While I was trying to get my blood flowing properly again, Mrs. Lawrence said, "We've fixed it so you'll stay here tonight. Amy won't mind sharing her room with you for one night."

I tore my attention away from Charlie. "Amy still lives here?"

"Where else would she live, with her unmarried and working?" said Mrs. Lawrence.

"Oh, I, ah... I don't know," I said. "Thank you ever so much--I really appreciate all you've done for me."

"Enid and Albie will most likely drop in for tea as well," said Mrs. Lawrence. "They live just up the street. Enid used to work in the office at the Gasworks, so she might have some ideas about a job. And tomorrow we'll find you somewhere proper to stay."

"If there's ever anything I can do to repay you..."

Mrs. Lawrence ruffled up. "Never mind that, dearie." She stood and gathered up the cups from the table.

"Can I at least help you with dinner?"

"Taylor had some carrots and parsnips about to go bad," said Charlie. "I brought them home for you, mum."

"Do you live here as well, then?" I said.

Charlie gave me a surprised look. I was starting to get quite used to them by now. "Why wouldn't I?" he said.

"My Charlie's a great help to me," said Mrs. Lawrence, not turning around.

"Of course." Of course, he was a great help to his mother. And he was going to be sleeping down the hall from me.

Only for one night, Emma. You can keep it in your pants for one night.

* * *

Mrs. Lawrence had bought a ham hock from the butcher earlier in the day, which she'd squirrelled in the coldest corner of the kitchen to avoid it spoiling. This was thrown into a stock pot on the stove with onions, potatoes, the vegetables Charlie had brought home, and some thyme and sage from the garden.

At some point around 5pm, someone on the street had called out, "Charlie, me old china, come for a pint at the Standard?"

Charlie jumped up, pecked his mother on the cheek, winked at me, and vanished out the front door, leaving Mrs. Lawrence tutting and stirring the stew.

"He'll be back before tea," she said.

An hour later, Amy Lawrence--reportedly the youngest and silliest of the Lawrence children--returned from work. She was a glamorous young woman my own age, with finger waves, a yellow dress, and skin-coloured stockings.

"Hullo, mum, found yourself a stray?" she said as she breezed in.

"Amy, this is Emma. She'll be staying with us tonight, so be nice."

"I'm always nice," said Amy, waving this away. "Anyway, can't stay long. Going out with the girls from work tonight."

Then she was out again in a cloud of perfume.

Enid and her husband Albie arrived next. They were maybe in their early twenties, but married and round and settled. Enid was pregnant, waddling around with one hand on the small of her back, while Albert--Albie--tracked her movements with his eyes.

" Hullo, luv," he said when I was introduced. He had a soft, sweet voice. "How's yerself?"

"I'm all right, thanks," I said.

"You ain't from 'round here, are yer?" said Enid, sitting down beside her husband.

"No, I'm from Durham."

"Cor, Durham, is it?" said Enid. "And how d'you know our mum?"

"Just met her today," I said. "She's been very good to me."

Albie and Enid exchanged a look that I inferred to mean that Mrs. Lawrence had a habit of being friendly to strangers that the family was not entirely comfortable with.

"How'd you two meet?" I asked.

"My Alb works with Charlie at the warehouse," said Enid. "He used to follow Charlie home and hang about in the street waiting for me to come down and kiss him. It was winter, and eventually I figured he'd catch death of cold if I dint give him what he wanted." She leaned over and gave Albie a peck, and his round cheeks pinked with pleasure.

I sighed with not a little envy. My first boyfriend and I had broken up because I bounced back a month in Sixth Form and got bored with having to rehash all the conversations that we (to me) had already had.

Although I didn't tend to dwell on my circumstances, there were moments when I saw the simple contentment of others and it hit me like a gut punch. I'd never have that.

"Albie, be a dear and fetch Charlie from the Standard," said Mrs. Lawrence.

"Right you are," said Albie, jumping up.

"And right back, mind," Mrs. Lawrence added, turning to wave a wooden spoon at him. "No staying for a pint with those Coker lads."

"No, mum," said Albie, grinning.

I listened as Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter pattered about their day, the weather, the neighbours, the relative quality of fish sold by the various fishmongers hereabouts. I caught the sense of about two thirds of what they were saying; the rest was so mixed up with slang and dropped consonants it was indecipherable.

All the while, Mrs. Lawrence stirred the stew. It filled the little kitchen with warm and wholesome smells that made their way from my nasal cavities straight into my memories. I was transported back to Granny Alice's kitchen in Whitechapel, sitting on the Formica counter playing with the yellowed lace curtains, while she reheated me some boiled ham for my dinner.

Whenever mum was working late, I'd go to Granny Alice's place. Until those visits stopped.

And now there were tears welling in my eyes again.

Come on, it's not that bad, I told myself. You may be lost and trapped in the 1920s, but at least you're with family. Technically. Sort of.

And you have a plan. Find Emma Connolly. Introduce her to Charlie. They marry and reclaim baby Alice. And somewhere in there, you get hold of the ring and throw it in the Regent's Canal.

Bob's your uncle; Fanny's your aunt; and you're back where you're supposed to be, turning in accounting worksheets, wearing short skirts, and running around Durham with your friends.

I blinked away the tears. I was planful; I was in control.

The door banged open. "We're hooooooome," called Albie. I jumped up to help lay out the plates and cutlery.

Mrs. Lawrence shook her head. "Wash your hands and faces before you come anywhere near my table," she said.

"Yes, mum," they chorused.

I giggled. Charlie and Albie appeared a moment later. "Hullo, odd 'un," said Charlie, leaning over and putting his hand under my chin. "You ain't vanished in a puff of smoke yet, I see."

"No current plans to do so," I replied, matching his grin with one of my own. Impossible to be sad sitting in a warm kitchen filled with family, laughter, and the smells of home.

His fingers left warm imprints on my chin. He sat down next to me, and Albie next to Enid, and Mrs. Lawrence at the head of the table. The stock pot went on a trivet in the centre of the table.

Mrs. Lawrence murmured grace, then said, "Guests first, dearie." I hesitated and she made a shooing motion. "Garn, dig in."

I leaned over and took up the ladle, peering into the stock pot. I had a difficult history with meat; it had pulled me into a slaughterhouse once, but other times I'd eaten it without even having a memory. Since I was already backwards, could I even get pulled from here? 

However, I was reluctant to risk discovering how this pig had met its fate. I sloshed the ladle around and got a few scoops of mostly vegetables. A few hunks of ham floated in the broth, but I thought I could avoid them.

"That's not enough for a growing gel," said Mrs. Lawrence. "Charlie, can you serve up properly?"

"Yes, mum," he said, and dropped a pile of meat on my plate.

"Thank you," I murmured. "You're too generous, really."

"Pshaw," said Charlie, and pulled the stock pot closer to himself.

He gave himself a large helping, and so the stock pot moved around the table. I poked at my plate, separating meat from veg, hoping nobody would notice. Around me flowed the tides of conversation; to me, more like music than intelligible conversation, but soothing.

"You want that?" said Charlie, gesturing with his fork towards my plate.

"Have it," I said.

"Thanks." He picked up the bowl and shovelled the ham I'd been avoiding into his own.

"You're welcome," I replied.

"Charlie, you're such a hog," said Enid.

"I'm a growing man," Charlie protested.

"Growing outward if you ain't careful," retorted his sister.

"You're one to talk."

"Oi, I'm growing the miracle of life, you clod."

"Children," said Mrs. Lawrence, and their bickering was replaced by the clink of forks against china. 

* * *

"Are you sure Amy won't mind?" I said as Mrs. Lawrence pushed a nightgown at me.

"My girls all used to share that bed," said Mrs. Lawrence. "Amy's been getting too big for her boots having a bed to herself."

I got into the nightgown. It fell to my feet and was made out of some kind of itchy material. There was a lump in the mattress right where my hip was, and I could hear scratching in the walls.

I heard Charlie clomp upstairs. I could tell it was him by the rhythm of his gait. His room was across the hall; Mrs. Lawrence slept in the living room downstairs.

The house had no electricity and gas only in the kitchen. The meter had to be fed with a penny every couple of hours or it went out. The bedroom had a gas lamp on the table. I turned the little screw at the bottom and the light dimmed. Chalk up another mark on my "things I never thought I'd have to do" list.

Amy came some time later. Her movements had the askew precision of the slightly drunk. She seemed unfazed by a stranger sleeping in her bed, just lit the gas lamp, carried it around to the other side of the bed, shucked her clothes and pulled on a nightie, and climbed into bed. All the while, I watched with one eye and pretended to be asleep.

I heard Amy sigh, then she curled in on herself and the bed shook a little. Was she crying? A stifled noise confirmed it. I lay stock-still on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling. After a while, Amy's breaths steadied and lengthened.

When I was sure she was asleep, I rolled onto my side, pillowed my head on my hand, and--eventually--I slept too.