The people around me faded, and I found myself in an echoing hall with a stage up the front, as Amy grabbed the arm of the woman named Cathy, who shook her off and put up her hand in a warning gesture.
I dropped the brooch and shuffled my chair away from it.
"I'm sorry," I said, standing up quickly. So I could get pulled backwards even though I was already in 1921. I hurried through the cinema lobby and out into the fresh air, and leaned against the metal fence, looking up at the sky.
It was a clear night, and I was struck by how many stars I could see. Without the light pollution of modern London, I felt like I could almost see the Milky Way.
Imagine how much better the view would be if I got myself accidentally pulled back to 1821. What would happen then? Would I have to try and undo that pulling just to find myself back in 1921? Would 1921 seem like a blessing from the perspective of 1821?
I choked out a helpless laugh and ran my hand through my hair.
"You all right, odd 'un?" said Charlie, coming to lean against the fence next to me.
"I'm fine," I said, aware that I neither looked nor sounded fine.
"You will be," said Charlie. He took my hand, patted it twice, and set it down again.
"How do you know?"
"Well, because a body can go through just about anything and be fine, if there's a strong mind," said Charlie. "That's how I see it."
I felt the beginnings of a smile. "Do I have a strong mind?"
"Without doubt. What else could of brought a gel like you all the way from Durham to London by herself?"
"A trick of fate," I replied, looking back up at the sky.
"Then fate can get buggered," Charlie replied.
"You don't believe in fate?"
"I've seen enough to know that if you sits around waiting for fate, you'll most likely die waiting," he said. For the first time, I saw him with the joy wiped clean off his face.
"In the war?"
"Men died quick enough there," he said, "and it's hard to see or believe..." He shook himself. "But enough of that talk. Do you want to come back inside, odd 'un, or shall I walk you home?"
"I don't want you to miss the movie," I said.
"Nonsense." He pushed away from the fence. "I was sick of listening to Enid complaining about her fat ankles anyway."
I snorted. "I think we should go back inside," I said.
"Right-o." We turned back towards the theatre. "If you don't mind my asking, what was it really brought you to London? Most people don't ups and moves to Mile End if they has a choice to go somewhere else."
"I told you--I saw a job."
"At the Receiving Home?"
"No..." I trailed off. "At, uh..."
Charlie stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. "Odd 'un, I'm not going to ask you to answer anything you don't want to. A woman's secrets are her own. But if you ever want to share those secrets, you know where I am."
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked.
He tilted his head and gave this some consideration. "You're unexpected," he replied, not looking at me. "I like that. There's not much of that around here. And there was a moment yesterday when you looked so sad and lost that I thought, if I could do something to make that expression go away, I'd do it in a heartbeat."
Jesus Christ. I needed to find Emma Connolly sooner rather than later or I could see myself heading for a heartbreak.
* * *
"I'm Miss Morrison," said the severe woman as she ushered me into the Receiving Home. "Follow me."
I followed, clutching the envelopes with references from my former employer in Durham (forged) and from Miss Amy Lawrence, secretary at Morton's Shipping (full of lies).
The Whitechapel Union Receiving Home had wooden floors and rendered walls painted white with a mint green stripe along the middle. The ceilings were high and ornamented with some basic plasterwork.
I was wearing more of Han's old clothes: a high-waisted full-length skirt that I thought looked more conservative, a white blouse, a cross-over tie at my neck, and the shoes I had bought on Petticoat Lane. They had wooden heels, which clacked and echoed down the hall.
We went down a long corridor that had a series of closed mint green doors leading off it. At the end of the hall was a staircase, painted the same green as the rest.
I followed Miss Morrison up the stairs, and went from the top step onto the landing and into a new world. It was clear that this floor was for other purposes than the one beneath it. The walls on the second floor boasted maroon damask wallpaper, which was clearly more expensive, but also somehow drearier than the severe white and green below. The hallway was carpeted as well, so at least my shoes would stop making such a racket.
"This way," said Miss Morrison. She pushed open one of the doors and stood aside for me to precede her in.
I curled my fingers around the envelope and stepped through into the anteroom of an office. Two oxblood leather chairs were against one wall, and a woman sat at a desk, typing rapid-fire on a typewriter.
"Miss Scott for Miss Carstares," said Miss Morrison.
"Yes, please be seated, Miss Scott. I will let Miss Carstares know you're here."
"Thank you," I murmured. Miss Morrison gave me a stern glare and departed. I wondered just how long the position they were considering me for had been vacant.
"Come in, Miss Scott," said the receptionist and I followed her through to another office. Behind the desk was a woman in her late thirties, impeccably put together, with carefully styled finger waves in her hair.
She held out her hand to me and I saw she had beautifully manicured nails.
It was, therefore, no surprise that when she spoke it was in a perfect home counties accent. "Miss Scott, do be seated," she said. "I understand you would like a job here."
"That is correct," I said.
Miss Carstares nodded. "Tell me something about you," she said.
"I came down from Durham to look for a job in London," I replied. "I have good references from my former employer, and from others, speaking to my accuracy with typing, my diligence and conscientiousness, and my intention to stay in London."
"Good," said Miss Carstares. She curled one hand under her chin. "From Durham, you say? Your English is rather good for one from the North."
"They insisted on it at the Vocational College, ma'am."
"And rightly so," said Miss Carstares. "I have long thought that a low accent is one of the worst handicaps we can give children in our care. If we send these orphans out into the world speaking the cockney of their parents, we condemn the children to pass their lives in the same ignoble state. I insist on all our staff here speaking the King's English so the children have a model of a better way."
She sighed, while I kept my expression carefully blank.
"Of course, it is rather difficult to find girls from the better parts of England who are willing to work for the Whitechapel Poor Law Union, and so we have been understaffed here for some time. I have need of some additional help keeping the records of the children. As the point of acceptance for children within the Union, we keep all their records, and they are in a miserable state. Would that be something you could help me with, Miss Scott?"
"Yes," I said, "certainly."
"And Miss Morrison mentioned that you were willing to work for £1 a week?"
"I am," I said.
"Why so low?"
"Because I'm, er, well, I'm new to London, and I've never worked in this type of office before. But I would hope that if you found my work satisfactory, that you would be willing to give me a raise. In future." By which time I would be long gone from this place.
"Quite," said Miss Carstares, waving her hand. "I'm prepared to give you a trial, Miss Scott. Come in Monday at 7am sharp and Miss Morrison will show you what is needed."
"Thank you so much," I said.
Miss Carstares nodded, and went back to whatever she had been writing when I came in. I let myself out.
"How'd you go?" said the receptionist. "I'm Miss Davidson, by the way."
"Emma Scott," I replied. "And I've been given a trial, starting Monday."
"Congratulations, then," said Miss Davidson, whose clothing and hair was a shabbier copy of her mistress's. "Miss Carstares doesn't like many of 'em. She's terribly high class. She lives in Chelsea and her dad is on the Board of Governors because he owns half of the houses in the East End. Miss Carstares' grandfather contributed to building the People's Palace, you know."
"Oh? We went past there last night."
Miss Davidson sniffed. "I never go. Too many of what Miss Carstares calls low sorts."
I contemplated how to respond. "All right," I said eventually, "I'll see you tomorrow morning, then."
"See you then, Miss Scott."
I wandered back along the hallway and down the stairs. Miss Morrison was nowhere to be seen, so I pushed open one of the doors. It let onto a long dormitory: twenty or so beds against each wall with white sheets tucked into grey blankets. Each bed was neatly made with a pinafore folded on the end of it.
I closed the door and crossed the corridor to peer into another room. More of the same. I went to the next door, thinking that perhaps this was where the babies were housed.
"Miss Scott," said Miss Morrison. I took my hand off the doorknob and nodded to her.
"Miss Carstares has asked me to attend at 7am Monday for instruction," I said.
Miss Morrison nodded. "Good," she said, not smiling, "we're in need of help."
I followed her to the front door and she saw me out, shutting it behind me. I stood on the step and allowed myself a full-body shudder before heading towards the gate. I paused, looked back at the grim building behind me, and sent a sarcastic prayer of thanks for Miss Carstares' snobbery and mum's insistence that I go to a good London school.