The Crooked Sixpence by Jennifer Bell

she wearing?
’
    A clutch of small gold bells twitched as Ivy ran her eyes over them. The plaque below read SINGING BELLS .
    â€˜
Any requests?
’ they asked, in a single harmonious voice.
    She timidly shook her head and scuttled on. At last she came to the desk. Upon it was one more bell – this one larger than the others and so highly polished she could see a perfect reflection of herself in it.
    She looked awful. There was mud in her damp, frizzy hair and a web of thin red scratches on one cheek. She turned to read a hand-scrawled sign that was propped up beside the bell.
    ETHEL DREAD’S HOUSE OF BELLS
RING FOR TRADE – OTHERWISE GET OUT
    Ivy gulped. The owner didn’t exactly sound friendly – perhaps that was why the shop had looked shut. As quietly as she could, she bent down and reached for the silver coin.
    The bell on the desk twitched. ‘
Ethel!
’ it squawked loudly. ‘
Ethel, get out here!
’
    Before Ivy had time to run, the door at the back swung open and she heard the screech of a chair, followed by a groan and some footsteps.
    â€˜I’m coming, I’m coming! Bloomin’ interrupting my lunch . . . You’d better have a good reason fer—’ A sour-faced woman emerged through the doorway. She had dark eyes, a crooked nose and frizzy black hair that sprouted from under a flowery headscarf. She wore leather biker’s gloves on her hands, dusty combat boots on her feet, and loose navy overalls covering the rest of her.
    Ivy recognized her face immediately.
    No, it can’t be . . .
    She rose slowly from the floor. Ethel took a step closer. ‘And ’oo might you be, then?’ she asked, in a thick Cockney accent.
    Granma Sylvie’s photo.
    Ivy couldn’t believe it: this was the woman in that picture – the one from Granma’s life before the accident; the one she kept in her handbag. Ivy had seen it hundreds of times; this woman looked older, but it was definitely her – the same jaw, the same angular cheekbones, and the same sharp gaze.
    When Ivy didn’t answer, Ethel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whatcha doing ’ere?’ She reached over and pulled Ivy’s hood back. Her hair bounced out from beneath it.
    Ivy shot a look back at the silver coin. She hadn’t been able to grab it. ‘I, er—’
    â€˜Left something down there, ’ave you?’ Ethel asked slowly. ‘How’s about I get it for you?’ She bent down and snatched the coin up with her thin fingers. Standing straight, she opened her palm to take a look at it.
    The bells started whispering as Ethel raised a hand to her chest and staggered away from Ivy. ‘Where did you find this?’ she hissed. ‘D’you know what it
is
? D’you know what would happen to me if someone found that ’ere, in my shop?’
    Ivy stumbled to find words, but no sounds came out. A cold, prickly feeling rose up through her chest and her throat tightened. ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ she squeaked finally. ‘Please, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be any trouble but I can’t leave now. You see, I’ve seen you before, in a photo with my granma.’ She scrabbled through Granma Sylvie’s handbag, catching sight of the photo tucked away in the corner. ‘Here . . .’ She held out the picture with a shaking hand.
    Ethel’s cheeks flushed as she saw it.
    It was exactly as Ivy remembered it from earlier that morning: the young Granma Sylvie standing with her arm round Ethel, both of them wearing fancy dr—
    Ivy blinked. She took the photo back and stared hard at the image. ‘Hang on . . . What was Granma Sylvie doing wearing Hobsmatch?’
    Ethel peered into Ivy’s face, a frown deepening across her forehead. After a moment’s consideration she flapped a hand towards the windows. ‘Shut the blinds,’ she ordered. ‘We’re