Darkest Before Dawn by Katie Flynn Page A

other man was responsible for many of the small irritants which had plagued him since he had first taken on the job, so if the rat startled Baldwin it might not be a bad thing.
    Whistling beneath his breath, Harry returned to his office and got out the paperwork he would need once the day started. Soon he was absorbed, planning where he would put incoming goods when the day’s consignments began to arrive.
    Evie burst into the kitchen, her fringe on end, one half of her hair still in its bedtime plait and the other half hanging limp and straggly around her face. She was dressed in her school skirt and blouse but the blouse was buttoned in the wrong holes, and Evie looked pleadingly across to where her mother was cooking porridge. ‘Mam, Mam, do gimme a hand! This perishin’ blouse must have a button missing or something ’cos it won’t do up straight no matter how I try. I axed Fee to do it for me but she were too busy brushin’ out her old hair, and Angie said I were quite old enough to dress meself, so she wouldn’t help either. Oh, Mam, I know it ain’t time for school yet, but I want to be early because me an’ Annie Butcher means to gerrin a game of hopscotch before the bell goes.’
    Martha swung round from the stove and shook a reproving finger at her daughter. ‘Why oh why d’you have to pick up the local accent when your pa and myself have always been at pains to teach you to speak properly? Your sisters don’t say “ain’t” when they mean “isn’t” or “gerrin” when they mean “get in”, so why must you? And as for “axed”, well, if your father heard you . . .’
    Evie stuck out her lower lip. ‘I have to talk like the others, Mam, or I wouldn’t have no pals. Kids don’t like it if you’re different. It’s all right for Fee and Angie; they’re old , but I’m only ten an’ if they think I’m tryin’ to talk posh, the other kids will hate me.’
    Martha sighed. ‘That’s true, my love, but it applied to your sisters when they were in school just as much as it does to you now. Your pa always used to say that children have two languages, one for home and one for the streets, though in our case, of course, it was more like one for the boat and another for the bank.’ She chuckled. ‘So try and speak nicely, Evie, when you’re at home with us.’ She pulled her daughter towards her and began patiently unbuttoning the little girl’s cotton blouse, then buttoning it up correctly. ‘More haste, less speed,’ she admonished. ‘Where’s your hairbrush? And don’t forget: talk nicely in the house, if you please.’
    â€˜I won’t forget, Ma,’ Evie said resignedly, knowing that her mother spoke no more than the truth. She adored her pa, thinking him the best man in the whole world, and it would distress him if she talked with the local accent or swore, even though swearing was supposed to be the prerogative of canal folk.
    Presently, neat once more and with her hair in two pigtails, Evie sat at the table and demolished a plateful of porridge. Then she jumped to her feet, seized her jacket from the hook on the kitchen door, and grabbed a round of buttered bread from the plate in the middle of the table. ‘Where’s me carry-out, Mam – Ma, I mean?’ she said, through a mouthful of bread and butter. ‘If it ain’t – isn’t, I mean – ready, I’ll have to go without it ’cos I promised Annie . . .’
    Martha chuckled and handed Evie a small packet wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘There’s two jam sandwiches and a piece of fruitcake,’ she told her daughter. ‘But you could always come home, you know. Your school isn’t far off.’
    â€˜I know, only most people take their dinner with them,’ Evie explained. ‘Can’t stop, gorra