by West Camel
Deborah chose a piece from the pile and shook it out at arm’s length. It flapped into Anne’s face, a mass of black, white and red stitching. It was like a pattern in nature: waves; leaf shapes on trees; or thick on a woodland floor. Falling back onto Deborah’s lap, it seemed like writing, an oriental script, or perhaps just a design.
‘This is one of my own pieces,’ said Deborah. ‘But all of these’ – she spread her hand over the pile on her lap – ‘I … found.’
Anne thought back to the story Deborah had told her in the churchyard. ‘You mean in the tunnel, when you were little?’
Deborah sat back, she had taken the end of the white sheet from her bag and was pulling it through her cupped hand until she almost reached one end. She smoothed it over her lap, her fingertips caressing the minute white stitches like brail.
‘Yes, as I told you.’ She presented the heap on the floor with an open hand. ‘I suppose it’s taken over as my work now – I was a seamstress you see, between the wars.’
There was a slightly crazed look in her eyes – or perhaps just that bleary fatigue an old person gets at this time in the afternoon. Anne herself was a little sleepy.
‘Over the years, you see, I’ve gone back down there to collect what I can. There are always some new pieces. Always something I haven’t seen before, something to learn from. But I suppose it’s like those professors who study and study. Where’s the end to it all?’
There was a silence that lasted so long, Anne shifted, thinking she was supposed to give an answer. But she was baffled. It was like being in a game without knowing the rules.
Deborah coughed and began folding the sheet neatly, then leaned forwards to one of the piles. ‘So. Would you like to see one of the pieces I found?’ She took up a folded square, looking up at Anne under her eyebrows, almost slyly; she was being careful, placing cat’s paws.
A tiny stream of anxiety rushed through Anne again – she was sure she was being asked something more than to just sit and listen to another story.
Deborah began to unfold the piece, moving slowly. Then she darted forwards, holding the corners of the square, looking as though she would raise it and bring it down on Anne’s head, trapping her like an escaped bird. But the piece landed on the floor and Deborah withdrew her hands. Having expected another pattern or design, Anne found human figures. The piece was like a cartoon, divided into panels containing small scenes under trees, beside rivers and outside huts, but also shapes Anne could not recognise. It was the same tawny colour as the piece she had seen Deborah put in the tin and sink into the river.
‘Is it a story?’ she said.
‘It is.’ Deborah moved her lips and blinked. ‘Do you want to hear it?’
‘How do you know what it says?’
‘I learned.’
‘At school?’
‘I met someone – a Mr Mellor. He was a historian, an archaelogist. He didn’t exactly teach me, but it was because of him I found out how to read it all.’ Deborah waved her hand at the heaps around her. And then, as if she were talking to herself and not to Anne, she murmured, ‘I suppose that just proves that I was meant to meet him all along.’
Anne didn’t know how to reply to this, so she rested on one arm of the chair and tried an encouraging smile. ‘Go on, tell it, then.’
Deborah’s soft cheeks pulsed, as if she were chewing the words, tasting them before speaking. She put her hand over the first panel, took in a long breath, and spoke: ‘In Anatolia…’
Anne clambered up the metal rungs and over the wall into the alley with a tight stomach. Deborah had assured her this was the way home – and she had no other way to go. But when she passed a kink in the alley, and she saw the road and a corner of her block, all her apprehension fell away. She even felt a little guilty for thinking Deborah could be anything but kind.
As she crossed the road she wondered what was the more incredible: Deborah’s adventure down the tunnel or her life now, just a few hundred yards from her own flat. She tried to recall the last story Deborah had told her, floating her hand over the piece of tapestry. A woman had sailed across a lake to a mountain, where she’d met a goddess who gave her a piece of fabric and instructed her to copy it. It would have sat well in the illustrated book of Greek myths she’d pored over as a child, but Anne was sure it had something to do with the strip of cloth she’d seen Deborah hiding in the tin out on the river. But hadn’t she started it by saying, ‘In Anatolia…’ Where was that? Anne would have to look it up.
Now she was back on her own estate, though, and with the shouts of kids playing football shrill in her ears, the moment in Deborah’s house seemed to be floating away from her, sinking below the surface. It was then that she realised she had managed to resist scoring today. She stopped just before entering her courtyard. The chimes of pots and pans being washed reached her from an open window. She searched around to find the need that had been so strong that morning, placing a hand on the small of her back. Nothing. She sauntered to her staircase.
Chapter 9: Deborah, 1922
‘The suitcase I brought away from the orphanage was the same one I’d arrived with: small, but still too big for my few bits. When I put it up and took it down from the luggage racks everything inside knocked around, embarrassing me – not that the passengers on any of the trains paid any attention.
‘The orphanage had given me some money for my tickets, but sitting on the train to London, looking at the fields and factories and at the backs of other people’s houses, I knew I’d have to find some work damned quick.
‘All I could think to do was to come back to Deptford – it was the only place I knew. Probably not the best of towns to look for a living, but I knew rooms would be cheap, and I couldn’t help but think of it as home.
‘When I got off the train at Deptford station, I stopped on the platform and looked down at the roofs lined up on either side of the viaduct. I could see corners of houses and shops that I recognised, and I couldn’t help but smile. But it was all so black; somehow, I’d forgotten how dirty Deptford really was.
‘I took the stairs down to the High Street and, without thinking, turned left towards Albury Street. I hadn’t planned it to be my first call. On the train, I’d said to myself that I’d visit every tailor and draper in Deptford and New Cross with my work in my hands. There would have to be someone who’d take me on. I was good with my needle – I was confident of that at least. I certainly hadn’t expected that the first thing I’d do would be to search out Mrs Clyffe.
‘Her letters had stopped coming years before. I didn’t blame her particularly; she had always been a terribly busy woman. That’s what she used to say to anyone who wasn’t quick enough for her – “Come on now, I’m terribly busy.” And then there was the war. I was sure the war had also kept her terribly busy in one way or another. The letters had stopped when it ended.
‘Albury Street had been pretty rough in my days living at the hospital, but even I was shocked when I saw the state it was in. A whole patch of cobbles had come adrift; they were all scattered and kicked about. I swear the air was even dirtier too. There were smashed windows stuffed with newspaper and one or two houses had been abandoned – their roofs caving in.
‘When I reached number thirty-six, I thought someone had left the door open. And then I saw that there wasn’t one. My heart sank. No door was the lowest rung on the ladder – with nothing to nick and nothing to burn, you might as well keep warm and cook your last morsels over a fire made from your own front door.
‘I knew she couldn’t be here, not Mrs Clyffe – she’d never let the place get into this state. I turned to walk back to the High Street, but looking down at the cracked paving stones I knew that underneath my feet there was that cool, damp place filled with the green river smell. Standing there, a bit bent over, I could feel the gritty floor of the tunnel and see the mud walls in the light of the candle. Up ahead, the ceiling had fallen in; water streamed down the walls; someone was there.
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sp; ‘I swung my suitcase in front of me; inside it, something slipped around, making it bash against my legs. I knew what it was: the painted tin I’d saved after the coronation, where I kept important things – papers and what have you.
‘The strip of cloth with the motif.
‘I turned back and walked in through the doorway.
‘A grubby little thing was sat on the stairs holding a bunch of rags. She cradled it like a baby, soothing it, and then giving it a good hard shake and telling it to shut up. She was all of seven years old.
‘“Is your mummy here, love?”
‘She looked up at me; her face was so dirty she couldn’t have been washed in days. Mrs Clyffe would never have had that.
‘The girl stayed where she was on the stairs and, still looking at me, she shouted, “Mum. There’s a lady with a hat on.”
‘I was sixteen. It was the first time anyone had called me a lady. The hat was second-hand – a donation to the orphanage, and far too big for me. On the train, I’d spent my time sewing a folded strip of shirt linen into the lining, so it would fit better. But I knew it looked odd sat on my little head. The glimpse of myself in the mirror of the Ladies at Charing Cross showed me I was just a child dressed up in adult’s clothes.
‘The other girls at the orphanage had all begun to develop. Even the younger ones had shot up when they got to a certain age – growing a bust and a behind, most of them. They would have knowing little chats together while they ripped up their boiled rags, but I didn’t have the need for those. And I never have.
‘I felt like dashing back out onto the street; I think I was turning when her mother came out of what had been the long kitchen at the back of the house.
‘“Yes, what can I do you for?”
‘She was drawn looking, but couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five. She had teeth missing and a smell came off her as she took a few steps towards me.
‘I was staring, but what with standing in the hallway, conscious of being clean and wearing a hat, I couldn’t get my words out straight away.
‘“What do you want, miss?” The woman was close to me now. “I don’t have all day; I’ve got a sick littl’un in there, if you don’t mind.”
‘I found my tongue now she’d got a bit sharp. “I’m sorry for just walking in. But I used to live here. I was wondering where the lady who ran the place has gone?”
‘The woman looked me up and down another time; her eyes lingering on my suitcase and longer on my hat, which made me put my hand to it.
‘“Come through; it’s warmer in here.”
‘I followed her into the kitchen, which looked as if it must be where she and her children lived. She sat down on a narrow bed against a wall, where another child lay quietly, and began to spoon milk from a bowl into his mouth. He stared at me and parted his dry lips, but he didn’t seem to want the milk, just letting it drip in.
‘“He won’t take almost nothing,” the mother said, as much to herself as to me. “But I can’t think what else to do.” She sounded very matter-of-fact. She dropped the spoon back in the bowl and turned to me. “You’re talking about when this place was the children’s hospital, aren’t you?”
‘I nodded.
‘“That’s a laugh isn’t it?” She flicked her hand at the sick child, whose eyes seemed to grow larger the longer I was in the room, pinning me to the spot between the door and the fireplace.
‘“The woman who ran it was called Mrs Clyffe,” I said.
‘“Well the hospital was closed a few years back, after the war, when everyone got the flu. It wiped out every kid in here. But I don’t remember anyone called Clyffe. Maybe she’d gone by then.”
‘I put my suitcase down and reached out for the mantelpiece to steady myself. Nearly all the girls in the orphanage had come down with flu too. We lost several of them. I’d not had so much as a sniffle, and spent my time playing nurse.
‘The little heap of wood in the grate shifted and gave off a weak puff of heat. I thought of Mrs Clyffe, standing upright on this exact same spot, with her stiff white apron across her chest, battling to keep all those babies alive. And then maybe turning into a corner to cough and hold her sides. Not even she could beat it.
‘I stared at the child. He held my gaze and then his eyelids slowly closed. I picked up my case again. I felt very alone and small in this room I had known so well.
‘“We’ve been here two years,” the mother was saying, shaking the child awake again, and not gently either. “We had two rooms, but my fella lost his job, so we’ve had to all come in here.”
‘She took another look at my suitcase and hat.
‘“You couldn’t spare us a couple of pennies, could you, love? This milk is all I’ve got, and with him out of work…”
‘Every coin in my purse had been saved and scrimped over months in the orphanage – doing the mending, topping and tailing the sheets, keeping the girls’ linen neat. It was the tiny bit I’d earned on top of my bed and board. I had nowhere to stay that night and anything I gave away would take food out of my own mouth.
‘But the sick boy was staring again and the other child blocked the doorway. The woman waited. I reached inside my coat for my purse and handed her two coins. But before I gave them up, I thought how she could pay me back.
‘“Do you mind if I take a look in the other rooms?”
‘“Please yourself.” She just about snatched the coins out of my palm. “There are a couple of blokes upstairs, but the roof leaks like a sieve, so there’s no one on the top floor now. Sometimes you’ll find some old pisshead in the basement, but they’ve got no right, so go down there if you want. There’s not much to see though – everything’s been nicked or burned.” She picked up the spoon again and dribbled some more milk into the child’s cracked mouth.
‘I turned and made straight for the basement. The girl followed me down the stairs, still clutching the bunch of rags.
‘The big sink was full of dust. The tallboy with its rows of clean jugs and bowls had gone. Every pane in the window looking onto the backyard was cracked.
‘“Stay there, it’s dangerous,” I told the girl; but it didn’t sound like my own voice – more like Mrs Clyffe’s. I felt my hat wobble about on my head.
‘“I’m always playing down here,” she said. But Mrs Clyffe’s tone kept her standing at the foot of the stairs nevertheless.
‘I had to wait for my eyes to get used to the dim of the front basement. It was empty, but for some flat coal sacks.
‘I didn’t really know why I was down there. My suitcase was still in my hand and, for a second, I considered staying there for the night. But I had my letters of introduction and my samples of work. I could re-pin my hat in a shop window and wipe the smuts off my face with the clean hanky I had in my pocket.
‘So why was I down there?
‘The sun brightened a little at the back of the house and the door to the tunnel became clear in the wall ahead of me. Something moved in my suitcase. It wasn’t me this time, I was standing stock still. Through the handle I felt a tremor tickling my palm.
‘I’d spent the long nights at the orphanage studying the motif stitched onto the strip of cloth the woman in the tunnel had given me. While the other girls prepared themselves for courting and husbands and children, I continued the work I’d begun those last few days in Albury Street. I’d sit on my bed in the baggy grey dress that covered up the fact that my body was still that of a seven-year-old, and copy the motif’s clever turns onto scraps of linen, correcting my mistakes as I grew to understand how it had been made. Even from the beginning, I was sure I was good enough to learn it. And I did. Eventually. Secretly.
‘Everyone knew me as the girl who could darn a tear so it was invisible, or alter a jacket so it looked like it had been made by a tailor. But I never let anyone see those strips of embroidery, the same pattern over and over, so many they swelled my sewing bag. And even on that morning when I got it right, it didn’t cross my mind that
I should show anyone else. I just sat in a corner of the sewing room and gazed at my achievement. And yet I had no idea then what I had really done by getting it so right. By copying it so perfectly.
‘The very next day, the orphanage told me it was time to leave; time to go out into the world. And here I was now, standing in a dark cellar in front of a door. Back where I had started. Like I’d never left.
‘The little girl was beside me now, brushing past my skirt. She stepped purposefully towards the door and put a hand on the key that sat in the lock. The lock that Mrs Clyffe had fitted after my trip down the tunnel; the key she’d clipped to the bunch at her waist, raising her nearly invisible eyebrows at me, a smile touching her lips like lint.
‘“You’re not to go in there,” the girl said. Her voice was quite different from before. In the half-light her face was serious and still. “If you do, you get trapped forever. You can scream as loud as you like; no one will come to let you out. Not even your mum or your dad. Once you’re in there, that’s it. The end.”
‘She turned the key; the lock ground and clicked. She turned it back; the lock responded. Her eyes were shining, underwater pebbles in her dirty face. She took the key out of the lock and handed it to me. Without another word she brushed past me again and marched, straight-backed, towards the stairs. At my feet, between me and the tunnel door, lay her bundle of rags.