Our pocket money was long gone, spent on humbugs and sherbet lemons, so the ten shilling note was a bonus.
“Pick it up, Brian,” Lenny had nudged me.
“To give it back?”
“No way. We’ll buy ‘everlasting’ gobstoppers.”
The little old lady hadn’t noticed her purse fall from her handbag. It was pension day and she’d just come out of the post office, her pension had been inside.
Lenny removed the ten-shilling note, tossing aside the purse.
As I sucked on a gobstopper, my conscience began to suck on everlasting guilt.