"There's a woman," I said eventually. "Emer Connolly. I'm trying to find her."

"The woman and the baby," said Charlie.

"Yep. She was in the Mile End Workhouse."

"Resident or casual?"

"What's the difference?"

"Casual wards are only for one night, whereas becoming a resident of the workhouse is different. You apply and go up in front of the Board of Guardians."

"Oh," I said. "I think Emer was a resident, then."

Charlie paused in his task. "Who's she to you?" he said.

I decided on a form of the truth. "She's family."

"Cor blimey," said Charlie. "You kept that under your hat."

"Yes, I, ah... I thought you might not want to associate with me if you knew my relation was on the street with a bastard child." My insides crinkled up at referring to my grandmother that way.

"Amy had it fixed that you had given a baby into the home," said Charlie.

This startled an awkward giggle out of me. "Nope." I hesitated. One day Emer would marry Charlie. Would he accept her illegitimate daughter as his own? "Would it matter if I had?"

"Not 'specially," said Charlie. He put his hand into his sock and examined his handiwork. "Though mum might feel different. There's a reason so many girls in trouble end up in the workhouse."

"How hard is it to get accepted into the workhouse?"

Charlie set down the sock and gave me a suspicious look. "Tired of our hospitality already, odd 'un?" he said.

The tramps had said you needed to be destitute to be admitted to the casual ward. Probably all Hannah's clothes were in too good shape to pull it off. But I'd seen rag traders with their carts of old clothes; I bet I could find something in there that would do the job.

"Noo," I said vaguely.

Charlie's expression shifted. He glanced at Mrs. Lawrence, snoring peacefully. "Emma, I hope this ain't because I--" He coloured up under his freckles.

"No, no no, it isn't that," I said, waving my hands at him and feeling my cheeks pink up as well.

"Because if it's that, then you can go and live with Enid--or with Han since Enid has a baby on the way. The workhouse... it don't bear thinking about."

"I promise it isn't that. You've been a perfect gentleman."

He held my gaze, searching it anxiously in a way that made me want to drag him upstairs and pick up where we left off.

"Promise me?"

Well, just one touch. I leaned over and put my hand over his. "I promise. I am so lucky I landed on you... I mean..."

He smiled. "I know what you mean, odd 'un."

Pretty sure you don't. "You and your family have been so kind and welcoming to me, when you had no reason to be. I will always be grateful to you for that."

The smile dug into his cheeks, then faded. I found myself half-off my chair, leaning towards him, our hands a warm point of contact between us. I thought of kissing him, of his long, lean body pressing against mine, the heat between us. The way his lips felt against mine. Breathing became difficult.

I thought again: I'll be gone from his life without a trace. It's only me who will have the broken heart. He won't even remember we met. We won't have met.

Charlie pulled his hand out from under mine. "Best not, odd 'un," he said.

* * *

The next day before work I corralled one of the rag traders, an old woman wearing a long black dress, through the holes in which it was possible to see a dirty white petticoat. As I got close, I grimaced at the smell of stale humanity and rubbish arising from the cart.

"Do you have any women's clothes?" I said.

I got an unintelligible reply and the woman plunged her hand into the pile of rags, rifled around a bit and pulled out a black skirt very similar to her own, in thin, rough material. I took it gingerly. This was followed by a blouse with a yellow stain blooming from under one arm, and a coat that was losing one sleeve.

The blouse in particular smelled rank. "Where did you get it?" I said.

The woman cackled.

Enough said. "How much?"

"A bob," said the woman.

That seemed like far too much to me, but it seemed mean to quibble, so I paid it and accepted the stinking pile into my unloving arms.

I rolled it into a bundle and tucked it under my arm, then walked up the way to the Receiving Home. Miss Morrison was sitting in the admission room. I hurried past and up the stairs to the file room, which was my lair. I figured I could tuck the bundle of clothes somewhere out of sight here and they wouldn't be found; no such guarantee at Maplin Road. Amy would smell them in a second.

Then I got down to work. I was onto L now, and mildly curious about what I was going to get tasked with when I was finished. Maybe Miss Morrison would make me re-sort them all from the beginning in a different order.

After work, I went home and sat with Mrs. Lawrence. Then, just before 6pm, I snuck out of the house and down to the workhouse. Being by now early June, it was still bright as day, so I strolled up the street, turned the corner opposite the workhouse, and settled myself in the shadow of a tree to watch.

The clock at the top of the People's Palace around the corner chimed and a man came out of the workhouse and waddled down the drive. It looked like the same man who had been rude to me at the door a few days ago. He pushed open the gate. One by one, the tramps were allowed through. They were twenty-three men, ranging in age from sixteen to seventy, and four women whose ages were difficult to discern.

Each man and woman was stopped and the warden checked their name against a list he had scrawled on a piece of paper. At this point, two of the men were turned away.

Those who remained were searched, their pockets turned out, and their contents confiscated, and then they were patted down. This being done, they were sent up to the workhouse building.

The last four men in the queue were turned away. They stood at the gate with those men whom the warden had rejected, staring dolefully up through the barred gates. Then they plodded away. I supposed they might go and try the Whitechapel Workhouse, wherever that was, or maybe it was too late now for them to find shelter anywhere.

I wondered why those two men had been turned away. Were their names not on the list? How did one's name get on the list?

It wasn't obvious how I could get the answers to this question. Charlie was already suspicious of my intentions, and Miss Morrison was sick of my questions about the workhouse.

I went home, mulling this over. At dinner, we'd settled into a routine where Mrs. Lawrence served me up a huge pile of meat and vegetables, then Charlie scavenged all the meat from my plate. We'd never talked about it. I don't know what he thought about my aversion to meat. Probably not the oddest thing about me.

The next day at work I sidled up to Miss Davidson's desk. "Is Miss Carstares available?" I said.

"Miss Carstares is exceptionally busy," said Miss Davidson.

"Would there be a time when I could speak to her?"

Miss Davidson made a fuss of checking the appointment book in front of her. "This week is impossible," she said. "There's a chance she may see you next Tuesday if she is willing to give up some of her valuable working time. She is preparing a report for the Board of Guardians, you know."

"Of course," I murmured. "I would be ever so grateful, Miss Davidson."

Miss Davidson humphed. "I will ask Miss Castares whether she has time to speak to you on Tuesday," she said.

"Thank you." I practically bowed my way out of the office.

The next day, which was Friday, Miss Davidson sniffily notified me that Miss Carstares would condescend to speak to me at 4pm on Tuesday and that I should present myself promptly and shouldn't make Miss Carstares wait as she was—as previously mentioned—exceptionally busy.

That evening, I was woken around 11pm by someone knocking on the door of the bedroom. Amy slumbered beside me; she'd come in drunk an hour or so ago. I pushed my feet out from under the covers and followed it with the rest of me, then went over to the door.

Charlie stood on the landing. He still had his jacket on, and his eyes were a little bright; he'd just come in from the pub. "Sorry to wake you," he said. "There's something I have to tell you."