And if Tom agreed then perhaps we could make some arrangement for Mamma—perhaps hire a companion for her. Someone that she trusted and felt happy with...
As the wheels ate up the miles to London, my heart beat a refrain to their rhythm: Please let Tom understand. Please let him change his mind. Please let him say that I can train to be a doctor.
***
I stepped down from the train into a barrage of noise: steam hissing, shrill whistles, doors slamming, and voices, voices everywhere. I was carried along in the crush of bodies. High above, birds were flying in and out of veils of smoke and above them, through the double vault of glass, stained with soot, I caught glimpses of yellow sky.
I reached the end of the platform. This, surely, was where Tom would meet me. The crowd was thinning and I scanned every face but there was no sign of him. What if he hadn't received my letter?
I was afraid to move in case he couldn't find me. Fifteen minutes ticked by on the station clock, by which time I'd chewed a hole in the finger of my glove.
A voice made me jump. "New to London, are you, dearie? Looking for somewhere to stay?"
I stared at the woman's wrinkled face, seamed with beige powder, at her rouged cheeks, her greedy eyes.
"No, no thank you," I said hastily, and moved off towards the station entrance. There I stopped, overwhelmed.
The broad street was choked with traffic and the noise was deafening: the grinding of iron-shod wheels over the cobbles, the cries and whip-cracks of the drivers. Crowds hurried past on the pavement, amongst them men with placards advertising theatres, patent medicines, Hovis Bread, the Daily News. The continuous movement of people in the heavy, humid air and the stench of horse manure and drains made my head reel.
I backed against the stone wall. Its cool gritty surface felt solid, comforting, but I couldn't stay there: people, especially men, kept looking at me. I looked up at the clock on the tall red tower to my right: two o'clock already. Where was Tom?
Stay calm. I told myself. Think. I had the address of Tom's lodgings in my bag; I must go there and see if he was at home. If not, someone might know where he was.
I asked a woman with a kind face the way to the Caledonian Road and she told me it was just round the corner. I pushed through the noisy throng, the sultry air fastening itself like a tight band round my head.
***
Partway along the Caledonian Road, I stopped and looked at the piece of paper with Tom's address on it. 7, Warren Place. He'd said it was near the canal.
As I hesitated on the pavement, a voice said, "May I help you, Miss?"
I turned, feeling a surge of relief at the sight of the blue uniform. The constable gave me directions, indicating a narrow passageway between two buildings. "It's only a short step away, but are you sure you'll be all right on your own, Miss?"
"Of course." But as soon as I turned off the main thoroughfare my pretended confidence vanished.
The passageway smelled dreadful, as if it had been used as a lavatory. Holding my breath I picked up my skirts. I came out in a gloomy square and here the smell was so bad it made my eyes water. Putting my handkerchief to my nose, I crossed the square and turned into a cindery lane, with a high brick wall on one side and a row of ill-assorted buildings on the other.
Here I stopped. It must be a mistake. Tom couldn't possibly be living here.
I was debating whether to turn back when some ragged children with dirty faces appeared from nowhere and started calling out to me, so I walked on swiftly. I soon came to number 7, a tall grimy house with brown flaking paint on its doors and windows. I was sure I was wasting my time.
Taking a deep breath I pushed the bell. Nothing happened. I pushed again and waited. Eventually the door opened.
"Yis?" A scrawny girl glowered at me, her grubby mobcap slipping over one eye.
"I'm looking for Mr. Cosgrove. Does he live here?"
"He's not in." She made to close the door.
"Wait!" Desperation made my voice sharp and the girl narrowed her eyes. "Please. Could you tell me when he'll be back?"
"Dunno." Her hand was still on the door. "Is he expecting yer?"
"Yes. That is, I sent a letter. But I don't know if he received it this morning."
"Nah," she said, "he didn't. His letters're waitin' for 'im."
Tom didn't know I was in London.
"'Ere," she said, "y'ain't gonna faint, are yer?"
The roar in my ears receded. "No. But I need to sit down. Please let me wait for him. I'm his sister."
She smirked at that, but she said, "I spose it can't do no 'arm. Mind, you'll have to sit in the 'all. There ain't nowhere else." She opened the door wider and I went in.
The dim, narrow hallway was brown, too: greasy-looking brown panelling, scuffed brown linoleum; there were even dun-coloured stains on the ceiling. Why was Tom living here?
"There y' are." The girl jerked her thumb at a chair squeezed in between the stairs and a rickety table on which some letters lay. I let myself down gingerly on to the woven seat which had come unravelled in places.