Rough Justice by Gilda O'Neill Page A

don’t think I do.’ Nell was slowly shaking her head. ‘I’ve only ever really known one man, and that’s Mr Thanet. He’s the governor at the home, and Matron said I was too old for him to be interested in me.’
    This time, Sylvia’s coughing fit didn’t have to be put on.

Chapter 8
    ‘Well, I must say, Nell, you’ve picked this up in no time, darling.’
    Nell smiled across at Sylvia, as she gave the brass rings around the beer pumps a final polish. ‘It’s all so beautiful, I feel lucky that you let me do it.’
    ‘I have to admit I hadn’t been seeing the Hope and Anchor in that sort of a light lately. It’s been more like a bloody millstone round me flaming neck than a thing of beauty – what with all the cleaning and scrubbing involved. It was all too much for one person to cope with. You’ve brought a proper breath of fresh air to the place. It’s been like having a special friend living here with me, or even the daughter I might have had.’
    ‘Why haven’t you had children, Sylvia, you’d be a smashing mum?’
    Sylvia suddenly found herself preoccupied with a smudge on the front of her dress. ‘Didn’t happen, that’s all. After I had a bit of trouble. Anyway, I’m happy enough. And I’ve got you now, haven’t I?’
    She looked at Nell, studying her shining hair, and her soft, unblemished skin. How old
was
she?
    Nell was apparently concentrating on foldingthe rag she’d been using as a duster into a neat square, flattening it firmly on the bar with slow sweeps of her hand. ‘I don’t remember my own mum, Sylv. Like I said, all I do know is there’s someone I think I remember, a kind, beautiful lady, but then there was a fire and then I was in the home, and . . .’ She ran a finger round the outline of the brooch she now never failed to pin onto whatever she was wearing. ‘For some reason I always knew this was mine, mine by rights; something to do with remembering someone, and the fire.’
    Nell lifted her chin and looked at Sylvia. ‘But I hope she was like you, Sylv, however old I am. Though I reckon we’re more like sisters, you and me.’
    Sylvia bit down on her scarlet-stained bottom lip and held out her arms. ‘Come over here and give me a cuddle, you silly great ha’p’orth.’
    Nell hugged her tightly. ‘I can’t remember ever being this happy. Not ever.’
    She had had more loving attention in the time she’d been at the Hope and Anchor than she had experienced in her whole life before she had bumped into Sylvia, on that day when the man had knocked her over. Now Christmas was coming, and Sylvia was promising to put on what she called ‘a really good do’. And then there was Stephen Flanagan.
    Could her life get any better?
    Nell suddenly pulled away from Sylvia, went behind the bar and gave the pumps anotherunnecessary rub with the rag. ‘I’d better get on.’
    Nell knew Stephen Flanagan was a bit of a sore point with Sylvia for some reason – although she always said she could never explain why – and, she didn’t know how, but Sylvia seemed to be able to read her mind whenever she was thinking about him.
    ‘Nell, you do know how old that man is, don’t you?’
    Nell laughed – not very convincingly. She knew Sylvia was serious about this, and had become even more so over the past few weeks as Nell had grown closer to Stephen. ‘Sylv, I told you, I haven’t even got any idea how old I am, let alone how old anyone else is.’
    Sylvia moved closer to Nell, reached up and brushed her soft fair hair from her forehead. ‘Look at you, however old you are, you’re flipping lovely, Nell. Any man would be proud to have you on his arm, so why bother with an old bloke like Stephen Flanagan?’
    ‘But you’re younger than Bernie.’
    Sylvia shrugged dismissively. ‘But I’m not a kid, am I? You told me you reckon you’re sixteen, and I know I told Bernie you’re eighteen, but me, I truthfully wouldn’t put you at more than fourteen, fifteen at most.