“And what is your name?”
“Helen.”
He sat down on the terraced wall and stared so long at the ground that she feared he had forgotten her, and she was not of the age or sex to endure the idea of being forgotten.
“My muvver’s name is Helen, too,” she informed him. “And my brover’s name is Sammy. What’s yours?”
“Mine’s George. Ever heard it?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“What is your father’s name?”
“We don’t keep him wiv us,” she explained.
“Oh, you don’t? Where is he?”
She did not know where this parent was, but she could show him Sammy. And off she ran, dark curls flying.