The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 7 ~

Camden, London 1908

The air in Camden was thick with the usual mix of coal smoke, horse dung, and the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street. Life moved on in the crowded London neighborhood, even though for Florence Warden, everything had changed. At fourteen, she had been forced to grow up faster than most girls her age, and the weight of responsibility sat heavily on her young shoulders.

The small general store where she now worked was cluttered with barrels of flour, sugar, and pickled vegetables. Shelves were packed with soaps, tins of biscuits, and sacks of rice and beans. The bell above the door tinkled each time a customer came in, and Florence, standing behind the wooden counter in her plain gray dress, would greet them with a polite smile.

It had been three years since her father's death in the mine, two long years of scraping by as best as they could. After the accident, Florence had stopped attending school so she could help her mother with the laundering business and bring in some money from the shop. They couldn't afford to waste any time or resources anymore—not when every penny mattered.

"Good morning, Miss Warden," an elderly woman said, her voice creaky like an old rocking chair. She stepped into the shop, leaning on her cane. "How's your mother doing? Keeping well, I hope?" Florence nodded, forcing a smile. "She's doing alright, Mrs. Hargreaves. Just a bit tired, but managing."."That's good to hear," Mrs. Hargreaves said with a soft sigh as she perused the shelves. "She's lucky to have you helping her, you know. You're a good girl."

Florence offered a polite nod, though the compliment didn't make her feel any better. She didn't feel like a "good girl." She felt like a girl who had no choice. Her dreams of continuing school, maybe becoming a teacher, had evaporated with her father's death. Now, her life was about keeping things afloat, ensuring there was food on the table and money for the rent.

Mrs. Hargreaves gathered her few items—some soap, a tin of tea, and a small loaf of bread—and placed them on the counter. Florence rang up the sale quickly and wrapped the goods with care, handing them over with a quiet "Thank you."

The doorbell chimed again as the old woman left, and Florence glanced out the window, watching as she disappeared into the crowd. It was a busy morning, but the bustle outside felt distant to her. She was more focused on the coins clinking in the register and the shelves that needed to be restocked.

"Florence!" Mr. Booth, the shop's owner, called from the back room. His gruff voice echoed through the small store. "Can you come here for a moment?" "Yes, Mr. Booth!" Florence called back, quickly wiping her hands on her apron before hurrying to the back. Mr. Booth was a stout man in his fifties, with a thick mustache and spectacles that perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He stood by the storeroom door, checking over a delivery of goods from one of his suppliers.

"Listen, lass," he said, not looking up from his ledger, "I know it's been a rough go for you and your mother, but I just wanted to say—you've been doing a good job here. You've got a head for the shop, and I appreciate it." Florence blinked in surprise, unsure how to respond. She wasn't used to praise, especially from Mr. Booth, who was usually all business. "Thank you, sir," she said quietly, feeling a small flicker of warmth in her chest despite her weariness. He looked up at her then, his eyes softening behind the lenses of his glasses. "I know you didn't want this life, but you've adapted well. If there's anything I can do for you, you just let me know." Florence nodded, offering him a faint smile. "I appreciate that, Mr. Booth. Thank you." With a grunt, he turned back to the ledger, and Florence slipped out of the storeroom, returning to the counter. She knew Mr. Booth's words were meant to comfort her, but all they did was remind her of the life she hadn't chosen. The one she was living out of necessity, not desire.