Cartoon flame spirit on the lower leg

The rain has not let up since Tuesday, and the chestnut brazier has been sulking under its tin lid all morning. I went to it at six with the matches and the paraffin, the way Dad showed us, and found it already lit. Not by me. A little flame was sitting in the grate with its arms folded, two round white eyes looking up at me as if I were the one who had come in late.

I have decided to call him Pip, because he answers to nothing else. He will not sit on the coals unless they are the dry ones from the top of the sack, and he refuses to go near the wet bags by the door. When the man next door, the one who mends umbrellas, shouted that the fire was a hazard, Pip leaned out over the rim, wobbled his small red mouth at him, and the man went quiet and bought two bags of chestnuts without once looking up.

Yesterday the market was nearly empty and the gutters ran like rivers. I was counting coins with the lid propped open, and Pip burned a little higher, not hotter, just brighter, the way a lamp does when someone comes down the steps. Then Mrs Okafor from the fabric end came hurrying through with a parcel under her coat, stopped dead at our stall and said, "Is that the one from the picture house film?" I laughed, and Pip flickered in a way I can only describe as pleased.

Anyway, come on Saturday. Bring the big umbrella. I want you to meet him properly before he decides you are too wet to be trusted.

Love, Bea