φ(・ω・｀ ) something Victorian for @hislittledxll
A rollicking the likes of which Spitalfields hadn’t heard in months was cut short only because of the arrival of an unfamiliar face in Ron Kray’s periphery. A dainty thing, made of blacks and blues and pale, creamy skin, she seemed to have stopped by on her way through the area to take a peek at what all the ruckus was about. Today was the debut of their prize venue’s new frontage - new signs, new flower planters, new windows, new everything - and the final touches prior to opening to the public were just taking place as the curious miss with ocean eyes was caught look-seeing. The working lads were off today on other business, so it’d fallen to the spot’s proprietors - Ron and Reg - to get their signage hung and ready. Hence Reg being precariously placed up a ladder while Ron did his best at directing him as he wrestled their brand new Ten Bells sign into place.
It wasn’t going very well.
Heaving out a world-weary sigh, Ron flipped the flat cap of his head and dragged his fingers through his habitually slicked back hair. He wasn’t a wealthy man really, despite owning a public house. But what spare coin he had went on pomade. Or tobacco. Looking at the new arrival then, he addressed her as if he’d known her years despite not even knowing her name.
‘Y’can’t get th’staff these days, l-’
‘RONNIE!’ Reg broke in, up his ladder still.
Ron went as stiff as a board where he stood; his jaw and his fists
clenching briefly in frustration. Again though, he spoke to the lady.
‘If ‘ee don’t clamp it m’gonna beat ‘im ‘alf t’deaf-’ To Reggie then.
‘Alf a tick, please!’ And then, as his twin descended and went off
inside for a breather, to his visitor. ‘--Ain’t open yet, miss. Twelve
o’clock, as long as we c’n get th’sign ‘ung.’
