"You will be covering my breaks," said Miss. Morrison. "I take lunch from 12.00 to 12.30, and you will be required to watch the door while I am away."

I nodded and stepped into the building. Hello to you too, I mouthed to her back. She gestured to a room to the left of the doorway. In it was a large desk with a big chair behind it and a small chair in front.

"Most of the children who come to us have been seen by one of officers of the Union before," said Miss Morrison. "If their parents are receiving out relief, than the Union will take an interest in the condition of the children. Likewise, if the mother has checked herself into the Whitechapel Workhouse, then she may consent to putting her children in our care. The officers will from time to time also encounter orphans on the street that they consider can be rehabilitated by a good example. In these cases, the officer will bring the child and the documents of consent from the parents, if applicable, to us."

She went over to the filing cabinet. "In these cases, you file the paperwork in these cabinets under the child's surname. At the moment intake records are here, and other documents are kept upstairs. Your task will be to reconcile these."

"I understand," I said.

"Occasionally a mother will come to surrender her children directly. In these instances, it is better to take the children immediately and see that they are settled. Otherwise the better angels of the mother's nature, which have caused her to give her child into our care, are overborne by a basic instinct when it comes to the separation.

"While you are doing this, you can direct the mother to wait in this room. To keep her calm, I sometimes tell her that she will be able to see the children again before she leaves, but it is best not to allow her to see them again, to minimise the distress to the child."

Miss Morrison had taken Alice from Emma Connolly as soon as she stepped into the building. She must have taken Alice to the nursery, directing Emma to wait in this room. I imagined that young woman, milk-white skin and black flyaway hair, shrinking into that small chair in front of that large desk. Don't worry, Miss Connolly. You will be able to say goodbye to Alice once the papers are signed. I blinked rapidly.

Miss Morrison looked at me and I wiped any expression from my face and nodded.

"This is the paperwork that must be prepared," said Miss Morrison, pulling a file from the drawer. "If a Union officer is bringing a child in, then you need to make sure these forms have been completed. If it is the mother, ask her to fill them out. Handling the mothers can be upsetting, so if you prefer you can ask them to wait until I return. Try to take custody of the child if you can, however."

"Where do I take the children?" I said.

Miss Morrison gave me an annoyed look.

"Once the paperwork is done, put it in one of these folders," She pointed to a box of hanging files, "and fill out this covering sheet." These were in a neat pile on the desk. "You will also need to complete the file label - Surname, first name, date of acceptance."

"Surname, first name, date of acceptance," I echoed, since Miss Morrison seemed to expect it.

She nodded, then swept past me out into the hallway. I hesitated on the threshold, looking back into the room and making a mental note to avoid touching anything in this room that might have been handled by a bereaved mother. I already knew that the grief of such a separation had been enough to pull me back almost one hundred years. I wasn't keen to go back any further.

"Once accepted, the children are generally with us here for two to seven days before being allocated to one of the children's homes, or, if they are old enough, the industrial school."

"This is the girls' dormitory," Pointing to the room with the pinafores on the beds, "and the boys." The one opposite. "Later, you will meet the matron, who is in charge of the children. They eat breakfast at 6.30, and are at school from 7.30am until 2pm."

"And the ones who are too young for school?"

Miss Morrison went to the stairs at the end of the hallway, and down into the basement. I followed her. "This is the nursery," she said, pushing open a door. Inside, there were rows of bassinets and cots, each one with a child of less than three years in it. The windows were high and small, along one wall of the room. The children all wore grey smocks. Many were shaking the bars or crying. A woman sat at a desk near the door, reading through some paperwork. She looked up.

"Miss Henley, this is Miss Scott, who will be helping in the office."

We nodded to each other. I peered around the room. Was Alice in here?

Back in the hallway, Miss Morrison pointed around. "That is the bathroom," she said. "The children bathe in the evening before dinner. That is the kitchen, and that the dining room."

"Right," I said. We went back upstairs, and Miss Morrison gave me a tour of the offices. All this space on the third floor given over to an office and dining room for Miss Carstares, a meeting room for important guests, a few empty offices, and the file room.

Miss Carstares didn't look up as I was shown her office. Miss Davidson have me a haughty nod, establishing that now I was one of the staff of the Receiving Home, I was at the bottom of the ladder.

Fine with me - as long as I had access to the files I couldn't care less what the others thought of me.

Once the tour was over, Miss Morrison said, "Miss Scott, I suggest you get to work now. Take some of these intake files upstairs to the file room look through them. Do not start to organise anything until we have agreed a filing scheme. I will be upstairs at 11.45 to discuss this, and then I will go on my break."

"Got it," I said. "I'll start with A to C, then."

"Start with A," Miss Morrison replied. She pulled open a drawer and lifted me out an armful of files. Trying not to be obvious about it, I rested a finger against the top of the files. There was no feeling of warmth or memory, so I took the bundle and made a note to myself to buy a pair of gloves.

* * *

I left the Receiving Home at 4pm, dispirited. Miss Morrison was keeping tight control over my movements and access to the files. She had made me revise my filing system twice, and taken half the A files away from me because I "insisted on getting ahead of myself."

I had managed to sneak down to the nursery while Miss Morrison was at lunch, but if baby Alice was there, Miss Henley knew nothing about it, and I sensed it would take very little to make her suspicious enough to report back to Miss Morrison.

I got home and let myself in. Mrs. Lawrence never locked the front door which seemed crazy to me considering they were among the wealthier residents of a desperately poor neighbourhood, but Mrs. Lawrence insisted that folk don't steal from their own, and the neighbours kept an eye on things anyhow.

Mrs. Lawrence and Charlie were arguing in the kitchen. "It's fine, mum," Charlie was saying. "I'll take Saturdays at the dock, and Amy'll just have to put in more of her wage. Plus, we've got Emma to help now."

"Help with what?"

"Nothing, luvvie," said Mrs. Lawrence, turning to the sink and clanking the plates together. "I've just put some hot water on the boil for a nice cuppa, and in an hour there'll be some gammon and mash for tea; how's that sound?"

Charlie rested his hands on the table and slumped between his shoulders. "Monday's rent day," he said.

"Shh, Charlie," said Mrs. Lawrence.

"The landlord has put the rent up," Charlie continued. "Trying to push mum out so he can cram four families in here and charge four times as much."

"Oh, I can definitely help," I said. "Can I give you some money now? For the last week?"

"There, now you've set her off," said Mrs. Lawrence, vigorously washing up a cup. "We can take care of our business, Emma, don't you worry about that."

"Mum doesn't like talking about money," said Charlie.

"Nor you shouldn't neither." Mrs. Lawrence's tone was indignant. "T'ain't proper."

I looked at Charlie. He shrugged. I went upstairs and sat down on the bed. Amy wasn't home yet, so I had the room to myself. I took out my purse and counted what I had. 8 pounds, 9 shillings and sixpence. Plus a pound a week in pay.

My optimism of the weekend had been checked. I now looked at this meagre collection of coins and tried to calculate how long it would last me if I scrimped and saved.

Someone knocked on the door. "Come in," I said.

Charlie entered. He'd avoided me since our trip into town two days ago. I told myself it was best that he did, but it still felt lonely.

"Don't mind mum," he said, sitting down on the bed. "And put this stuff away." He gathered up the coins, put them in the purse, and laid the purse on my lap, folding my hands over it while I watched him mutely.

I felt my eyes well with tears. I had never been a cryer. My friends used to joke I had a heart of stone because we'd watched Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet in Year 9 and I had been the only one in my class who hadn't cried. And yet, here I was, preparing to blub again.

"Hey, shh," said Charlie. "Don't cry, odd 'un." He put his hand up under my chin so he could brush my cheek with his thumb.