The Lost Match.

The lost match.

It was snowing.

As is often the case when things turn bad, sometimes our hearts will dictate the weather, for a lot of people snow is good fun, but it wasn’t much fun for Jacob Rehab, or his bare feet. Jacob was a down and out and had been begging near the London Docks all day,

“Spare a farthing guvnor”

He cried out pleadingly to every passerby and truth be told these didn’t number many; the steadily falling flumps of snow were quickly taking care of that.

Any wrapped up stranger that did happen to stumble across Jacobs way rushed on by quickening their pace through the snowy gale, without even as much as a nod to the bundle of rags that cried out for farthings from the relative sanctuary of an unknown doorstep.

All things said and done sitting in his stoop on the streets of London Jacob was pretty cold going on freezing, if you happened to stick his feet in a fire, it would probably be a moment before he would have to remove them from the flames burning heat.

Then of course if you decided to remove Jacobs’s feet from his legs they could sit prettily in the fire forever and to what end, just that London would be down by one voice.

If by some miracle or bountiful amount of rum he survived his feet’s amputation then all that would mean is one more crawling beggar to grace fair London streets.

No big matter, wake up tomorrow and see if the world still turns.

Is this earth really a spinning six-penny that never stops?

Ever notice how sunshine flirts with the moonlight, it seems they are destined to dance together eternally heading round and round.

Just remember that if you did wake up upon a spinning coin then its best to ignore any heads because as the saying goes it’s the tales that never fail.



Jacob thought about his feet, and he thought he was weak. How he would love to sit inside a fire and burn the cold away.

His handsome brown eyes like a King Charles Spaniels looked down to his hands, which were hidden from view below his assorted collection of rags, these were in fact the trusty blankets and covers that he had acquired over the years.

Currently Jacobs’s hands were at home in a rather fetching pair of black woollen fingerless gloves.

If this story was set in a London of the future then hoodies might have been invented in which case you’d be likely to find Jacob the beggar’s hands resting comfortably inside of a hoodies pouch.

Safe like a Joey inside mother kangaroo.



As Jacob sat alone he’d often play out entire conversations, thoughts whizzing back and forth like a tennis ball bouncing inside his head, sometimes he would even hit upon what is known as a bums philosophy, such as,

You can go anywhere with just a bundle of blankets and two good legs, what more do you need.

“Maybe a bit of bacco”

Jacob answered his question unintentionally by unconsciously shouting out loud.

Loud enough to send some nearby perching pigeons scattering into flight, and also startling another one of the stumbling passersby into looking even closer at the ground so as to avoid the beggar’s eye.

Oblivious Jacob rubbed his cold hands together, and breathed shallow breaths onto them; he was nursing some life back into his hands prior to delving into his mass of pockets in search of some tobacco.

Eventually he found everything he needed to roll himself a cigarette, which carefully with skill filled yet cold frost bitten fingers he managed to do.

Jacob placed the cigarette in his mouth.

Instinctively his hands went to light it, but to his despair he had no match.
Patting his pockets furiously in hope was the most he had moved in two days, yet his search yielded nothing. Fruitless.

Then Jacob remembered. The pretty little match girl. She had stopped and shared some time with him only the other day. Where would she be?

He couldn’t remember where, but was sure the match girl had mentioned that she worked nearby.

Jacob decided he would go and find the match girl, his need for a match had given him enough impetus to get up and leave the dismal shelter of his stoop, even if it meant walking bare footed through the snow.



The pretty little match girl, liked the snow, she enjoyed the way it made everything look, she felt the weather was mirroring her mood, she was in love, well at least she thought maybe love was what it was.

She had never felt like this before, maybe it did have something to do with the snow, all she could think about was the young boy she had met sitting in a stoop a few days before.




Have you ever been on a mushroom trip, when it was so cold that you thought you might lose the use of your lips? If not try to imagine feeling frightened for a part of your bodies’ safety due to its exposure to the cold,

Well that’s how Jacob was feeling about his feet. Which themselves had lost all feeling. He couldn’t be sure whether his feet where fine, or in a really bad way, so he just stopped worrying about them and kept walking.

His bare feet were taking him away from the docks of London towards the famous London Bridge, he had always felt it wise when walking to trust his feet, and they usually seemed to know which way to go.



In the dark smog, night flickering lamps of amber, cast an eerie orange glow on patches of blackness, and added a smell of popping sulphur to the air, but what was this other smell?

Jacob sniffed with his nose as deep as he could muster, chestnuts that’s what it was. Roasting chestnuts and what’s more it meant a light for his ciggeratte.

He trusted his feet and followed his nose; soon his ears picked up on the hoarse cockney cry of,

“Roasty, Roasty”

With a cry of roasty, and the delicious intoxicating smell of heady sweet roast chestnuts wafting through the air.

You would not have to have the powers of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes to reason that a roast chestnut seller was somewhere on the streets nearby.

Yes sure enough Jacob could see the roaster underneath a large tree. Flickers from the roasters coals were burning and they drew Jacob like a moth towards the flame.


“Roasty, Roasty, Lovely Chestnuts, ooh isn’t they gorgeous, roasty roasty, get your chestnuts, come get em while there hot”

“Chestnuts sir?” The roaster enquired of Jacob,

“Have you got a light” Jacob replied,

“Oh a beggar is we”

Was what he got in return, the roaster taking one look at Jacobs scraggly appearance and bare feet became angry. Unfortunately for Jacob it seemed his nose by way of his feet had taken him to a man, who seeing another man in need, did not react kindly at all.

All he wanted was a light for his cigarette and although unasked for if the roasters attention to finer details was just a little better it was plain to see by the hunger lines that marked Jacobs face that he was in need of some roasted chestnuts on the house, or as you might say for free.

It appears that the way of the world, is that those with wealth are often treated with great kindness and respect, whether this is false kindness or respect is immaterial, and sometimes these wealthy are granted goods or services on the house, for free even thought they could easily afford them.

Feel for those without wealth, who need the respect or kindness of their fellow man more than anything, and would welcome whatever little was given on the house yet day to day are being treated no better than vermin.


On the streets of London, under the tree and by the coals Jacob was in the roasters eyes a scruffy, wicked, wild animal. The roaster quickly made up his mind and reaching behind his stall he brought

out a heavy walking stick made of oak, wielding it like a club the roaster fiercely hit out at Jacob, whack after whack until he forced Jacob to move away,

“Be off with you”,

Jacob was at a complete loss, his feet had let him down, it must be the snow he thought, but kindness springing eternal crops up in the most unlikely of places,

“If you want a light, go buy one yourself of the match girl over at London Bridge” the roaster sneered at Jacobs retreating back,

Jacob took the time to turn his head, the roaster was right; Jacob now remembered that it was his pretty girls patch at the end of London Bridge. Funny even though he’d just been attacked with a stick, he still replied in thanks over his shoulder

“Cheers mate”

He felt at peace because once again his feet had led him the right way.

Far away to a man with bare feet walking in the snow, but only on the other side of the River Thames, around 300 yards away over the bridge a distance easily walk able by many, Jacob could see the match girl illuminated below a street lamps shining light.




Inside her head the match girl was thinking about the boy she had met sitting on the stoop just days before.

She remembered they had sat and talked a long while, the boys name was Jacob, Jacob with a cheeky face, and deep rich brown eyes, handsome, soulful like a puppy dogs, she had told him he reminded her of a King Charles Spaniel, which was meant as a compliment, he had made her laugh, and she had thought of little else since.

“How much” A stranger on the street asked, whilst simultaneously picking up a box of matches from the match girls tray

“1 shilling” she replied absentmindedly, taking the strangers coin then heading swiftly back to her own thoughts.



Jacob felt behind his ear to make sure the cigarette was still there, it was, all was good.



Just before he reached London Bridge an apparition emerged out of a side alley and stood in front of Jacob blocking his way,

“Well if it isn’t young Jacob Rehab, I’ve been looking for you” Said the apparition,

This apparition turned out to be a man, a man who looked like smoke and was cloaked all in black.

Jacob knew this man and now you do too as the silver kiss, this silver kiss gave Jacob a gift before slipping off into the night never to be seen again.


Jacob wearily stumbling onto London Bridge, managed to get halfway across, before stopping to look at the patterns dancing in the waters reflection, a favourite pastime of his was watching the lights from all around dance like ripples upon the surface of the River Thames,

Raising his head, Jacobs handsome brown eyes, concentrated purely upon the face of the pretty little match girl, she was illuminated at the end of London bridge beneath the street lamps glow, to Jacob she was so beautiful and this gave him inner strength, enough to carry on his way.

Blood began to ooze out from a hole in Jacobs’s stomach dripping onto the snow which covered the bridge, in the day time it would look fine like a work of art, bright red pools of blood on soft white snow, and oh so much blood, but in the dark of the late night Jacobs’s blood as he stumbled fell upon London Bridge unseen.

“Trust your feet, trust your feet, not long now”,

Jacob repeated over and over in his head like a mantra.

All the while with each step and with every beat of his heart ceaselessly more blood kept seeping out from the wound in his stomach. It would seem that the silver kiss had done his job well.


Gazing up into the starry sky the little match girl had last sold a match about five minutes ago, suddenly she was stolen from her lofty airy thoughts and brought leadenly back to ground, funny how all it took was the sound of a whisper in her ear,

“Eliza”,

Jacob whispered, and was more thankful than you’ll ever know that he could remember the pretty match girl’s name,

“Please spare me a match”, he asked

“Jacob”

Eliza exclaimed excitedly, thinking that her prayer to the stars had been answered,

“Of course, oh Jacob”

Eliza went deathly white as white as the surrounding heaps of fallen snow, in panic, she was silenced and did not scream, as might have been your first thoughts as to her reaction, in fact the whole street seemed to turn unreal, or if you might believe it even realer than it had been before, time had slowed down and the very air became quieter almost deadly silent.


Jacob could not carry on walking any further, he didn’t have enough blood left to move his body, and his feet had taken him as far as they wanted to go,

He collapsed into Eliza’s arms.

Even though he was dying, he managed to reach behind his ear for the cigarette,

“Got a match” Jacob asked whilst looking up with sad eyes into Eliza’s tear streaked
face.

Eliza managed to strike a match which quickly flamed, whilst still holding tightly onto Jacobs’s cold body; she shakingly and tenderly raised the lit match in her little hand to the cigarette balancing between Jacobs lips.

It was a miracle that the match did not go out, how could the wind know at that precise moment not to blow. It appeared as if that night a fairy tale was being played out in London’s fair city.


Eliza did not care that her dress was becoming soaked in blood, she felt that she would keep it forever stained, as more snow flakes fell all she cared about was stroking Jacobs brown hair, and looking into his handsome eyes, Jacobs and Eliza’s tears mingled together.

Jacob looking up at Eliza noticed it was like she was hanging beneath the stars and as he lay in her arms Eliza kept watch upon his face keeping it safe, so that the boy she had met in the stoop a few days before could at last on the foot of London bridge under a street lamps orange glow smoke in peace.



All the while death stood waiting unnoticed beside them stamping his foot in impatience,

“Come on get on with it, its freezing out here”

Those last two lines are a joke, for the sanctity of “the lost match” story just ignore them, innit.