He paused for a moment, then swept up onto the landing, pushing me against the wall next to his bedroom door and fixing his mouth to mine. 

I opened my lips and felt his tongue brush against my teeth. His hands wound around me, digging into my buttocks. He groaned.

"Emma," he said, "dear God."

I squeezed my eyes shut and ducked out under his arm and into my room. 

I shut the door and leaned against it, trying to slow my breathing.

I heard Charlie take two steps towards the door and my heart tried to jump out of my chest. If he knocked, if he opened the door, I was his. I wanted it so badly, even now. Would it be so bad? Sure, if I got back to my own time, none of this would have happened, but I'd still get to keep the memories. Better to have loved and lost and all that...

He paused, then said softly, "You're right, odd 'un. That was a bad idea."

I listened to his footsteps across the landing, and the click of his door closing.

* * *

The next day I presented myself to the Receiving Home with a throbbing hangover. I managed to present a satisfactory scheme for the organisation of the folders and graduated from A to the first half of B.

Wednesday was the rest of B and the beginning of C.

Charlie and I did not talk about the kiss.

On Thursday, one week after I found myself on Mile End Road, I finally got my hands on Alice Connolly's file.

I took it upstairs to the file room and laid it out on the table. There was also a thin file documenting what had happened since she was surrendered. I scanned through the forms. They were filled out in a precise hand I knew to be Miss Morrison's.

Give the child's Christian name and surname.

-- Alice Aoibhe Connolly

State the exact age, and give the date and place of birth.

-- 7 months. Bethnal Green. Oct. 2nd 1920.

Legitimate?

-- No

If baptised, state place and date of baptism.

-- St Matthew's, Bethnal Green. November 5, 1920

Parents living?

-- Mother. Nothing known of the father.

If, however, either or both are dead, state of what disease they died and give the date of their death.

-- 

If living, give their exact places of abode, and state how long they have resided there.

-- 

Give the Christian names and surnames of parents (in full) and state their ages.

-- Emer Aisling Connolly, known as Emma. 23. Father's name not given.

What was or is the nature of the father's occupation and the amount of his weekly earnings?

-- 

What was or is the nature of the mother's occupation and the amount of her weekly earnings? Give the name and address of her present or last employer.

-- No occupation - on the streets of London

Give the names, addresses, ages, occupations and earnings (if any) of all the brothers and sisters of the child.

-- 

At what address and with whom is the child now living?

-- Mother checked herself and child out of the Mile End Workhouse two days previous.

Give in full the names, addresses, ages, occupations and earnings of each living relative the child is known to possess either on the father's or mother's side such as grandparents, uncles, aunts, &c.

-- Mother's relations in Belfast. Nothing known of father's relations.

I set the form aside. What a sad monument to a short life. And Emma--Emer--Connolly had given no address that I could use to track her down.

Refusing to let myself dwell on that, I moved on to the other documents. Notes from a medical inspection that found Alice Connolly to be in reasonable health. Weight was given as 14lb 4oz. I knew nothing about babies, but that seemed small to me.

Then there was a piece of correspondence to Miss Carstares from Miss Staff, the Superintendent of the Greys Children's Homes, whatever they were, agreeing that Alice Connolly could be placed in Harold Cottages whenever it was convenient for Miss Carstares to arrange for her to go. Written on the bottom of this letter in a precise hand was a note: Sent to Greys 29/05/1921.

So Alice had gone on the day I started work at the Receiving Home. I went to run my hand through my hair and found it hemmed in by hairpins. Instead, I laid my head on the desk for a moment and took stock.

Emer Connolly had vanished into the East End, and Alice Connolly was gone.

I sat up again. Emer Connolly had been in the Mile End Workhouse two days before she gave Alice up. Perhaps they would be able to give me an address.

* * *

It was tempting to throw over my job at the Receiving Home. But a niggle told me that I didn't know how long I would be stuck here, especially with the disappointment of the Union records, and I couldn't live off Mrs. Lawrence without contributing, nor could I be sure that my own money would last. So I turned up on Thursday morning and buried myself in the archives. I learned that Grays was in Essex, where the Whitechapel Poor Law Union ran a cluster of "model" children's homes. Bully for them. How was I going to get out to Essex? Did the Central Line exist yet?

After work, I walked up Mile End Road. I stopped a costermonger pushing a cart of spotty apples, and bought one from him. Aiming for casual, I said, "By the way, can you tell me the way to the Mile End Workhouse?"

His ruddy complexion paled. "What'll you be wanting with that place?"

"I am going to meet a friend," I said. "She said she lives opposite."

"Oh. Well, you's going the wrong way." He turned and pointed. "You'll be wanting Bancroft Road, that way."

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it, luv," was the reply, and he pushed his barrow forward.

I walked down the road past the grand façade of the People's Palace. Bancroft Road was the next turn after that. I walked up the street past a row of brown brick houses with white casements, and then an incongruous two-storey limestone building that, like the People's Palace, fit oddly with its surrounds.

Looking back, I saw the limestone was a façade, and the main part of the building was a businesslike dark brown. At the end of that building, a red brick fence started. I looked through the gaps in the wrought-iron gate. A dirt driveway led up to an imposing three-storey building of red, brown and white brick, with a carved stone portico.

There were men and women standing, leaning against the brick. "Oi, luv," said a man in patched clothes with a stick and billy. "You wanting amission? Come stand with us, luv. Spike don't open 'til six."

"No, I, uh..." I stayed where I was. "What are the rules?"

"Aw, firs' timer?"

His mate elbowed him. "Look at her. She ain't for the spike."

"Why not?" I said.

His gesture encompassed my entire person. "Too nice. Betcha gots bread on you too. If you ain't des-tit-choot, you ain't getting a bed."

Bread being again, I inferred, money. I reckoned it was around 4.30pm. An hour and a half until the "spike" opened.

I went up to the gate and pushed it open. "Hark at her marching up to the house smart as you please," said one of the tramps to the other.

I shut the gate behind me and went around the drive to the porticoed entrance. I rang the bell, composing my story.

A square-jawed, squat man answered. He looked me up and down. "Whatchoo want?" he said.

"I work for the Whitechapel Union Receiving Home around the corner," I said.

"And so?"

"Last week, a woman surrendered a baby to us. She and the baby were previously residents of this workhouse. We are trying to reach the mother, so I was hoping I could have a look at your records in case there's an address."

"Workhouse or casual ward?" he said.

Huh? "I'm not... sure?"

"Why's you looking for the woman anyway?"

"None of your concern," I said.

"Too right," he replied, "and don't be thinking you can boss me, missy, acause this is a Stepney Union house and these Whitechapel orphans of yourn is none of my nevermind."

With that, he shut the door in my face. I stared at the door for a moment, trying to figure out how to react. I stomped down the gravel, past the tramps waiting for the workhouse to open, and down the street.

I was slowed but not stopped. I needed to get into the workhouse to check out their records, but evidently going as a Whitechapel Poor Law Union employee wasn't going to cut it.

An idea had begun to take shape, but before I could enact it, I needed to learn more about the workhouse system.

It turned out that the Mile End Workhouse was part of the Stepney Poor Law Union, and there was a certain amount of hostility between the two tribes. This I learned from Miss Morrison the next morning.

In the evening, I asked Charlie, "Can you tell me about the workhouse?"

We were sitting in the living room. Mrs. Lawrence was dozing in a chair near her bed. He frowned at me. He was pulling out thread to darn a hole in one of his socks. "What sort of thing?"

"How does it work? Who gets admitted?"

"Odd 'un, why the questioning?"

I studied him, trying to gauge how much truth to give. "There's a woman," I said eventually. "Emer Connolly. I'm trying to find her."