to a house squashed between the Dog and Duck pub and a boarded-up shop called Lippmann’s. The front door stood open. Billy climbed the stairs to the top floor, where he found himself in a room with about twenty women sewing British army uniforms.
They continued working, operating their treadles, taking no apparent notice of him, until eventually one said: “Come in, love, we won’t eat you-although, come to think of it, I might try a little taste.” They all cackled with laughter.
“I’m looking for Ethel Williams,” he said.
“She’s not here,” the woman said.
“Why not?” he said anxiously. “Is she ill?”
“What business is it of yours?” The woman got up from her machine. “I’m Mildred-who are you?”
Billy stared at her. She was pretty even though she had buckteeth. She wore bright red lipstick, and fair curls poked out from under her hat. She was wrapped in a thick, shapeless gray coat but, despite that, he could see the sway of her hips as she walked toward him. He was too taken with her to speak.
She said: “You’re not the bastard who put her up the duff then scarpered, are you?”
Billy found his voice. “I’m her brother.”
“Oh!” she said. “Fucking hell, are you Billy?”
Billy’s jaw dropped. He had never heard a woman use that word.
She scrutinized him with a fearless gaze. “You are her brother, I can see it, though you look older than sixteen.” Her tone softened in a way that made him feel warm inside. “You’ve got the same dark eyes and curly hair.”
“Where can I find her?” he said.
She gave him a challenging look. “I happen to know that she doesn’t want her family to find out where she’s living.”
“She’s scared of my father,” Billy said. “But she wrote me a letter. I was worried about her so I came up on the train.”
“All the way from that dump in Wales where she’s from?”
“It’s not a dump,” Billy said indignantly. Then he shrugged and said: “Well, it is, really, I suppose.”
“I love your accent,” Mildred said. “To me it’s like hearing someone sing.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“How did you find this place?”
“She said she worked at Mannie Litov’s in Aldgate.”
“Well, you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes, aren’t you?” she said, not without a note of reluctant admiration.
“If you don’t tell me where she is, someone else will,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “I’m not going home till I’ve seen her.”
“She’ll kill me, but all right,” Mildred said. “Twenty-three Nutley Street.”
Billy asked her for directions. He made her speak slowly.
“Don’t thank me,” she said as he took his leave. “Just protect me if Ethel tries to kill me.”
“All right, then,” said Billy, thinking how thrilling it would be to protect Mildred from something.
The other women shouted good-bye and blew kisses as he left, embarrassing him.
Nutley Street was an oasis of quiet. The terraced houses were built to a pattern that had become familiar to Billy after only one day in London. They were much larger than miners’ cottages, with small front yards instead of a door opening onto the street. The effect of order and regularity was created by identical sash windows, each with twelve panes of glass, in rows all along the terrace.
He knocked at number 23 but no one answered.
He was worried. Why had she not gone to work? Was she ill? If not, why was she not at home?
He peered through the letterbox and saw a hallway with polished floorboards and a hat stand bearing an old brown coat that he recognized. It was a cold day: Ethel would not go out without her coat.
He stepped close to the window and tried to look inside, but he could not see through the net curtain.
He returned to the door and looked through the flap again. The scene inside was unchanged, but this time he heard a noise. It was a long, agonized groan. He put his mouth to the letterbox and shouted: “Eth! Is that you? It’s Billy out here.”
There was a long silence, then the groan was repeated.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
The door had a Yale-type lock. That meant the catch was probably attached to the doorpost with two screws. He struck the door with the heel of his hand. It did not seem particularly stout, and he guessed the wood was cheap pine, many years old. He leaned back, lifted his right leg, and kicked the door with the heel of his heavy miner’s boot. There was a sound of splintering. He kicked several more times, but the door did not open.
He wished he had a hammer.
He looked up and down the road, hoping to see a workman with tools, but the street was deserted except for two dirty-faced boys who were watching him with interest.
He walked down the short garden path to the gate, turned, and ran at the door, hitting it with his right shoulder. It burst open and he fell inside.
He picked himself up, rubbing his hurt shoulder, and pushed the ruined door to. The house seemed silent. “Eth?” he called. “Where are you?”
The groaning came again, and he followed the sound into the front room on the ground floor. It was a woman’s bedroom, with china ornaments on the mantelpiece and flowered curtains at the window. Ethel was on the bed, wearing a gray dress that covered her like a tent. She was not lying down, but on her hands and knees, groaning.
“What’s wrong with you, Eth?” said Billy, and his voice came out as a terrified squeak.
She caught her breath. “The baby’s coming.”
“Oh, hell. I’d better fetch a doctor.”
“Too late, Billy. Dear Jesus, it hurts.”
“You sound like you’re dying!”
“No, Billy, this is what childbirth is like. Come by here and hold my hand.”
Billy knelt by the bed, and Ethel took his hand. She tightened her grip and began to groan again. The groan was longer and more agonized than before, and she gripped his hand so hard he thought she might break a bone. Her groan ended with a shriek, then she panted as if she had run a mile.
After a minute she said: “I’m sorry, Billy, but you’re going to have to look up my skirt.”
“Oh!” he said. “Oh, right.” He did not really understand, but he thought he had better do as he was told. He lifted the hem of Ethel’s dress. “Oh, Christ!” he said. The bedsheet beneath her was soaked in blood. There in the middle of it was a tiny pink thing covered in slime. He made out a big round head with closed eyes, two tiny arms, and two legs. “It’s a baby!” he said.
“Pick it up, Billy,” said Ethel.
“What, me?” he said. “Oh, right, then.” He leaned over the bed. He got one hand under the baby’s head and one under its little bum. It was a boy, he saw. The baby was slippery and slimy, but Billy managed to pick him up. There was a cord still attaching him to Ethel.
“Have you got it?” she said.
“Aye,” he said. “I’ve got him. It’s a boy.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I dunno. How can you tell?” Billy fought down panic. “No, he’s not breathing, I don’t think.”
“Smack his bum, not too hard.”
Billy turned the baby over, held him easily in one hand, and sharply smacked his bottom. Immediately the child opened his mouth, breathed in, and yelled in protest. Billy was delighted. “Hark at that!” he said.
“Hold him a minute while I turn over.” Ethel got herself into a sitting position and straightened her dress. “Give him to me.”
Billy carefully handed him over. Ethel held the baby in the crook of her arm and wiped his face with her sleeve. “He’s beautiful,” she said.
Billy was not sure about that.
The cord attached to the baby’s navel had been blue and taut, but now it shriveled and turned pale. Ethel said:
