"Hullo, odd 'un," said Charlie.

I looked up. He stood in the kitchen doorway, hands pressed into his pockets.

"Didn't know whether I'd find you here after all."

"Couldn't resist a cuppa," I said weakly.

Charlie bellowed with laughter. "An East End lass under all that," he said. "What's your name, odd 'un?"

"Emma Scott," I said. "Pleased to meet you."

"Charlie Lawrence," he replied, "and likewise. Now where's this home I am transporting you to?"

"About that..." I said.

Charlie cocked a suspicious eyebrow.

"I'd... I don't want to go home, you see. I came to London to try and get a job."

Now the other eyebrow joined the first. To his credit, Charlie did not look my outfit up and down again, but his thoughts were plainly written. "What sort of job?"

"As a secretary," I said, lifting my chin.

"Have you been to Vocational School, then?"

"Yes, in Durham, but I lost my papers."

"I'll be thinking that putting you on the train back to Durham is the wisest course," said Charlie, scratching his chin.

I felt a twinge of curiosity. What would Durham in 1921 look like? How much of it would I recognise?

I shook my head. "There's nothing for me up there," I said.

"Fair play," said Charlie.

I leaned forward. "Listen, did you know that woman we saw at the Receiving Home? She seemed familiar."

Charlie hooked the the leg of the wooden chair nearest him, pulled it back from the table, and sat down. "From Durham?"

"Maybe. Anyway, I was just wondering."

"No, she ain't known to me," said Charlie. I noticed his speech was a mishmash of cockney and a blander type of English, as if at one point he had gotten used to speaking differently.

"Why would someone give up their baby to the Receiving Home?"

"Lots of reasons. Don't they have the Poor Law Unions in Durham?"

"Er, no," I said, again relying on the eternal view of Englishmen from the south that 'the North' was somehow a foreign country with its own exotic customs.

"Happen she can't take care of the baby," said Charlie. "She's down on her luck, or she's in and out of the spike. Maybe she's got others at home, or her man's took sick and can't get a job."

"She said the baby was illegitimate," I said, mostly to myself.

"There you have it, then. Better the babe have a new life free of its mother's troubles."

"But don't you think babies should be with their mothers?"

Charlie shrugged. "I think the Union's no place for a baby. But it ain't much worse than some of the other states a body can find itself in around here."

"What's the spike?"

"The workhouse. Where they go that can't take care of themselves."

"I see."

"It's a hard world you've dropped yerself into, Emma Scott. You sure you don't want to go home?"

"I do," I said in a small voice, "but I can't." And then, to my mortification, I started crying. Even the restorative effects of tea couldn't save me. I put my head in my hands and cried because I was trapped in a strange, unfriendly place, and I had no plan and nowhere to go.

I heard the chair scrape back, and then Charlie was on his knees beside me, slinging his arm over my heaving shoulders. "There, there, odd 'un," he said, his voice a soothing rumble near my ear. "It can't be as bad as that. Here's what we'll do. Mum'll fix you up with some proper togs, and you'll stay here tonight. Tomorrow we'll get m'sister Amy in to write you a reference. She won't mind."

"Charlie, what've you done to put the girl in such a two and eight?" said Mrs. Lawrence from the hallway.

I looked up. "Nothing, honestly," I said. "It just all hit me at once, that's all."

Charlie patted my back twice and stood up. "I see yer yards ahead of me, mum," he said.

Mrs. Lawrence had a bundle of clothes in her arms. "Here, luv, try these on. You can use the room at the top of the stairs." I nodded and accepted the clothes. "Thank you," I mumbled.

I made my way up the stairs. They creaked, and the wood was mottled with damp, as was the dark wallpaper. The finish on the landing was uneven, and the whole seemed like it might come down at any moment. There was a door open to a bedroom, which contained a nightstand with a metal jug and basin, and a rickety metal double bed. The one point of brightness was a crocheted counterpane , a pattern of mauve and pink flowers with green leaves winding around them.

I sat down on the lumpy mattress and explored the pile of clothing I'd been given. It smelled like mothballs. I found a pair of stockings with garters, an ankle-length brown skirt, a whitish blouse, and a green hand-knitted jumper. Holding the skirt up to my waist, I thought it would fit. I unzipped my own skirt and let it drop to the ground.

There was a knock on the door. I jumped. "I'm not decent," I shouted, putting my hand up to cover my knickers, which would definitely mark me as 'not from around here'.

"I ain't aiming to peep," said Charlie, his inflection more cockney than ever. "I just brung you a pair of shoes."

I heard him drop them by the door and then clomp downstairs. Taking two deep breaths, I pulled my t-shirt over my head and reached for the blouse. It pulled a little over my chest--Hannah Lawrence was a slenderer specimen than me--and my pink and blue polka dot bra showed through the fabric. If I'd known I was heading for the 1920s, I would have gone for a nude one instead.

The black stockings and garters confounded me for a moment, but I figured out how to get the contraption on, then pulled the skirt on and tucked in the blouse. I'm slimmer than average around the waist, but Hannah's skirt still pinched. I quickly donned the jumper to hide my polka dots, and smoothed it down over the skirt.

There was a mirror over the nightstand. I went over and studied my reflection in its patinated surface. There was me: I went in and out in the right places, certainly, but the bulky jumper made me look a bit blobby on the top. I wished Charlie could have seen me in the red sundress I'd bought a couple of weeks ago: tight across my bust and waist, then flaring out on my hips. When I put it on, I felt as if the pieces of me were put together intentionally; now, I looked like a toffee apple on a stick.

Did Charlie find me attractive? I examined my wild brown hair, my brown eyes with dark lashes. Thick eyebrows tamed and shaped six-weekly with wax. A heart-shaped face and button nose. Lower lip a little short, but upper lip generously bowed.

Stop it, I told myself. He's basically your great grandfather.

Not biologically. Perhaps he married Emma Connolly and she and Alice took his name, but he wasn't Alice's father.

But it was still wrong, and a bit gross.

If only my heart could be convinced to agree with me on this one.

The hair was wrong. I pulled it out of its ponytail, made myself a centre-part and drew it back into a low bun. The face in the mirror became at once familiar and alien: I realised with a shock that I had the same hair as Emma Connolly: lighter than her inky black, but the same wispy curls that collected around my ears and nape.

Was there any of her in my face? I couldn't see it, if there was.

I fidgeted with the hem of the jumper, trying to set it so I looked less lumpish. Then I gave up and left the room. On the landing, Charlie had left me a pair of brown leather lace-up shoes. I tried to put a foot in one. They were far too small. Hannah had more delicate feet than me as well, it seemed. I went back into the bedroom and put my own shoes back on. Black ballet flats--not that offensive, surely. I made my way downstairs.

"There we are, Charlie, doesn't she look like she could be a sekertary now?" said Mrs. Lawrence, sitting back in her chair with her hands clasped over her belly.

"The shoes didn't fit," I said, apologetically.

"Never mind, luvvie," said Mrs. Lawrence.

I looked at Charlie. He had one elbow on the table and was twisted towards me. "She looks like a proper East End gel," he said. "Only we know what an odd 'un she really is."

I stifled a grin. He held my gaze and a smile dawned across his face. It started in the right-hand corner of his mouth, tugging up to reveal a sliver of teeth. Then his eyes got in on the action, crinkling into sparkling slits. Then, last of all, the smile broke across his whole mouth, lips pulling back to reveal all his teeth, which were pretty straight and--as far as I could tell--all there.

My ridiculous heart tried to get itself free of my chest.