The Cuckoo Child by Katie Flynn Page B

breathlessly, that she could smell thunder in the air and was never mistaken over such things. Corky, looking up at the bright blue sky and the brassy gold of the sun, thought that she was wrong this time, but said nothing. He had delivered the desk and was turning for home, sweat streaming down the sides of his face, when it occurred to him that the sun had disappeared, although it was still very hot. What was more, the light was odd. Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind when there was a crack of thunder directly overhead and he saw forked lightning, lilac-coloured against the yellowy sky, plunge to earth. Seconds later, the heavens opened; rain poured down like a river, the drops enormous. Corky grabbed the dust sheet and wrapped himself in it, but it impeded his progress, tangling between his legs, and anyway it was soon completely drenched, so he slung it back on to the handcart and continued on his way. People in light summer clothing – for no one, except Mrs Perkin, had anticipated the dramatic change in the weather – scattered, searching for doorways, shops, anywhere where they might gain shelter, but Corky, of course, could do no such thing. A handcart was a valuable item and not one to be carelessly abandoned, so he grimly pushed on, relieved not to have the added weight of the bureau and anxious to get back to the shop without unnecessary delay. Ahead of him, a carter was trying to persuade an enormous dray horse that the thunder and lightning would not hurt him. But the horse was not convinced; it kept rearing up, rolling its eyes and crashing its hooves on to the cobbles once more. Corky was tempted to help but still dared not let go of the handcart. To be sure, there were scarcely any adults about, but street urchins were everywhere, bright-eyed and sharp-witted, always on the lookout for something to pinch. If he let go of his handcart for one moment, they’d have it, sure as check.
    Fortunately, the rain was warm, but even so, Corky had never been happier to turn the corner and see Wilfred Perkin’s shop front. He wheeled the handcart down the covered passage and into the yard, shoved it into the shed, and made for the back door at a gallop. He entered the storeroom, water pouring from him, and saw that there was a strange man – a customer, he presumed – in the room. Wilf was sitting at the table with a long list before him, looking up at the man and shaking his head whilst saying earnestly that his shop did not contain any of the items for which the stranger was searching, and certainly not a man’s gold hunter watch, set with gems instead of numerals, and inscribed Charles, from your Caroline .
    Corky gave an exclamation. What was Wilf thinking of? This man wanted such a watch and he, Corky, knew jolly well that they had the item in stock, though he could not recall an inscription. ‘Have you forgot, Wilf?’ he said, brushing wet hair from his face. ‘There’s one just like that in the corner cabinet, inside the cigarette box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I see’d it only last week.’
    Wilf looked up at him, his eyes hard. ‘What the devil are you talking about, boy?’ he said angrily. ‘You don’t know nothing about my stock. You’re just my delivery boy.’
    There was something in his glance which warned Corky to back down and he began to do so, but the stranger seized him by the ear and began to push him towards the shop, saying as he did so: ‘Out o’ the mouths of babes and sucklings, eh, Mr Perkin? C’mon, young feller, show me this ’ere cabinet or I’ll give you the ’iding of your life an’ chuck you in prison for hobstructin’ the law.’
    Poor Corky was horrified; this man must be a plain clothes police officer, searching for stolen goods, and he, fool that he was, had thought him merely a customer searching for a very fancy gold hunter watch, either for himself or as a presentation gift for someone in his employ, perhaps.
    But it was too late for conjecture. The