I stood on the other side of Mile End Road, watching the man hauling potatoes into that long brown-grey building. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, and he had a funny gait: long and sure, but with a hitch in his stride.

"How's yerself, Charlie?" someone called, and he turned and waved with the hand not holding the potatoes.

Then I saw behind him there was a woman with a bundle clutched to her chest. My attention sharpened. She was a slender woman with black hair, wearing a grey smock. She looked down at the bundle and I heard her say in an Irish lilt, "Shh baby girl. Don't cry. Cryin' will get ye nowhere in this world."

I woke up.

My hand was curled on the pillow next to my head and there was something pressing into my palm.

I lifted two fingers, saw the crocodile skin finish, groaned and rolled over on the pillow. But I couldn't get back to sleep.

It was dark outside, which in midsummer in the North meant it was around 3am. I got up, got my toiletries, and went down the hall to the shower block. There was another girl in the block, but she left as I was arriving.

I stood under the lukewarm flow. Charlie. He was in the memory again, and this time I had a name. And the woman and baby. 

Back in my room, I thought I might be able to sleep now, so I got back into my pyjamas and lay down.

Mile End Road. Charlie. A grey-smocked woman with a baby. A long, dreary building with a gate. Not enough information to go on.

A tramway down the middle of the road. Horses and wagons competing with old-style cars. Crowds of people.

Well, the tramway (a quick search informed me) meant that what I was looking at must be before the 1930s. The horses suggested earlier.

I suppose I didn't really believe that the ring would be able to pull me back that far. But I underestimated the strength of the memory. And perhaps, the strength of my desire to go.

* * *

The smallest things can change your life. Was it Granny Alice's bequest, or was it the dreams? Was it the sight of Charlie, or the woman speaking so sadly to that baby? Or was it that I got ready for class a little more quickly than usual the next morning, and on my way out the door happened to glance at my watch? 

I stopped and set down my bag. I was wearing a black scoop-neck t-shirt, a knee-length floral skirt and black ballet flats, and had my my curly brown hair tied back in a ponytail because I hadn't felt like dealing with it. But there was no point leaving just yet. I could take five minutes to straighten my hair.

Or, I could try to learn more about Mile End Road.

I opened the drawer and took out the box. Flipped it open in my hand, and flicked the ring out of its bed and into the palm of my hand.

The memory came over me with a jolt and in my shock my fingers closed over the ring. The hooks sank into me and I fell.

Mile End Road surrounded me. A tram rang its bell and I stumbled out of the way. I bumped into someone, and an arm came around my shoulders. "Whoa, luv," said a deep voice. I felt the bands around my chest loosening. Too late to throw the ring away from me. It had done its work.

Just like that, I had gone from my time to his. Charlie's.

I looked up into Charlie's face. He had freckles across his nose.

Charlie's friend shouted at him, and he turned and waved. "You all right there?" he said to me.

"Yes, thank you," I said. For two heart-thudding moments I leaned into Charlie's support while the wold spun around me. You've done it this time. I pushed the thought away. 

The woman with the baby stood outside the long grey and brown building. Her hair was black and flyaway, tied back in a bun, loose strands tucked behind her ears. Her skin was milky pale.

"Can you, ah, tell me what that building there is?"

"That there's the Receiving Home," he said, giving me a strange look. "What do you want with that?"

"Nothing."

"You ain't from around here, are you?"

I shook my head. What gave it away? I wondered, and then was glad I hadn't decided to wear shorts and sandals that morning.

He adjusted the potatoes. I looked over his shoulder at the woman. She had rung the doorbell and was leaning down to kiss the baby's forehead.

"What you doing here then?" said Charlie, adjusting the bag of potatoes.

"I'm lost," I replied. "Excuse me."

I dodged around him toward the Receiving Home. I kept my fingers closed, even though I could feel that the ring was gone. You've gone back at least eighty years. No time to think about that now. I had to get over to the woman and find out who she was. Then I could try and figure out how I was going to get myself back to 2015.

"Excuse me," I said. She turned around. Her eyes were the colour of sea-water and her nose pink.

"Who're you?" she said.

At that moment, the door opened. A woman in a black skirt and high-necked blouse stood in the way. She looked at the woman and the baby. "You wish for the child to be admitted?"

"I do," said the woman.

"For what reason?"

"I want her to have a better life that I can give her," said the woman, looking down at her child.

The Receiving Home woman nodded. "Has she been baptised?"

"Yes, at St. Matthew's."

"Any diseases?"

"No."

"Legitimate?"

The woman hesitated and looked at me. "No."

"What's her name?"

"Alice Connolly."

"Come inside and I'll make the arrangements." The stern woman looked at me. "Can I be of assistance to you, miss?"

I shook my head, putting my hands up to my chin to mask the scoop neck of my shirt, which suddenly felt very low.

"Good day to you, then." Then, to the woman: "Give me the child."

There was hesitation. The Receiving Home woman reached out to take the child as its mother stepped through the door. As the door shut I caught a flash in the light of a ring. The emerald ring, on the mother's hand.

The door shut in my face. I rested my hand against it, gasping. Was that my great grandmother? Had I just looked at the serenely sleeping face of Granny Alice? My great grandmother had given Alice up into... whatever this place was, and that had been a strong enough memory to imprint on the ring?

But that couldn't be the end of the story. If my great grandmother had surrendered Alice and vanished, how had Granny Alice ended up with the ring?

"How does a well-spoken girl like you get so lost she winds up in Mile End?" said a voice behind me.

I turned. Charlie. My heart fluttered. "Poor sense of direction?" I hazarded. "Can you tell me what happens to children who are admitted here?"

Charlie shrugged. "They go into Union homes, or are fostered. If they survive."

"If?"

He shrugged again. "Listen, I have a few more deliveries to do, but should be free of it by four. Can I help you get home?"

I looked back at the closed door.

"These parts ain't for the likes of you," he said. "Not dressed as you are and talking like you do."

I bit my lip. He was right, more than he knew. Because there wasn't a place that was for the likes of me. At least, not in this century. Don't think about it, I told myself. You're in London, it's not that long ago, and you'll get home again eventually.

"Mum lives down that street there," said Charlie, pointing. "Number 15. If you like, go and have a cuppa with her, and I'll be back before you know it and can see you safely back to your own people."

"Okay," I said.

He gave me a baffled look. "You're an odd 'un," he said. "I must be on my way."

I smiled wryly and raised a hand as he picked up his potatoes and strode away. I noticed again the slight hitch in his step that I had seen in the memory.

I made my way back down to the street and leaned against the gates. I saw a man selling newspapers and went over to pick one up. At the top was the date: Wednesday 26 May 1921.

1921. Well, that was sort of what I had expected, but seeing it there in black and white...

At least it was a warm day, so I didn't have to add 'freezing cold' to my catalogue of problems. Although I wouldn't have said no to a cardigan.

I put down the newspaper and wandered, dazed, back to my post at the Receiving Home.

The street was busy, and most of the people walking along it gave me curious looks that bordered on hostile. I leaned back against the fence, crossing my arms and avoiding eye-contact.

The door of the Receiving Home clattered open and the woman--my great grandmother--fled along the pathway to the gate. I reached for her. "Wait," I said. "Emma, wait." Because my great grandmother and I had the same name.

She gave me a brief, stricken look, but didn't pause. I ran after her, into the traffic on Mile End Road. Motorists honked their horns and yelled out their windows, and I almost lost my life to a tramcar. By then, she was gone.

I turned back to the footpath. Again, I was aware of unfriendly scrutiny. Charlie had said his mother lived on--I looked around--Maplin Road. There was nothing better to do than go there.

Besides, a cuppa sounded like a bloody excellent idea.