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  ‘“Anyone can tell I was born on the Surrey Side, just by hearing me speak,” she used to say. And years later, when I read and reread that article by Jacob Mellor, searching for any mention of my name, or a record that he’d even met me, it was her voice that I heard. And I remembered how I’d lain awake that night, thinking about what she’d said to Sally.

  ‘Looking back, it was more likely they ignored me because they were all so busy. Three sick babies had come in that morning. One was born just the night before. I saw the doctor bringing him in first thing and saying to Mrs Clyffe, in the flat voice he used when someone had died, that the mother hadn’t survived the labour.

  ‘Mrs Clyffe saw me hanging over the banister, and sent me upstairs to sew. My own mother had died giving birth to me. Mrs Clyffe had been there, and held me when I was just seconds old.

  ‘The other two babies came in later with nasty coughs, Sally wrapped them up and put them in the line of cradles by the kitchen fire. I offered to help, but Sally said, “I can’t see as there’s much help for these two. I’ve heard their mother’s a drunk, and who’s to say who their fathers are.” Mrs Clyffe said, “Will you hold that tongue of yours, Sally. I shan’t tell you again,” and popped sugared butter in one of the babies’ mouths. I knew what she was thinking: who’s to say who my father was?

  ‘Sally stomped off. And I’m not sure why I thought to do it just then, but while Mrs Clyffe was bent over a cradle, I pocketed a bit of candle and a match from the dresser and sloped off downstairs.

  ‘Mrs Clyffe didn’t mind the children going into the back basement, where there was the scullery with the big sink, the tallboy for the wash jugs and a narrow window into the yard, which she was careful to lock ever since she found a man sleeping down there. But she didn’t like us in the front basement, which was more like a cellar – dark, with a heap of coal and dirty boxes everywhere. What she was proper rough about, though, was the door to the tunnel. It was set in the front wall, right under the pavement, and was bolted top and bottom. She used to say if we ever got in there it would be the last she’d see of us.

  ‘I knew I was making a racket – dragging a box over so I could reach the top bolt, shooting the bottom one with a bang and then pulling the heavy door open – but I was sure they were all so busy with the babies, they wouldn’t notice. I was a good child generally – always if Mrs Clyffe was near – but now I knew she planned to get rid of me, I thought I could do what I liked. I could disappear and she wouldn’t pay any attention; none of them would.

  ‘I stepped through the open door. Inside, it smelled damp and chilled, like the church crypt. I took the stub of candle and the match out of my pocket and pulled the door closed behind me. It was so dark then, I could have been in a cavern or a cramped hole, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. I felt for the wall and struck the match, then brought it to the wick. The candle sputtered, but then the flame grew tall and I was able to look about.

  ‘Mrs Clyffe had told us the tunnel was dug for ships’ captains, to keep them safe off the streets when they were carrying the gold from their travels. After that it was used by smugglers, she said. Sally said that Lord Nelson used the tunnel to meet Lady Hamilton when they lived in Deptford more than a hundred years back, but Mrs Clyffe had told her not to be so soft and that, in any case, the tunnel was no place for children: it was dirty, dark and unsafe, a maze we’d never get out of.

  ‘I’d always taken her at her word; but now I saw it was just boxes, like in the cellar. And I thought: is this it?

  ‘Some of the boxes had her writing on them. I knew her hand – big white-chalk loops spelling the names of children who’d been in the hospital. Some of them had gone back to their families; some of them had gone on to other places. And I knew that others had died. Most people thought Mrs Clyffe was fierce, but I’d seen her cry, holding a cold baby to her nightdress first thing in the morning.

  ‘I walked down the line of boxes, looking for my name, but I didn’t really expect to see it. There was nothing of mine to put in a box and store away. Where the boxes stopped, a set of bars ran from floor to ceiling. I held the candle out between them. There were brick arches for a few feet, and then the tunnel turned a corner.

  ‘On my side of the bars, the boxes within reach and the door just a few steps behind me, I was still at home really, with my bed upstairs, dinner already cooking, my sewing to do and the Institute Ladies coming in to teach us our letters that afternoon. And, of course, Mrs Clyffe. If I went any further, I risked not being seen again. But in the candlelight, I thought of the edge of a silk dress disappearing around the corner.

  ‘I turned sideways and pushed through the bars.

  ‘A few steps and I was at the corner. I looked back. A line of light slipped under the bottom of the door. A sound came from the cellar – the scrape of the shovel. Someone had come to fetch coal. I could’ve gone back then, but my white apron front was already filthy. I turned the corner.

  ‘There was nothing for a long while, just earth walls and wooden beams holding them up. The floor was wet in places, and water dropped on my head, making me shudder. Every now and then, I passed a doorway in the wall, but each was bricked up. I thought of the bricklayer who’d fixed the yard wall, and imagined him coming down right now and bricking up our doorway, with Mrs Clyffe watching and saying, “There now. That’s settled that.” I’d truly never get out then. And in the dark, my mind ran wild. Perhaps Mrs Clyffe had been waiting for me to find my way down here so she could shut me in. I heard her laughing as the last brick was placed, saying, “That’s settled her.” The problem of Deborah solved. It was a silly thought, but it stopped me dead.

  ‘I was at a junction; the tunnel went three different ways. To the left and right I didn’t know what I’d find. Behind me was the way back. If I took that, I thought, I’d have to make up something to tell the others; I couldn’t say I’d come down here and got scared and come back. I’d have to sneak my apron into the wash pile. And I’d have to sit up that night and do the sewing I’d been set for this morning. And then?

  ‘One girl, a little younger than me, now that her chest had improved, was to go to live with her sister. There was a boy who said he was going to his uncle in the countryside, and Mrs Clyffe didn’t contradict him. But me, I’d only ever had Mrs Clyffe, the hospital, the Institute Ladies and the sewing they set me to do. I was too young for service, and anyway, Sally said they only took girls from good families. I had no family, good or bad.

  ‘I took the right fork. I should have been scared, I suppose, I was still just a child. But at least the tunnel was empty and silent; just my own footsteps, the dripping, and the hiss of the candle flame. It only lit up the space a few feet about me. I walked on in my own small globe of light, almost in a trance.

  ‘And then I had to stop again.

  ‘There was a large pile of earth and rubble blocking the tunnel ahead of me. To keep going I would have to climb over it. I held the candle up and saw that part of the wall and ceiling had fallen in. Water was running in streams through the cracks and I was standing in a puddle, my stockings and skirt wet.

  ‘I wavered in the blocked passageway. My head was still filled with all the babies I had seen come and go: the ones who had died and the ones who had left; the ones who had come in that morning; the one whose birth had killed his mother. I thought of my own mother – Mrs Clyffe’s fingers on her eyelids – and of my father, whoever he was. And a big thought came into my little head: I was never to have a child of my own. It made perfect sense to me right then. No one knew where I was. I had no mother, no father, no relatives. And now Mrs Clyffe was to throw me off. How could I ever have a baby?

  ‘And I suppose that could have been the end of my adventure.

  ‘But while I’m dithering, deciding what to do, the candle flame stirs; there’s a breeze coming from somewhere. The shadows move about, the light changes, and from beyond the pile of mud I hear a low moan. I step back, but I don’t run. The moan c
omes again – louder, longer, rasping. I wait. Then, beyond the heaped earth, I see a hand making circles in the air. It’s dark, caked in mud. And then the moan again – almost a shout now. I’m drawn forwards, climbing over the pile, my boots sinking into it. I grab at the wet earth, and see my hand covered in dirt too. I’m at the top. The candle gutters. I trip and slide down the other side, nearly falling onto the woman who’s lying there.

  ‘She’s half trapped where the wall has come down on her. I can’t see her legs or one arm, and her face is squashed sideways so she can’t close her mouth. When she moans again, the water flows in and she has to spit it out. Only one eye is open, a white rolling ball in the candlelight. She’s waving her free arm, trying to shout. And all around her, spread across the floor and sticking out of the mud, are pieces of cloth: short strips, balled-up sheets, folds and layers, all soaking and filthy, their patterns and designs unclear.

  ‘I must’ve left all my fear back in the cellar or in the hospital, because I put the candle down and take her arm to try to pull her out. But she shouts, and points further down the passage. She’s angry and desperate, so I go where she points and, a few paces away, I see there’s a chest. I’m sure that at the sight of it I take an excited breath in. There is treasure in these places – a pile of gold that will set me up properly. But taking a few splashing steps towards it, I find the long box bust open, with cloths and carpets and tapestries pulled out of it in a silted mess. The woman moans, pointing at it and beckoning me. I grab a great armful and stagger back to her.

  ‘I pile it all in front of her and go back for more, while she nods and grabs at the pieces, casting her wild eye over each one, then flinging it aside with a wet slap. At last she lets out a roar, which turns into a foul coughing and retching fit, and a gush of rank water erupts from her twisted mouth.

  ‘Recovering herself, she holds a small brown strip of cloth out to me, stretching her arm as far as she can. Her hand is shaking, as if the scrap is too heavy. Her one eye bulges, and she’s suddenly silent. The sound of the water is loud; there’s a splash near by – something falling. I understand, and take the material. Her arm drops, her eye closes, and I’m gone, scrambling over the mud, running and stumbling.

  ‘Eventually, I had to slow down. My chest hurt, there were tears on my face and I was covered with mud and slime. But soon, I recognised the bricked-up doorways and realised I must be close to home. So I kept going, gripping the piece of cloth and trying to decide what I should tell; what story would best explain the state I was in?

  ‘The candle was down to almost nothing – it should never have lasted as long as it did. But the flame burned all the way back to the cellar door.’

  Chapter 3: Sam

  Sam’s bus home stopped outside the shopping centre to change drivers. The tremble of the engine died, and in the quiet gap, gazing out of the top-deck window, he saw two sails.

  The boats sped away together across the dock, then flapped at the far end and turned back towards him. He could feel their rhythmic sliding and slapping, the hiss and ripple below their bellies. They weren’t racing; when one overtook the other, stealing its wind, he could almost hear the playful shouts between the sailors. They pulled level and skimmed the surface of the water in tandem.

  The bus shook into life again and pulled away, so that Sam lost sight of the boats. But turning into the congested Lower Road, his eyes on the roofs of the cars, he still saw them, sharing the warm spring wind, their only goal the to-and-fro across the water.

  It would be good to sail again.

  Little pricks of surprise and anxiety spread across his trunk and legs: he hadn’t expected to think this in London. He had come here to forget about boats, hadn’t he? To forget about the gasping cold water, the net of wet rope. The blued skin.

  He had come here for the flashing bars and clubs, for guys with their shirts off. For sex. But the bus was going in the wrong direction for all of that. And it was stuck, creeping forwards only feet at a time. Traffic was filtering in from three directions, the strings of vehicles twisting together into a slow, strangled rope that ran beside the river, through Deptford and out into the suburbs.

  He sprang up. The town-bound lane was relatively clear and there was a stop a few yards ahead; he could get off, cross through the traffic and take the next bus up to the West End. But he hesitated at the top of the stairs; his sloppy work clothes were speckled with fine fibres from the bolts of fabric he hoisted around at the warehouse. He would need to change.

  The bus moved on past the stop and he slouched back into his seat, shifting his shirt and jacket around him with a twist of his shoulders.

  Back home in Wellingborough, on an evening such as the one ahead, he would have found the first available guy online, then borrowed his mother’s car and driven out to meet him somewhere: his flat, the heathland, the car park beside the golf course or even the public toilets behind the leisure centre. The anticipation would have made his heart trip.

  He plucked at his trouser legs. In fact, in the last few months before he had moved to London, his once sharp appetite for sex had turned into a dull need. And each time he had met it, in some stranger’s bed or leaning against a tree, his mind had seemed to come away from his body a little more, as if the strain on the seams was too strong.

  The bus was beginning to make some progress through the jam. He glanced around at the other passengers, but no one was looking at him. Two women chatted in a language he could not understand; everyone else stared out of the windows.

  So far, all the bars in London had been filled with groups. He’d stood at the edge, holding an expensive bottled beer – unsure how to weave himself into the crowd. He had come home alone every time. He’d had no greater success on the dating apps. These last two weeks had been the longest he’d gone without sex since he was sixteen.

  The bus reached his stop at last. He got off and waited at the crossing outside the Methodist Mission on Creek Road, picking absently at a loose thread in his jacket. Showering, shaving, putting on his best jeans and taking a train up to town seemed like a task now. He projected himself forwards a few hours, stood in a steel and violet bar, waiting for someone to make some kind of sign at him. How would he read it? How would he even know if he wanted to answer?

  A shout made him turn. A pale, skinny, long-necked man appeared, running around the corner from Watergate Street. He cut across the traffic then crashed through the group of people waiting on the opposite pavement. Another, much heavier man ran past Sam, looking for a gap to cross before giving up the chase. Puffing, he shouted, ‘I’ll have you, Nigel, you piece of shit.’

  The pale man stopped running. ‘Course you will, Derek,’ he shouted back. ‘Course you will.’

  Sam glanced at the bigger man, who was now standing beside him. He looked to be in his forties – grey licked the dark hair at his temples. The fury on his square, handsome face seemed to cut to sad impotence with one blink of his blue eyes, then he turned and lurched away.

  Nigel grinned as he watched him leave, before walking on himself, with an odd, springing step.

  An old woman, very short and clothed in a skirt and shawl of dark-grey wool, had to skip out of his path to avoid being barged into the gutter. As Sam watched, she stopped at the crossing and began to make a series of small darts into the road, but no one gave her room, so each time she had to hop back onto the kerb. Finally, seeing her chance, she strode out, and only just missed being hit as the cars got moving again. As she approached the pavement beside Sam, a van accelerated down the inside lane to get through the lights before they turned red. Sam grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her towards him, staggering backwards as he did so. She looked at him in shock, her open mouth gasping, her pale-blue eyes wide and her faint eyebrows rising to her arch of white hair. Sam dropped her arm and stepped back. Perhaps this was something you didn’t do in London. The lights changed and everyone else crossed the road.

  ‘Sorry – I thought he was going to hit you.
’

  The woman continued to stare at him, as if she might scream and claim he’d attacked her.

  ‘Are you OK? I know the light wasn’t red, but he shouldn’t have put his foot down like that.’

  The old woman looked down and to the side, shaking a little. Had he pulled her too hard? She looked back up at him and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her cheeks worked as if she were chewing, and finally she managed, ‘You can see me too.’

  Sam blinked. ‘Probably best to wait for the green man next time, eh?’ His voice seemed too loud, even over the traffic. He took another step back from her. But she reached out and put her hand on his, tilting her head a little.

  ‘Thank you, dear. That was very kind.’ Then, gripping him more tightly, she added, ‘I don’t suppose you remember seeing me before, do you?’

  ‘No; but then I only moved here a couple of weeks ago.’ He wanted to pull his hand out of her grasp.

  ‘Oh, I see. People seem to move around a lot these days.’

  The traffic stopped and, nodding a goodbye, Sam began to cross the road; but the old woman followed him and he had to slow up, so she wouldn’t think he was trying to escape.

  ‘Aren’t you heading the wrong way?’ he asked as they turned into the High Street.

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter now.’

  He glanced down and met her round, blue eyes; her light brows were slightly gathered. She put two fingers firmly on his arm and said, ‘Did you live here before at all? In Deptford?’

  ‘No. I come from Northamptonshire.’

  ‘I see. So it’s just…’ She looked away from him, her eyes focused on something that wasn’t in the street with them.

  Uneasy now, he decided to continue past his front door and on to the supermarket. Stopping outside, he made himself smile at her. ‘I’m going in here now,’ he said.