Ned and Vi belong to the evening, when the naphtha lamps of the costermongers’ stalls hiss and flare, and all between is subsumed in shadow. When the streets still throng with shoppers, and the trams and cabs and omnibuses are lit by oil – white light, oncoming; red light, receding – and Whitechapel Road feels interesting to know. When the cries of the chestnut roasters, the fried-fish sellers and the pie-men create a cacophony of distraction. 

This is when they thrive.

They have their stomachs set on the hawker of baked potatoes, with his lovingly polished can on four legs, its brass plaque proclaiming: “Old Original Baked Potatoes”. The old man who ran the stand for many a year lately died; his errant son has the business now, and shows rather less aptitude for vigilance.

While Ned lurks in the background, Vi sidles up. Her head tilts this way and that, apparently undecided. She plays with an unseen coin in her hand. The bait.

Glowing charcoal lights the lad’s face orange. He narrows eyes at her. Steam rises from his burner, and the earthy aroma of the treasure within.

“What can I have for a ha’penny?” she asks. It is all she could spare, but it should suffice if she plays it right.

He snorts. “On your way, missy. My prices start at a penny and no less.”

She glances up and down the road, where the sellers either side, of ham sandwiches, hot green peas and eels, have patrons queueing.

He kicks a heel. It has not been easy, taking over his father’s trade. The baker who roasts his hundredweights recently upped his fee, and the locals whose custom the old man relied upon have found new flavours elsewhere. Many deserted him for that other potato hawker in Spitalfields.

As his gaze follows Vi’s, he licks his lips. “S’pose I might be able to find a small one.”

He opens the wide half-lid, peers inside debating, and picks out the smallest spud he can find.

“Butter and salt?” she asks innocently.

“For a ha’penny? Don’t push yer luck.”

As he hands over the plain fare, she fumbles the coin. The tiniest flick of her thumb sends it skittering into a gutter, his attention trapped on its progress. By the time he has retrieved it, mumbling sourly, Ned has pounced and vanished, melting into the crowd. He moves slickly for a big lad, even one cradling stolen potatoes in an untucked shirt.

“Sorry. Butterfingers.” Vi smiles, savouring the spud’s warmth as she heads home.