I really like it.
It's a strong opening, with characters who have an immediate hook. I don't think it's infodumpy at all; there was very little stuff that I found irrelevant - save for the third paragraph, as Harebrain as mentioned. If it were me I wouldn't change much in terms of content, but there are quite a few punctuation slips and glitches which I would clear up in order to improve flow and form. Have highlighted a few such things below. be careful of your punctuation, because it will drastically alter the pace and flow of your writing. It's important to break up monotonous sentences. But I really liked it, and would happily read on.
Keep up the good work!
~
Hour after hour
, with only a few breaks
, Kit played his fiddle. Money trickled in: one pence, two pence, three pence, four
, and the very occasional fifty. It was a long way from the amount he needed, so he upped the tempo. People gave more when he reminded
them of fairgrounds than
they did when he reminded them of their grandmother's funeral. It had him tapping his feet
, and lost in the rhythm, taking him away from every trouble he had ever known.
He played until hunger got the better of him and he stopped for a breather. With his bow in one hand and the fiddle in the other he lent back against the cold, hard shutter of the abandoned shop behind him, his head obscured the latest graffiti: “Gazza is a Dick” in bright yellow. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. Until he made enough to cover the coat he desperately needed he couldn't spare a penny for food.
He regretted not postponing the daily row with his grandmother until after he had eaten breakfast, especially since the one from the day before had been right before dinner, and had ended with her throwing the fish stew in the bin. It was probably not a great idea to have told her it stank. There was no point in him trying not to offend her because that seemed to offend her more. His feet ached so he lifted one off the ground and rested it behind him. He smelt the greasy gravy of a warm delicious pie. It spoke to his stomach which provided a brief musical interlude.
“Kit?”
He opened his eyes and rolled his head to face Dieter, the hurdy-gurdy man, and he smiled.
“You look like you could use this?” Dieter sniffed and wiped his bearded face with the sleeve of his thick wool coat before holding out the pie in his hand.
“Thanks.” Hunger won and Kit took the pie before he could think of what might be crawling in Dieter's fingerless gloves. A bite – just one
- revived him and eased, a little, the pain gnawing in his stomach. “You having a good day?”
“Not too bad. Not too bad.” From his back, Dieter removed the heavy hurdy-gurdy in its wooden box. He had fashioned a contraption to allow him to carry it like a backpack. “Enough for me smokes, a beer and the pies.” He took a squashed pie, identical to the one he had given Kit, out of his pocket. “Slow down there you'll get indigestion, kid. Anyone would think you hadn't eaten in a week.”
Kit grinned and held up what was left of the pie. “Didn't have my breakfast.”
“Ahh.” Dieter picked a bit of pastry off and ate it. He didn't seem overly interested in the pie. “Been rowing with your gran again?”
Kit rammed the last of the pie into his mouth. He nodded
, paused whilst he swallowed
, and wondered how much he could tell Dieter. Although they had been friends and Dieter made sure none of the other buskers harmed Kit, Kit didn't know him very well – in fact he knew nothing about the man. Still
, there was no one else. No other adult in his life who would listen. When he was with Dieter he felt safe, a feeling that had been in short supply in Kit's life. Dieter looked at him with
his big eyes
that resembl
ing a black hole
, drawing that drew Kit in
like a traction beam (I'm not sure about this simile - it seems out of place, and is compounding the black hole simile, which makes the sentence clunky. I'd choose one or the other and my preference is for the black hole. However, this might just be a mater of taste) and he decided he had to talk. He said it as fast as he could before his brain could change its mind. “Think I could be like my dad?”
“What makes you say that?” He handed over the second pie. “I'm not hungry
. You might as well have this.”
Grateful, Kit took it off him. He was aware Dieter wasn't his usual self but today he was consumed by one thought. “Gran said I was just like him.” The pie was colder than the other one and the grease just that bit thicker.
“Ahh. Usually, your gran is right but I suspect she was probably angry with that one.” Dieter seemed distracted and kept looking past Kit. Usually when he spoke he kept his deep dark eyes firmly on whoever he was talking to. Sometimes when he was with Dieter, Kit felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean in a cave with no one else around. Finally, he responded. “What did you do?”
“Left and slammed the door.” Kit shrugged. The anger that had coursed through him had scared him. “I wanted to well... I don't know but I was so mad.”
“What would your father have done in the same situation
?” The way Dieter spoke it was obvious his concentration was elsewhere.
Kit looked back. All he saw was a blonde woman talking to some Asian bloke, probably one of the ones that worked at the new Chinese takeaway. He shrugged and returned to face Dieter who was now not even pretending to pay him any attention.
“Your father wouldn't have walked away. He never did so I think that answers your question.” Dieter spoke really fast and
picked up slung his hurdy-gurdy
which he slung on his back. “Look, kid, I have to go. I'll catch up with you later but I am sure there is nothing for you to worry about.” He patted Kit's shoulder and practically ran off in the direction of the promenade.
“But what if I kill her?” Kit shouted after him, voicing the fear he had carried since this morning's row.
A couple of girls stopped and looked at him until he felt like an exhibit. They were sharing a pasty and a Coca Cola. The fat one said to her skinny mate. “That's that Paki – the one whose dad killed his mum. Was in the paper last year.” She didn't seem to care that Kit and everyone else in the esplanade could hear her.
“Yeah. My Mum said she was mad and he was bad. Better go before he kills us and dumps our bodies off the pier.” The skinny mate sniffed, twiddled her plait and flounced off.
Her fat friend didn't move but continued to stare at Kit like he was a freak.
After a year of similar comments and people staring he had learned to let them go. Early on he would have threatened her
, and if she'd been a lad he'd have punched her. But it had given the gossips ammunition:
the apple didn't fall far from the tree, {I'd italicise this} they said. Today, none of his usual attempts to calm himself worked.
“My gran's from the Caribbean
, not Pakistan you fat cow!” he shouted at her.
She shrugged and pulled a face. “Lindz, hang on. You can't leave me alone with him – he's nuts.” And she ran after her friend.
He'd let himself down
. He knew that. Putting his bow in the other hand he rested his fiddle beneath his chin and started to play
[this sentence is technically incorrect. you shouldn't start a sentence with a verb that cannot occur simultaneously with the subsequent action - so he cannot put his bow in the other hand and rest the fiddle beneath his chin simultaneously. Suggest revising.]. Anger fuelled his music this time
. He didn't know the name of the piece
; it was one Dieter had taught him.
EDIT: have noticed you've since updated the piece and further improved it. Good stuff
