Annabelle Rose
Tom Draper blew on his fingers, began to pack the last carrots, then gave a groan.
From somewhere far behind him but growing nearer he heard the squeak of wheels that needed oiling.
There was no need to turn, Tom knew Maud Fletcher was approaching. She’d be pushing that ancient pram with, Tom had to admit, a very realistic doll inside.
Maud generally made an appearance as the market was preparing to close, and Tom’s stall was one of her regular ports of call.
Tom swung round as the squeak finally stopped. Maud was examining a box of sprouts. Tom nodded at her.