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."

"What is it?" I managed to say this calmly, but my heart had started to thud against my ribs.

"Well, I've been thinking 'bout your Emer Connolly," said Charlie, drawing out the ee sound at the beginning of the name.

Oh, right. Okay, that hadn't been what I was expecting.

"Oh yeah?" Caught between relief and disappointment, I came out into the hallway and closed the door.

"I asked some of the lads if they knew anything. My mate Locky knocks about with some Irishmen at the Gasworks."

I was now wide awake. I crossed my arms over my breasts, conscious of the thinness of the garment and the fact that I wasn't wearing anything under it. "What did you find out?"

"There was a lad what used to work at the Gasworks, 'til the war. He came over to London with his mum and sister who worked in a clothing factory. Sister got herself in trouble, father unknown, and was fired. Brother died in the war; mum cast the sister out. Last name of Connolly."

"Did they know where the mother lived?"

Charlie grimaced. "Somewhere in Stepney," he said with distaste.

"That's near here," I said.

"Sure," said Charlie, "but not a place to be wandering around."

"Well, how else am I going to find Mrs. Connolly?"

Charlie leaned back against the wall. "Her name'd help with that," he said. "Since you're a relation and all."

Uh oh. "Distant relation," I said.

"Emma."

"I'll remember in a minute."

"Emma."

"She really is a relation," I protested.

Charlie's expression was grim. "Are you mixed up in something, Emma? Am I gonna regret taking you in?"

"It's nothing like you're thinking," I said. "She hasn't taken off with something of mine, or... I'm not being paid by a gang to hunt her down, or anything like that."

Charlie's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline and he gave a startled laugh. "Well, thank blazes for that," he said.

"We met for the first time outside the Receiving Home. But you have to trust me, please. I know we haven't known each other very long, but it is terribly important that I find Emer Connolly as soon as possible."

"All right, odd 'un, I'll leave you your secrets if you swear they ain't harmful to me and mine."

"They really, really aren't." The only person my secrets harmed was me.

And mum. A phantom hand gripped my insides. Poor mum. She must be frantic.

Don't think about that, Emma. You'll get back. This will never have happened.

"What happened?" said Charlie.

"Hm?"

"Clouds just went across your face."

"Oh. I was thinking about my mum," I said quietly.

"You miss her."

I nodded.

"Can't you see her?"

"Not until--I can't see mum again until I find Emer Connolly."

"Right." Charlie nodded. "I have to work tomorrow, but on Sunday we'll see what we can find."

"We?"

"Oh, odd 'un, I'm not letting you roam around Stepney by yourself."

* * *

Stepney was the next parish in towards town from Mile End. We set out midmorning, down Mile End Road, past the People's Palace, past the road up towards the workhouse. At Stepney Green underground station, we turned left along a wide avenue lined with respectable workers' cottages. Looking around, I couldn't see why Charlie was so worried. Stepney was as nice, if not nicer, than Mile End.

Charlie stopped a man on the street and asked him something. The man pointed down the street and said, "An' ask someone whin you git vere--vey'll tell yer where't go."

We walked on down the road. Charlie stopped suddenly, putting his hand out to catch me. He peered to the left. I realised he was looking down the narrow gap between two terrace houses. "This way," he said. "If you're sure, odd 'un."

I remembered the world I had glimpsed between the shops on Mile End Road. The leaning, dilapidated tenements, the uneven cobblestones, the girl bouncing a cane hoop against the wall opposite.

"I'm sure," I said. I sidled closer to him.

He took my hand with a wink. "Tally-ho then."

We sidled down the passageway and into another world. Here, it was cold and dark despite the bright day. Wooden doors hung open, bricks were falling out of place, and it seemed as if a miasma hung just above the ground. I caught my toe in a cobblestone and almost tripped.

On we went. The streets became narrower and the houses leaned in to close out the light. It wouldn't have surprised me if bits started coming off them. Charlie occasionally stopped someone to ask them for directions, but his cockney had got so strong it was basically impenetrable to me.

"Here's where the Connollys worked," Charlie said eventually, stopping outside a house like all the others.

"Do you mean lived?" I asked.

Charlie shook his head and pointed towards the ground floor window. I peered in. The front room was cluttered with furniture: four sewing machines sat pushed together with chairs beside them. Lengths of fabric were draped around the room, vanishing into the shadows. Half-made blouses in piles near the door. In the corner was a bed.

"It's so dark," I said. "How do they work in there?"

"Oi, wot you want?" shouted a woman, sticking her head out the door.

"We's lookin' fer Missus Connolly," said Charlie. "D'yer ken where's her gates?"

"You a bottle?" said the woman with a suspicious glare.

"Naw, does I lookit?" said Charlie.

The woman raised her eyebrows. "She'll be livin' darn vat way," she said eventually, pointing.

Charlie touched his hand to his hat. "Come on," he said.

I followed him. "What did she say?" I said.

"She thought I was a copper," he said.

Oh, right. Sure, of course. A policeman. Obviously.

Charlie knocked on the first door of the street. "Connolly?" he said to the person who opened it.

"Naw, free doors darn, luv," she said.

We went down to the house in question. Its brown brick was stained black with soot. The front door was open, and two boys and a girl were sitting on the step, jostling for space. They were all dressed in rough black clothes. The boys wore dirty, collarless shirts and messenger caps.

"What's you wantin'?" said one of the boys when we stopped.

"We's lookin' for a woman name of Connolly," said Charlie. "You ken 'er?"

The boy and girl had a quick confab in a language that sounded like German, but that I suspected was Yiddish.

"Wossit worf?" said the boy in a deep cockney accent, revealing four missing teeth.

Charlie gave him a penny out of his pocket. "She lives up the apples," he said. "Shove over, Ruth, and let 'em up."

The girl shoved the boy off the step. We stepped around them and their bickering accompanied us into the house. To either side of the front doors were rooms. Once, I supposed they must have been living rooms of some sort; now, a glance into the one on the right showed two beds pushed up against each other, a couch, a bucket and a coal fire.

Charlie tested the first step before he put his weight on it. "Hold tight to the railing," he said.

I did so reluctantly. The wood had absorbed something slimy that made my skin cringe away from it. We made our way up slowly.

"Mrs. Connolly?" called Charlie when we reached the landing. I rubbed my hand down my skirt. It didn't help.

There was noise from behind one of the doors. A middle-aged woman stuck her head out. "Who're you?" she said, squinting at us.

"I'm Charlie Lawrence and this is Emma Scott," said Charlie.

"How-de-doo," said Mrs. Connolly.

"We're looking for your daughter Emer."

"That hussy," said Mrs. Connolly. "Ain't seen hide nor hair of her for months. What's she done?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "I just want to know she's all right."

"And who'll she be to you?"

It was at this point that I realised I was addressing my great, great grandmother. I looked around. Somehow I'd never imagined that my family might come from somewhere like this. My childhood had been so... respectable.

"We're her friends," said Charlie, squeezing my hand.

"Then you'd know better'n me where she is."

"She was in the workhouse," I said. "She gave up baby Alice."

"Good," said Mrs. Connolly. "What's she goin' ta do wit a baby? Can't keep herself."

I felt my blood pressure rising. "Your son died in the war, didn't he?" I asked.

Her face became lined and sad. "He did," she said. "My Rory was took down by the Jerries at the Somme."

"I was there," said Charlie. "I'm sure he died bravely."

Mrs. Connolly nodded. "My boy always did right."

"You still have a daughter, Mrs. Connolly. Aren't you worried about her?"

Mrs. Connolly stepped back from her door. Glancing over her shoulder, I saw the room was cluttered with beds like the one downstairs.

"Emer is welcome back any time she likes," she said, "but she's gone to the bad and she won't have any help. I've heard she's up and down Whitechapel Road of an evening."

"Thank you, Mrs. Connolly," said Charlie. The old woman grunted and shut the door.

I looked up at Charlie. "That means she's become a prostitute, doesn't it?"

Charlie grimaced and nodded.

Somehow, Granny Alice had never mentioned that bit when I was doing the "My Family" project in Year 5.