"Gotta get on," she said and disappeared through a door in the back of the house, letting out a waft of fried onions.
I looked through the letters: mine was there. I wondered how long it would be before Tom returned, and what he would say when he saw me.
I must have fallen into a doze. Jerked awake by the ringing of a bell, I came to, my mouth dry, my head pounding.
I heard a sharp exclamation from Tom, and a girl's voice saying, "She sez she's yer sister."
Then two faces stared at me, one grinning and one astonished, with brows beginning to knit into a familiar frown.
Tom took my elbow and steered me out into the street. "What are you playing at, Lou?" His grip on my arm hurt.
"I had to see you, Tom." After the dim hallway, the light was dazzling, the heat pressed down on me like a gigantic flat iron. "Can't we talk in your room?"
"No," said Tom shortly. He nodded back at his door, which wasn't quite shut, and I saw a pair of curious eyes surveying us. "This is damned inconvenient."
I was startled. Tom had never sworn in front of me before. "Is there somewhere we can go? Somewhere that serves refreshments?"
He gave a little tsk of impatience. I added hastily, "I don't want anything to eat ... but I'm thirsty." Was it because my mouth was dry that I was finding it hard to swallow, or because of the lump in my throat? Why wasn't he more welcoming?
He let go of my arm and faced me. "Look, if you must know, I can't afford to take you into a respectable restaurant."
I couldn't hide my surprise. What had he done with his allowance?
Abruptly he asked, "Have you any money?"
"Only a little."
"So what the deuce am I supposed to do with you?"
I felt dismayed but I steeled myself. "If there's no alternative, let's go somewhere that isn't respectable."
He laughed derisively. "Right, but remember it's your choice."
***
We headed back to the Caledonian Road where we passed several shabby looking chop houses, but for some reason Tom wouldn't stop. Finally we reached a place where, having peered through the steamy windows, he said, "This will do."
Tom wasn't joking when he said somewhere not respectable. Like his lodgings, this was another brown-panelled, grimy room, dark enough that the gas jets had to be lit even on this summer day. It smelt of stale smoke, ale, and rancid cooking fat.
I hesitated on the threshold, but Tom was already making his way to an alcove, so I followed him, stumbling over a stool leg.
A waiter in a greasy apron took our order and when he'd gone I leant forward to speak, but Tom shook his head. "Not yet. Wait till we're served."
I sat back again on the rough settle and surveyed my brother. He looked washed out and he had dark circles under his eyes. His hair was tousled as if he'd forgotten to brush it, his clothes dishevelled.
"You don't look well, Tom. You're working too hard."
He frowned. "There's nothing the matter with me. But you look terrible, Lou. And you've a smut on your face."
I dabbed at my cheek, transferring soot to my glove. "I'm just tired, that's all." "Tired" was an understatement. These days I felt as if I was dragging a huge weight about with me. If only I could convey something of this to Tom...
"I haven't been—" I broke off as the waiter thumped a tumbler of ale and a glass of lemonade onto the table.
While I sipped at my drink, Tom gulped down a large quantity of ale. Then, wiping his mouth with his hand, he said in a disapproving tone, "So, what were you thinking of, Lou? Coming to London on your own! Anything could have happened to you."
I thought of the old woman at the station, the way people had stared at me in the street. He was right of course, but—
"Coming down without warning me."
The unfairness stung me. "I did write. The letter's at your lodgings. I can't understand why you didn't get it."
"Oh." For a moment he looked discomfited. Then he frowned. "Probably some trick of Sally's. You know, the skivvy. She's an unreliable baggage. But never mind that now. Does Mother know you're here?"
I felt wrong-footed. I was hoping he wasn't going to bring that up. "Um, she will know by now—Mary will have told her." As his brows darkened, I said hastily, "I knew she wouldn't let me come so it was the only way. I have to speak to you..."
"You could have written to me."
"Yes, I know, but—" I couldn't tell him the truth—that I was afraid he'd just ignore a letter. "This is important, Tom."
His expression changed to one of alarm. "Is it Mother? Is she ill?"
"No, not exactly..." I took a breath. "It's partly about Mamma, but mainly it's about me."
At once a guarded look came into his eyes.
I pressed on, despite it. "Mamma isn't ill but—she's not herself. I have to do everything. And she doesn't like being left alone—she follows me about, worrying all the time. I feel so trapped, Tom, and the thought that this is to be my life now..." I broke off, making a great effort to gain control of myself. I couldn't stop myself appealing to him. "It would help, you know, if you came back more often."