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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
SHORTLISTED for The Polari First Book Prize LONGLISTED for the Guardian's Not the Booker Prize A beautifully written, darkly funny, mesmerisingly emotive and deliciously told debut novel with echoes of Armistead Maupin… 'From its opening gambit to its final line, Attend demands and rewards attention' Foreword Reviews 'With its blend of dark, gritty themes and gorgeous imagery, this is a book to make you believe there's still magic in the world' Heat Magazine 'I've fallen in love with this absolutely glorious, spell-binding tale' LoveReading As the threads of their lives unravel … they find magic under their feet… When Sam falls in love with South London thug Derek, and Anne's best friend Kathleen takes her own life, they discover they are linked not just by a world of drugs and revenge; they also share the friendship of the uncanny and enigmatic Deborah. Seamstress, sailor, story-teller and self-proclaimed centenarian immortal, Deborah slowly reveals to Anne and Sam her improbable, fantastical life, the mysterious world that lies beneath their feet and, ultimately, the solution to their crises. With echoes of Armistead Maupin and a hint of magic realism, Attend is a beautifully written, darkly funny, mesmerisingly emotive and deliciously told debut novel, rich in finely wrought characters that you will never forget. 'It's a genuinely pleasurable experience to encounter something couched in such alert and transparent language as West Camel's Attend … In three hundred finely judged pages, West Camel leaves the reader eager for more from his pen' Barry Forshaw, CrimeTime 'Lyrical and intense, the spellbinding prose is full of carefully chosen words which create an emotive and flowing' Crime Review 'Rich, lively and intelligent, Attend is a novel of mystery, morality and meaning, but so delicately sewn together, you never notice the seams…' Rosie Goldsmith 'There is such a joy to the language. West Camel is a truly gifted wordsmith, and a beautiful storyteller' Louise Beech 'Skilfully weaves a tapestry of multi-layered threads … delicate, evocative prose tells an intriguing story with contemporary relevance, insight and compassion' Live & Deadly 'A book of past and present, grief and tragedy, forgiveness and redemption, and hopes and dreams … a great debut novel' Off-the-Shelf Books 'A singular and distinctive read … Within the city grime and gritty plotlines, glitters an arresting tale' Books, Life and Everything 'Precision language and beautifully interwoven storytelling … I couldn't put it down' Liz Loves Books 'Filled with a magic that is unique and uplifting. Attend is adventurous, charming and utterly compelling' Random Things through My Letterbox
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Seitenzahl: 541
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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praise forattend
‘West Camel is the Dickens of Deptford, engaging us in a thrilling narrative that is generous with characters, social history and vivid dialogue. Rich, lively and intelligent, Attend is a novel of mystery, morality and meaning, but so delicately sewn together, you never notice the seams…’ Rosie Goldsmith
‘If Armistead Maupin were to write about a diverse group of friends in Deptford, the results might resemble this darkly comic debut from West Camel. These are characters you’ll love to spend time with, and miss when they’re gone’ Paul Burston
‘There is such a joy to the language. West Camel is a truly gifted wordsmith, and a beautiful storyteller’ Louise Beech
‘Oh my, I have quite fallen in love with this absolutely glorious and spellbinding tale. A wonderful infusion of themes means Attend quite rightly refuses to be labelled. Set in Deptford, London, the streets, houses, and locations are as eloquently described and important as the characters. Skirting the violent criminal underbelly of the town and exploring the struggle of addiction, the story hovers within touching distance of an unseen, mysterious power that planted itself in my mind and continued to lurk and explore my thoughts and feelings. The enigmatic and almost otherworldly Deborah sits centre stage, acting as a magnet, weaving Sam and Anne into her story. Attend has a deliciously dark, fairy-tale quality that sits alongside the heartfelt realism of life quite beautifully. This is West Camel’s debut; his writing is alluring and sang out to me, so I simply can’t wait to see what comes next. I recommend Attend with every fibre of my being – it has must-read stamped all over it’ Liz Robinson, LoveReading
‘West Camel skilfully weaves a tapestry of multi-layered threads and, like Theseus finding his the way to the Minotaur, it is that trail of thread that will ultimately allow Sam and Annie to come back home through the Labyrinth, enriched and at peace … Verdict: delicate, evocative prose telling an intriguing story with contemporary relevance, insight and compassion’ Live and Deadly
‘Attend is a novel of threads – gritty and dark, tender and light, mysterious and magical, just like the three threads featured on its cover. It’s a book of past and present, grief and tragedy, forgiveness and redemption, and hopes and dreams. It’s about the uncertainty of life and the unpredictability of the future … Just as the story features an intricate sampler, Attend IS an intricate piece of work, showing off author West Camel’s skill at weaving words and phrases together to create a great debut novel’ Off-The-Shelf Books
‘This is magical writing of the highest quality that will transport any reader to the darkest corners of Deptford … There’s a huge sadness running through Attend. The sadness of lives that have been wasted, of regrets and hidden secrets. There’s also a sense of joy; little sparks throughout the story that scream of hope and redemption; and there’s an ending that seems to release the characters from their mistakes. Up to date, gritty and dark, yet filled with a magic that is unique and uplifting. Attend is adventurous, charming and utterly compelling’ Random Things through My Letterbox
‘Attend is a nod in the direction of magic realism with a noirish quality, and yet it is simultaneously filled with the brusque reality of our modern world. The collusion between these different worlds culminates in an extraordinary piece of fiction’ Cheryll M-M Book Blog
‘This is a novel of contradictions: gritty, yet beautifully written; fantastical, yet down-to-earth; gripping and moving. I was instantly drawn in and could have read the book in a sitting if life and work hadn’t inconveniently intervened. There is brutal violence and touching romance, raw emotion and convincing characters, drugs, abuse, faith and the possibility of redemption … I loved the way needlework runs through the book, and the firm grounding of its setting in Deptford. Highly recommended!’ A Discount Ticket to Everywhere
‘A literary EastEnders, with precision language and beautifully interwoven storytelling … I couldn’t put it down’ Liz Loves Books
‘With elements of magical realism bubbling beneath the surface and characters who are all pin sharp, this debut novel presents as a singular and distinctive read … Within the city grime and gritty plotlines glitters an arresting tale’ Books, Life and Everything
‘It’s a great feeling when you realise very early in a book that you are in for a treat. West Camel’s writing is stunning, his characters, who all give me the impression of being very lonely, are ones that I think about constantly; Deborah especially, with her life story and the thing that she is desperate for. The accounts of her childhood are very moving and had me thinking of stories passed down in my own family. It’s not only the people, I don’t know Deptford at all but I can visualise the old and the new – the history being slowly pushed away by the newer buildings’ Steph’s Book Blog
Attend
WEST CAMEL
For the original Deborah Wybrow (1732–1835)
Contents
Chapter 1: Anne
Anne pulled at the door, but it resisted; it clung to the jambs. She hoped no one was passing on the balcony outside, seeing that she couldn’t even get out of her own home.
She tugged again and recalled struggling like this once before. When Mel had locked her in.
He’d grabbed her as she’d made a dash for the front door of their flat. Held her against the wall, his heavy forearm at her throat; searched her pockets for her keys and the money she’d stolen from his wallet to buy herself a hit.
‘Now look after your fucking kid,’ he’d shouted as he locked the door from the outside, his face a dirty blur in the frosted glass.
Julie had wailed in the next room – the insistent keen of a six-week-old. What was it – eighteen years ago? The sound still rasped.
Anne’s hand slipped and she grazed a layer of skin off the knuckle of her thumb. She took a breath and looked down at the key in her palm, its grooves and notches clean and new. Mel was long gone, she was alone and this door was just a bad fit. She tried pushing her toe under its bottom lip and pulling the handle upward. With a bit of a twist it opened.
She stepped out into sunlight and the smell of roasting meat. Sunday. Her mother would be busy with the dinner right now – hot, banging pots. Perhaps she should walk over there – have something to eat, help with the washing-up. But Julie would be home with the baby. They wouldn’t want Anne there, spoiling things.
As she descended the three floors to the courtyard, she heard booming voices and shrieking kids. The Nigerian family on the ground floor had just arrived back from church. Anne nodded to them as she passed – the children in neat suits and dresses, the men 2smart, and the women tall in their hot-coloured wrappers and stiff headscarves.
‘Hello, how are you settling in?’ asked the mother, her children swinging at the ends of her long arms.
‘Not bad, thank you. Getting there, you know.’ But Anne kept moving, conscious of her mousey, messy hair, her drab jeans and scuffed trainers.
She hurried on out of the courtyard, not sure now whether she would call her mother. But waiting at the crossing on Church Street, she reminded herself why she had come back, clean, to Deptford. She pulled out her mobile phone; no credit. There was a phone box on the other side of the road – she would call from there and invite herself to dinner. She would make herself sound cheery and relaxed.
Rita answered loudly, but seemed to lower her voice when she realised it was Anne.
‘Oh, hello, love. What’s up?’
‘Nothing, just settling in, you know.’
‘Need anything doing?’
‘I’m OK, I’m doing everything myself.’
‘Oh yes? Well, don’t be knocking back help when it’s offered; you don’t know when you might need it.’
Anne gripped the phone’s stiff metal cord. ‘How’s everything there?’
‘Alright. We’re sitting down to dinner in a minute.’
‘Oh right. I was thinking I could come over, if you don’t mind. I just fancy a roast.’
Rita paused for a moment. ‘I’d like to say yes to you, love, but…’
‘Don’t worry, not enough to go round?’
‘Well, that, and, well, Mel’s here.’
Anne dug her nail into the graze on her thumb. ‘Come for his lunch most Sundays, does he?’ She knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words were out.
Rita was quick to react. ‘No, but he’s been to see his daughter and grandson a lot more than you have.’
3‘I want to come now, don’t I?’
‘Well, I didn’t know that. You wouldn’t want to be here with him anyway, would you?’
‘No, I fucking wouldn’t.’
‘Well there you are, then. What can I do?’
‘You just think he’s some fucking saint and I’m the only one that fucked up.’ Anne heard her voice scudding away from her. ‘And Julie thinks the sun shines out of his fucking hole. If she knew what it was like when she was little—’
Her mother interrupted, hard and quiet. ‘She don’t, Anne. But I do. And I also know that it was me that looked after her when you was off sticking yourself full of that shit. So don’t start.’
Anne was silent. She heard her own breath in the handset. A train rumbled along the viaduct above her.
‘Go on then, got any more?’ said Rita. The baby cried in the background.
‘No, Mum.’
‘Right, then.’
‘Bye.’
Anne thumped the wall of the phone box. Everything was clenched, her throat was tight. She tried to slam the door as she left the box, but the spring insisted on closing it slowly. Mel must be sitting down at her mother’s table now, his fists tight around a knife and fork, a napkin tucked into his shirt, his heavy jaw steadily chewing through the meat. While she stood here alone, under the railway arch, not sure where to go. The noise of a massive, empty lorry drove her out, fiercely picking at the hem of her coat.
She wanted a fix, and had to shake her head and mutter ‘no’ out loud – she was beyond that now. She turned into Crossfield Street, her gaze lowered to the patches of old cobbles appearing where the tarmac was wearing away.
She slowed down; there was a bench ahead – she could sit down there and calm herself. It was on the edge of a green space that was criss-crossed oddly by humps and half-walls – left over from before 4the war, she always supposed. Beyond it was the white church where she had been married to Mel. Kathleen – Mel’s sister, and her oldest friend – had been bridesmaid. That had been the best part: her and Kathleen in their dresses.
She looked up at the church tower, its columns and scrolls rising above the uglier buildings around into an almost irresistibly sharp needle. The intricate gold clock below it always surprised her by telling the right time. And, as she looked, the bell began to chime.
When she looked down, she saw someone else was sitting on the bench: an old woman in a dark-grey woollen skirt and shawl, a grey bag placed beside her. She was bent over slightly and what looked like a white sheet was spread across her lap. Anne’s step faltered – she could not work out where this person had appeared from. The woman glanced up as she passed, and Anne, attracted by the clean, open face and wave of white hair, allowed herself to smile and nod. But rather than returning her smile, the woman’s face tightened in shock and she clutched at the edges of her shawl. Anne saw something drop from her hand and bounce onto the ground, leaving a twisting trail behind it. Turning her head back, Anne saw that it was a reel of white thread. The woman made no effort to pick it up, but stared open-mouthed as Anne walked away. Anne shook her head again, wondering why she had bothered coming back to Deptford.
She reached the junction with the High Street and turned back into the churchyard, where there were more benches among the graves and rose bushes. She had always found a little peace here. When she had rowed with her mother, or Mel or Kathleen, she would come and sit on the stone caskets or, most often, on the curved steps under the church’s semicircular porch.
Now, as she lowered herself onto the top step, she heard the swell of voices from the service on the other side of the doors. The hymn’s tune was familiar, but the words escaped her for the moment, and she couldn’t resist a growing feeling that, after the long, meandering journey to get herself clean, she was back where she had started. She leaned against the pillar behind her and tried to tell herself that 5things were different now: she hadn’t taken smack in two years; Julie was grown up and had her own baby; she and Mel had divorced long ago. But she still hadn’t seen Kathleen; and he was at her mother’s table while she was stewing on these same cold steps.
The voices had been quiet for several minutes when the old woman who had been sitting on the bench in Crossfield Street came in through the churchyard gate. She strolled slowly down the path, making a show of looking at the graves on either side, but all the time sneaking glances up at Anne. Her clothes and her bag were the same colour as the rain-stained stones. When she was just a few yards away, she seemed to realise that Anne was watching her, drew her short figure up a little and looked Anne full in the face, her lips parted and her blue eyes wide. There was something slightly desperate about her expression that made Anne move around on the step, but she held the woman’s gaze and, at this, the woman approached more purposefully until she stood nearly at Anne’s feet.
‘Good morning.’ She held her hands neatly over her belly. ‘I think I might have taken your seat over there.’
‘Don’t worry about it, I’m alright here now.’
‘Lovely spot, isn’t it?’
Anne nodded, wondering whether she didn’t want the woman to go away.
‘It’s one of the few bits of the old Deptford left.’
‘Well, it’s changed a lot over the years.’ But Anne wasn’t sure this was really true.
‘You know Deptford, then?’ The woman stared intently at her now.
‘I grew up around here. But I’ve been away for a few years; just moved back a couple of weeks ago, actually.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve lived here most of my life.’ She glanced around her, then back at Anne. ‘Have you…’ she began, and her face flicked between a smile and an interested frown, as if she wasn’t sure which to use. She stopped, smoothed her shawl and spoke again, ‘Have you seen me before?’
6Anne didn’t know how to answer. If the woman had said ‘Don’t you remember me?’ she could have said ‘no’ and apologised. She wriggled out a reply: ‘I may have done, but it’s been years since I lived here.’
The woman shook her head, ‘I didn’t think you had. Doesn’t matter. May I sit?’
Anne nodded, and the woman climbed up and sat close beside her with a satisfied sigh. It would be difficult to leave now, Anne thought, even if she had something to leave for. But the woman seemed harmless enough; she didn’t smell bad, and there was something about her – about her clothes, her voice, her grey cloth bag. I can have a chat with a lonely old woman, Anne told herself.
‘Were you going inside?’ Anne asked. ‘Only I think the service has already started.’
‘No, I’m far too old for all that. I was christened in here, a long, long time ago. But it’s just a distraction now.’
‘I remember my nan saying that the older she got, the more she thought she should go to church, read the Bible and all that. “Make an impression for him upstairs,” she used to say.’
‘Well, that’s another way of looking at it.’ The woman’s clear eyes scanned the graves. Her skin was surprisingly smooth. ‘Don’t get you there any quicker, though,’ she said, and looked back at Anne with her mouth a little open, so that Anne could see the tip of her tongue. The step began to feel uncomfortable again.
‘Perhaps you knew my nan; she lived here all her life too.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Anne frowned – she thought that had been clear. ‘She died years ago.’ She felt her face droop – recalling her nan brought her swiftly to her mother, and so to Julie and then to Tom, the baby: a smooth chain in which she was the snag. She fell to stewing again.
After a moment, the woman shuffled slightly and announced in quite a different voice, giving encouraging smiles between each phrase: ‘From here, you can see where I was born.’ She pointed 7towards Crossfield Street. ‘The old house I lived in when I was a child – just through there, you see it? Number thirty-six.’ Anne looked the other way and saw the backs of the ancient houses of Albury Street. ‘Where I lodged as a young woman, above one of the shops,’ she indicated the High Street ahead of them; ‘and where I would very much like to end up!’ She presented the graves to Anne with a prompt little movement of her hand and let loose a trill of laughter. For a second, Anne expected her to try to link arms, as her grandmother had liked to. She forced herself to laugh too, and the tickling in her throat seemed to pluck her out of her slump.
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Over by the creek,’ the woman flapped her hand behind them.
‘That’s where I live – the estate. You too?’
‘No, but near there. Perhaps we could pay each other a visit some time.’ And she touched Anne’s hand with her own – a combination of silky-skinned fingers and hardened tips.
As Anne tried to work out a response, the doors behind them swung open and the congregation emerged, shaking each other’s hands as they spread across the steps. They wove around Anne, giving her sideways looks, but the old woman had to stand up quickly to avoid being trodden on.
The priest moved from person to person, nodding and smiling, and caressing his embroidered stole. And before Anne had a chance to get away, he was standing over her, displaying his yellow teeth. ‘Were you wanting to come in for the service? There’s another one this evening if you can wait.’
Anne rose awkwardly. ‘Oh no, I was just sitting here.’
‘Well, feel free to attend – we always welcome newcomers.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ she managed, and then, not sure what else to say to his long grin, she turned to draw the old woman in. But he had already gone back into the church, without a word or a glance at her.
‘He didn’t even say hello to you,’ Anne said. ‘That was a bit rude.’
‘He didn’t see me.’ The woman beamed. ‘Very few people do.’ She picked up her bag, the white cloth swelling out of it like rising 8dough. ‘But you do – so I’ll tell you my name: Deborah.’ She put her hand out.
Anne looked down at it and, now they were standing on the same step, she was struck by how small the woman was – almost the size of a child. And then she realised what the hand meant. She gave it a gentle shake. ‘I’m Anne.’
‘Very pleased to meet you, Anne.’
Anne began to turn away, thinking it was time to go home now, but Deborah held on to her. ‘Would you like to take a turn around the church with me?’ Her grip was surprisingly strong – Anne would have to pull sharply to get her hand back.
She hesitated before replying; but the sunshine was warm on her back and at home there was just TV and cups of tea. ‘Go on, then,’ she said.
Deborah dropped Anne’s hand and drew her bag up to her chest. ‘I might just tell you a story too. If you’re interested.’
‘Why not.’
They descended the steps and ambled along the path that encircled the church, passing into its shadow then back into the spring sunlight. By the time they returned to the porch, the church doors were closed and the graveyard was empty. Deborah slung her bag on a large stone casket, placed a foot on the base and, with a small, certain effort, pushed herself up onto it.
‘Come and sit.’ She patted the lid and began to pull the white sheet out of the bag.
Anne perched on the opposite end and watched while Deborah opened the sheet out and floated it onto the casket like a tablecloth. She saw now that it was embroidered all over with tiny white stitches, which were nearly invisible against the white of the sheet itself.
‘It’s beautiful. Did you do it all yourself?’ A needle was neatly pushed into the far end and a loop of thread hung down into the grass at their feet.
‘I did.’ Deborah smiled, then looked down into the pattern, her 9shawl falling back off her head. She inhaled and spoke at the same time, ‘Many, many years of work.’
Anne put a hand on her end of the sheet and felt the tickling texture of the stitches. ‘So tell me this story, then.’
Deborah settled her shoulders; then, pulling a section of the sheet onto her lap and circling her fingertips over it, she began.
Chapter 2: Deborah, 1913
‘That day in 1913, the day I found the strip of cloth with the motif stitched onto it – the day she gave it to me, I should say – no one seemed to be paying me the slightest bit of attention. I thought it was because they wanted to be rid of me. I was seven – far too old for the Hospital for Infants in Albury Street. I’d heard Mrs Clyffe say as much to Sally when we were walking back from church the previous evening.
‘“I shall have to be thinking of where to send Deborah, you know. I’ll have the Institute Ladies on my back otherwise. We’re not really supported for the grown ones.”
‘She hadn’t meant for me to hear her, but I did; and that entire evening, while she read aloud from the Illustrated London News, I thought about what I’d heard her say.
‘Mrs Clyffe took the Illustrated London all the years I knew her, and after supper on Sundays, she would read out parts she thought suitable to the other staff at the hospital. Being older than the other children, I was allowed to stay up and listen too.
‘“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.
11‘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 12was 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 13cellar – 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.
14‘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 comes 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, 15are 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 17fibres 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 18appeared, 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 19mouth 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.
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 20embroidered 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.
21From 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.
23She 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.’
24She 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 draylon, 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.’
25The 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.’
26Anne 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.’
