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His words seemed to wake her from her thoughts. But when she spoke, it was as if she wasn’t really addressing him. ‘You get so used to people taking no notice. And then some do; and it’s difficult to work out why.’

  She shook herself, tittering awkwardly, as if laughing was something she was unused to. ‘Alright, dear, I’ll let you get on.’ She drew her sleeve back to reveal a large digital watch with an elaborately embroidered strap. ‘I’ll have to get a move on myself if I’m going to catch the tide.’ She began to move backwards. ‘Nice to have met you, dear. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.’

  She was almost on her way when she turned back. ‘Sorry, dear; how rude. I’m Deborah.’ She put her hand out to shake his. He took it and said, ‘Sam’. And then she was off.

  Up in his room, Sam turned on the TV and flicked through the late-afternoon soap operas and chat shows, while eating the cheap snacks he had bought, moving on from each programme before he became involved in the knotted or unravelling relationships. But he paused on a pair of spiky-haired Australian boys – would he find one of them in a West End bar, on Grindr or Scruff?

  He lingered much longer on an American doctor wearing a bright shirt, tugged down at the neck by a microphone to reveal a triangle of toned chest. The swell of his arm showed in his sleeve as he gestured. He was mature, serious; making an important point. But he was far away and the reception was bad. Sam stood up and adjusted the angle of the aerial that teetered on the edge of the chest of drawers, sending frayed lines across the screen. He gave up and snapped the TV off, just as the doctor twitched his lips into a smile.

  Sam caught sight of himself in the small mirror beside the TV. He stared into his own eyes for a moment, then opened a button on his shirt and gestured as the doctor had. Looking away and back again, he warmed with embarrassment. He did his shirt up and moved to the window.

  It gave onto the back of the building, a view of the random extensions and yards behind the shops; Victorian brickwork, new windows, shapes wrapped in tarpaulin and cars parked where dirty chickens must once have been kept. Beyond these was a small, red-brick estate, one side of which knit into the ancient terraces of Albury Street, with their slim windows and elaborate doorways.

  From here, on the top floor, he could see into the garden in the middle of the estate. The remnant of a Georgian terrace backed onto it, the houses’ rear wings and subsiding walls supported on each side by neat, strong, modern maisonettes. Usually, there were kids in the garden, chasing each other or kicking a ball, but it was empty now. The windows around were beginning to light up.

  A movement caught his eye; a figure had entered through the gate from the street and was walking over to the tree in the centre of the garden. It took him a couple of seconds to realise who it was: it was the old woman – Deborah.

  She stood under the tree for some minutes, facing the backs of the old houses. And as the early-evening light dimmed, it was as if she began to fade, becoming a grey stone among the greens, browns and reds around her. The city gloaming could have been confusing his eyes, but it seemed that she was streaked with dark patches – her long skirt wet to the hem. What had she said about catching the tide?

  He glanced at his shoes sitting beside his bed. He could shove them on and gallop down the stairs, around the corner into Albury Street and into the garden. But something told him he wouldn’t find her there. It was as if he could only see her from this position – immobile, one hand on the flaking paint of the window frame, his breath creating a small, opaque patch on the glass every other second.

  A yellow window in the basement of one of the old houses turned black. Deborah’s head dipped. A few moments later, a window on the ground floor lit up, and she stepped forwards. Delicately, she crossed the grass and opened the gate into the backyard of the house, drawing something out from under her shawl. It was too dark to see clearly now, but from the position of her hand Sam felt sure it was a key.

  And then she was out of sight.

  Chapter 4: Anne

  Anne’s mother had called in the middle of the week and said, ‘Come for your tea Saturday, love. I’ll make us all a nice salad.’

  Her tone was mellow and mending, so, with a little effort, Anne had pushed aside her anger and said, ‘OK. What time?’

  She decided to walk there and left home early, cutting through Albury Street from Church Street. It was only when her shoes touched the uneven cobbles that she remembered Deborah saying this was where she had lived as a child.

  Anne stopped. The tunnel, if there was one, must be right under her feet. The modern estate was set back, whereas the old houses pressed straight on to the pavements. If she held her head at a certain angle, she could be seeing them as Deborah had as a little girl, more than one hundred years before. That couldn’t be right – the old dear must have got her dates mixed up. Anne felt as if she was looking down a telescope, unable to judge the distance correctly.

  But when she looked at number thirty-six, her focus was immediately shortened – she had been here herself, years ago. A group of students had lived in this house. She had sold hash to them, right here on the doorstep: a hollow-faced, stretched-looking youth with sallow skin and long, lank hair had rolled his huge eyes up and down the street; his head had bobbed nervously on its long neck as they made the exchange. She hadn’t cared – she had just wanted money for smack. She may have even sold him dodgy resin, or promised him his change and then disappeared; she couldn’t remember. And after that, there was being in debt to the hash dealer, having to hide until she could get his money – the whole sticky web she wove around herself back then.

  That must have been in between. Before Julie. After the first baby.

  She ducked away, pulling at the ends of her hair. Further down, the street widened where the newer buildings lined one side, and there were cars, and she saw that the council was replacing some of the cobbles.

  Some nurses had said it was a miscarriage, some had said a stillbirth; she hadn’t been sure how many weeks pregnant she was, and that changed what they called it. She had never even named the baby.

  But she no longer grieved for it – nearly two decades of heroin had worked well. Near the junction of Albury Street and the High Street, she turned and looked back at the carefully preserved terraces. That first baby was just a small stone she carried around – no great weight, but always in a pocket somewhere.

  She arrived at her mother’s flat twenty minutes early. Rita opened the door with a baffled look. ‘What’re you doing here so soon? I’ve not started the tea yet, and Julie’s still out. God, I thought I could rely on you to be half-hour late.’

  ‘I walked.’ Anne forced a smile, angling her cheek to receive a firm kiss.

  ‘What’s this, a new health kick? You don’t need to get no thinner.’

  The overheated flat was stifling. Anne took her jacket off and followed her mother into the kitchen. ‘Where’s Julie and Tom, then?’

  ‘They’ll be here soon. I told her you’d want to see them, don’t worry. Go and sit down, you look awful.’

  But Anne remained in the kitchen doorway for a few moments, watching her mother busy herself with the kettle and the mugs, and realising the thoughts from Albury Street had trailed in with her.

  Rita looked up, her large eyes blinking through the thick lenses of her glasses. ‘What?’

  The words were in Anne’s throat; if she said them, her mother would instantly understand. She swallowed. ‘Nothing. Just nice to see you, that’s all.’

  She knew that, for Rita, the loss of that first baby was looped tightly around Anne’s father’s sudden death. He had had a heart attack one lunchtime, and the same day Anne had started bleeding. She was still uncertain about the connection, but to mention one to Rita was to mention the other. ‘You lost that baby because we lost your dad,’ she would say, and the conversation would be at an end.

  Anne went into the living room and flopped down into what had been his chair. She turned her face into the plush draylo
n, searching out the special smell of his head – his hair oil, underlaid with his own natural grease. But, as usual, she could not find it; her mother had washed the covers too many times.

  Rita came through with tea and a chocolate digestive. Anne didn’t want the biscuit, but gobbled it down anyway, to show she was well. Rita relaxed into her seat and, screwing her lips up and rolling her eyes to the ceiling, tapped her toe in front of her.

  Looking down, Anne realised her failure. ‘Oh, you got a new carpet. Oh, Mum, it’s nice.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Took you enough time to notice. It’s on the never-never of course, but it’s worth it, with the baby.’

  ‘How is he?’ For a blank moment, Anne couldn’t remember his face. She recalled dark curls – his light-brown skin.

  ‘Oh, lovely.’ Rita sat forwards, the V of her white jumper falling down. ‘You know he’s started to crawl, don’t you?’

  ‘No – Julie was supposed to bring him down, but something came up. And then last time I was here she was out.’ Anne tried to keep her tone level, but it still provoked a defence.

  ‘Well, it’s difficult for her by herself you know. You found it none too easy when she was a baby. If I hadn’t been here, well…’

  Anne stared at the new carpet. Nothing seemed to have changed.

  There were steps on the balcony and a jingle of keys. Through the door Anne heard her daughter’s voice; she took a sip of too-hot tea and pulled at her hair.

  Julie was on the phone to someone: ‘No, come round earlier. I’ve only got to have my tea and get changed … Alright, laters.’

  The door opened and Anne heard the plastic rattle of a pram. The cold air raced in and was a momentary relief on Anne’s face, but Rita shouted, ‘Julie, close that door quick. It’s not summer yet, you know.’

  ‘Fucking hell, I’ve got to get the pram in, haven’t I?’

  There was a cry from the baby and Julie appeared in the living-room doorway holding him, the two of them wearing matching black jackets. Julie’s pale round face was accentuated by slick, tight hair. Tom’s round face was a smaller, browner version.

  Anne thought of getting up, but her legs seemed too weak, her mug incredibly heavy for her wrist. ‘Alright, Julie?’ she managed.

  Julie tipped her head up at her. ‘I didn’t think you’d be here yet. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Anne replied. ‘You? Baby wearing you out?’ She knew her lightness sounded insincere.

  ‘Oh yeah. He’s a handful, this one. But I don’t look tired, do I?’ Julie gave her Mel’s blank smile. Anne had to close her eyes for a second.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  Rita stood up and took the baby greedily. Julie’s green eyes lingered on Anne’s face; her front-door key was swinging from a finger that pointed in Anne’s direction. Anne couldn’t hold her gaze and dipped her head to her mug.

  ‘Right, I’m going upstairs to change,’ said Julie, and she left the room.

  Rita was removing the baby’s outer clothes and talking to him in his language, trapped with him in a soft, milky bubble. Anne imagined herself creeping to the front door and opening it silently while Rita and Julie were occupied. It could be done. And almost before she had realised it, she was up and walking through the hall. But she accidentally kicked the pram, and its fittings and toys jangled a noisy alarm. She diverted into the kitchen and rinsed her mug out loudly in the sink.

  ‘Anne,’ Rita called, ‘there should be a full bottle ready on the side there. Bring it in for him.’

  Anne picked up the bottle and gave it a shake so that the milk coated the sides. She wondered whether it was Julie’s.

  Back in the living room, Rita said, ‘Keep an eye on him, will you, while I pop upstairs,’ and hurried out.

  Tom lay on his back on a vinyl mat, murmuring into his fist. He caught Anne’s eye and began an attempt to roll himself over. She knew she should probably be gathering him up in her arms, placing squeaky kisses on his face and hands, making him giggle with delight; but she sat where she was, watching him struggle to turn over.

  Rita rushed back down the stairs, wheezing, ‘Come on, Julie. Tea’ll be ready soon.’ And then to Anne, as she entered, ‘So, has he been good?’

  ‘He’s trying to roll over.’

  ‘He’s strong, isn’t he? He’s going to be a big boy.’ She looked at Anne for a second, hesitating, a yellow towelling Babygro twitching in her hand as she breathed. She tossed it onto Anne’s lap. ‘You put this on him while I make a start on the salad. And I must have a drag on my puffer. Honestly, it’s this weather that does it.’ And Anne was alone with Tom again.

  She lowered herself onto the carpet in front of him and watched him wriggle for a moment; perhaps this was a test. He looked at her with slight mistrust, but, without complaining, he allowed her to fold his limbs into the little garment and popper him up. She sat back on her heels and let him kick her knees with his fleecy feet.

  She knew she should speak to him, but no words came, so instead, she forced herself to pick him up. He made a buzzing sound in his throat. He was warm and he made small movements against her shoulder and breast. She felt the crinkle of his nappy on her arm and his curls were very fine where they touched her cheek.

  This was nice.

  She hummed a couple of notes. ‘This is nice,’ she mumbled.

  He leaned back from her to look into her face and then touched her bare neck, tweaking a raised mole with all the strength of his tiny thumb and finger. The pain was brief but very sharp. His eyes and the turn of his lip were instantly Mel’s, Julie’s.

  She quickly put him down on the mat and sat on the far end of sofa, looking away, feeling wronged and with a stupid weakness in her arms.

  By the time she brought herself to glance at him again, he was on his front, had raised himself to a crawling position and was making an excursion off the mat onto the new rug. He made a curious sound and pushed his fingers into the pile, staring with a jittering head at the big, powerful patterns. Then, with jerking kicks of his legs and arms, he began to travel across the expanse of the design. He paused regularly to study the combinations of colours and shapes and to feel the tufts and ridges. When he finally reached the edge, he grabbed at a tassel, examined it for a moment then put it in his mouth and sucked. Anne thought of the threads running through the whole carpet, responding minutely to the tug, tug of his tongue.

  Julie came in, rubbing her wet hair. ‘What are you letting him do that for?’ she shouted. She snatched Tom up and the tassel emerged from his throat followed by a long trail of spit. He cried out powerfully.

  Rita rushed in holding a knife. ‘What’s she done?’

  Anne was frozen on the sofa, her eyebrows lowered.

  ‘She let him crawl on your new carpet and he had one of the tassels in his mouth.’

  ‘Oh, Anne. What’s the fucking mat for? What if he was sick? He’s just had his bottle. I paid good money for this rug, I don’t need it stinking of milk.’

  ‘He’s not had his bottle yet.’ Anne was skilled at this type of defence.

  Rita turned around. ‘Well, he’s still not allowed on there. Come and help me in the kitchen. Honestly.’

  Anne got up and passed Julie’s angry glare.

  In the kitchen Rita said quietly, ‘I could never trust you with anything.’ Tom was wailing loudly now. ‘Listen to him. Here, cut this up.’ She handed Anne a paper bag. Inside was a red pepper.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘Julie. The doctor says she’s run down after the pregnancy and needs vitamins.’

  My punishment, thought Anne; I failed the task with the baby, so now I have to take care of a vegetable. She shoved the point of a knife into the shiny skin, splitting the pepper open so that a hideous shower of tiny white discs covered her hands. Even worse, clinging to the seed core was a small, deformed sucker. She shuddered and dropped the knife.

  ‘What have you done now?’ shouted Rita.

  ‘Just dropped a fucki
ng knife, for Christ’s sake,’ Anne shouted back; then cursed herself for losing control, for being so close to tears.

  Rita huffed and banged, but said nothing more as they put the salads together and took them into the living room where Tom was sucking contentedly on his bottle and Julie had turned the TV on.

  They ate in silence, and when they were finished, Rita collected the plates and went back into the kitchen.

  Anne studied the TV screen, searching for something to say, and was surprised when Julie spoke first.

  ‘So, you coming to his christening, then?’

  ‘You having him christened? Didn’t know you were into church and that.’

  ‘I’m not, but like, it’s good for him, isn’t it?’

  Rita walked in with more tea. ‘Babies’ve got to be christened – otherwise they don’t live beyond a year, that’s what my mum used to say.’

  ‘I think it’s that they won’t go to heaven if they do die,’ said Anne, and instantly regretted it.

  ‘What are you two like, talking about dead babies?’ Julie was appalled. ‘And he’s just there.’

  Anne had never mentioned the lost baby to Julie; she wondered whether Rita had.

  Rita brushed Julie’s upset aside. ‘Don’t be so silly. Anyway, it’s in two weeks – you’re coming, aren’t you, Anne?’

  ‘Yeah. Definitely. Where is it?’

  ‘St Paul’s in the High Street.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Of course the ceremony was going to be there. And it would most likely be conducted by the priest with the yellow teeth, the one who had ignored Deborah. Anne was already feeling tired. She was glad she had a bare, empty flat to go home to.

  ‘It’s going to be smashing.’ Rita cradled her mug. ‘Beautiful, that church is. Well, you know that, Anne.’ She blinked, then seemed to dismiss her worry and went on. ‘All them roses will be just coming out. We’ve got loads of people coming, haven’t we, Joo?’

  ‘I’ll get the list.’ Julie took an envelope from a shelf and sat next to Anne on the sofa, closer than they had been to each other for years. The smell of her hair products and shower gel was so strong Anne thought she might sneeze. She had to concentrate in order not to lean away.