can’t I stay for a bit longer? I can get the nine sixteen.’

‘Yeah, and who d’you think Aunt Helen’s going to blame if you’re not back right on the dot? No thanks.’

‘OK, OK.’ He’d gone and packed his bag.

It had been a mild night, but they’d had their overcoats – Charlie had his twisted up and tucked inside his bag strap; she’d worn hers unbuttoned.

‘You’re gonna boil in that,’ he’d said.

‘Yeah, probably,’ she’d said.

‘Thanks, Joy, for – you know – for spending time with me when you don’t have to,’ he’d said.

‘What else would I be doing, mouse?’ she’d said. ‘And anyway, I should be thanking you.’

She’d thought a lot about this moment since: it had lodged inside her heart through borstal, sometimes resting happily and sometimes not. When they’d reached the lane’s end, Charlie had gone left towards the bus stop, as they always did on Sundays. But she’d turned right instead.

‘Oi, where you going?’

‘We’re not waiting for the bus tonight. I’m driving you.’

‘Shut up.’

‘I am.’

‘Stop messing. You don’t have a motor.’

‘You’ll see. Come on.’ She’d walked them down the slope to Lower Fant Road and kept an eye out for a car parked somewhere close to number 36.

‘This is daft. We’ll have to wait now for the one at quarter past.’

‘I told you, mouse. We’re driving.’

‘How, though?’

It had been there, underneath a tree, between the downy beams of street lamps. So much fancier than she’d expected. Bigger than her normal type, as well. A Jaguar. Wine red. The number plate was right, though: JNE 858.

‘Here were are,’ she’d said.

‘Is this a joke?’

She’d simpered at him. ‘I’ve just got to ask if I can borrow it, that’s all.’

‘From who?’

‘My friends who live here.’

‘Must be good friends, if they let you near their Jaguar.’

‘Well, I can’t help it if some people like me more than you do.’ She’d nudged his shoulder. ‘Wait there. I’ll just be a tick.’

The only house with lights on had been number 45, across the road, a cottage tucked back from the rest. She’d got the shudders all right, heading up the gravel path to ring the bell, with Charlie watching from the kerbside. As the door had opened, she’d said quietly to the vexed old fella on the threshold, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I found these on the stones there, by your gate. I thought they must be yours.’ She’d handed him two half-crowns from her coat.

‘Well, I – thank you very much,’ the man had said. ‘The missus must’ve dropped ’em.’

‘I shouldn’t take the glory. It was really my kid brother over there who spotted them.’ She’d turned and waved.