building on the seamier side of Wandsworth. The social worker was ringing the bell of number 65 for the third time without getting a reply, while Rebecca looked around her at the dirty floor. With a low, remorseful moan, the wind was blowing through the broken windows of the stairwell and flapping the partially filled trash bags heaped in one corner.
Rebecca shivered. It wasn't just because of the chill wind, but because she was about to be delivered to what she considered one of the worst places in the world.
By now, the social worker had given up pressing the grimy doorbell and had started knocking loudly. There was still no reply, but the sound of the television could clearly be heard from within. She knocked again, more insistently this time, and stopped as she finally heard the sound of coughing and a woman's strident voice from the other side of the door.
'All right, all right, for gawd's sake, giv' us a chance!'
The social worker turned to Rebecca and tried to smile reassuringly. She only managed something approaching a pitying grimace.
'Looks like she's in.'
'Oh, good,' Rebecca said sarcastically, picking up her two small suitcases.
They waited in awkward silence as, with much fumbling, the door was unlocked and the chain removed, accompanied by mutterings and curses and punctuated by intermittent coughing. The door finally swung open, and a significantly disheveled middle-aged woman, cigarette hanging down from her bottom lip, looked the social worker up and down suspiciously.
'What's this all about?' she asked, one eye squinting from the smoke streaming from her cigarette, which twitched with all the vigor of a conductor's baton as she spoke.
'I've brought you niece, Mrs. Boswell,' the social worker announced, indicating Rebecca standing beside her.
'You what?' the woman said sharply, shedding ash on the social worker's immaculate shoes. Rebecca cringed.
'Don't you remember… we spoke on the phone yesterday?'
The woman's watery gaze settled on Rebecca, who smiled and leaned forward a little to come within her limited field of vision.
'Hello, Auntie Jean,' she said, doing her best to smile.
'Rebecca, my love, of course, yes, look at you, 'aven't you grown. Quite the young lady.' Auntie Jean coughed and opened the door fully. 'Yes, come in, come in, I've got something on the boil.' She turned and shuffled back into the small hallway, leaving Rebecca and the social worker to survey the haphazard piles of curling newspapers stacked along the walls, and the huge number of unopened letters and pamphlets littering the filthy carpet. Everything was covered with a fine film of dust, and the corners of the hallway were festooned with cobwebs. The whole place stank of Auntie Jean's cigarettes. The social worker and Rebecca stood in silence until the social worker, as if pulling herself out of a trance, abruptly bade Rebecca good-bye and good luck. She seemed in a great haste to leave, and Rebecca watched her as she made for the stairs, pausing on the way to glance at the elevator doors as if she was hoping that by some miracle it was back in service and she weren't facing the long trek down.
Rebecca gingerly entered the apartment and followed her aunt into the kitchen.
'I could do with some 'elp in 'ere,' Auntie Jean said, picking out a packet of cigarettes from among the debris on the table.
Rebecca surveyed the tawdry vision that lay before her. Shafts of sunlight cut through the ever-present fog of cigarette smoke that hung around her aunt like a personal storm cloud. She wrinkled her nose as she caught the acid taint of yesterday's burned food lacing the air.
'If you're going to be staying in my gaff,' her aunt said through a fit of coughing, 'you're going to 'ave to pull your weight.'
Rebecca didn't move; she feared any motion, however slight, would result in her being covered in the grime that coated every surface.
'C'mon, Becs, put down your bags, roll up your sleeves. You can start by putting the kettle on.' Auntie Jean smiled as she sat down at the kitchen table. She lit a fresh cigarette from the old one before stubbing out its glowing stump directly on the Formica tabletop, completely missing the overflowing ashtray.
The interior of the Jerome household was surprisingly rich and comforting, with subtly patterned carpets, burnished wood surfaces, and walls of deep greens and burgundies. Cal took Will's backpack from him and set it down by a small table on which an oil lamp with an opaque glass shade stood on a creamy linen doily.
'In here,' Cal said, indicating that Will should follow him through the first door leading off the hallway. 'This is the drawing room,' he announced proudly.
The atmosphere in the room was warm and muggy, with tiny gusts of fresh air coming from a dirt-encrusted grille above where they now stood. The ceiling was low, with ornate plaster moldings turned an off-white by the smoke and soot from the fire that even now roared in the wide hearth. In front of this, sprawled on a worn Persian rug, was a large, mangy-looking animal asleep on its back with its legs in the air, leaving little doubt as to its gender. 'A dog!' Will was slightly stunned to see a domestic pet down here. The animal was the color of rubbed slate; it was almost completely bald, with just the odd patch of dark stubble or tuft of hair erupting here and there from its loose skin, which sagged like an ill-fitting suit.
'Dog? That's Bartleby, he's a cat, a Rex variant. An excellent hunter.'
Astonished, Will looked again.
'Careful, he'll take your face off.'
Will swung around to see an old woman in one of two large leather wing chairs positioned on either side of the fireplace. She had been sitting well-back when he had come in, and he hadn't seen her.
'I wasn't going to touch him,' he answered defensively, straightening up.
The old woman's pale-gray eyes twinkled and never left Will's face.
'He doesn't have to be touched,' she said, then added, 'He's very instinctive, is our Bartleby.' Her face glowed with affection as she glanced at the luxuriating and oversized animal.
'Grandma, this is Will,' Cal said.
Once again the old lady's knowing gaze returned to Will, and she nodded. 'Of that I am well aware. He's a Macaulay from head to toe and has his mother's eyes, no mistake about it. Hello, Will.'
Will was struck dumb, transfixed by her gentle manner and the vibrant light dancing in her old eyes. It was as though some part of him, a vague memory, had been lit, just as a dying ember is rekindled by a faint breeze. He felt immediately at ease in her presence.
'Come and sit yourself down, talk to me. I'm sure there's lots of fascinating tales you can tell me from your life up there.' She lifted her face momentarily toward the ceiling. 'Caleb, put the kettle on, and let's have some fancies. Will's going to tell me all about himself,' she said, motioning toward the other leather chair with a delicate yet strong hand. It was the hand of a woman who'd had to work hard all her life.
Will perched on the edge of the seat, the lively fire warming and relaxing him. Although he couldn't explain it to himself, he felt as if he'd reached a place of safety at last, a sanctuary.
The old lady looked intently at him, and he unselfconsciously looked straight back at her, the warmth of her attention every bit as comforting as the fire in the hearth. All the horror and the trials of the past week were forgotten for the moment, and he sighed and sat back, regarding her with mounting curiosity.
Her hair was fine and a snowy white, and she wore it in an elaborate bun at the top of her head, held in place by a tortoiseshell comb. She was dressed in a plain blue long-sleeved gown with a white ruffled collar high up on the neck.
'Why do I feel as though I know you?' he asked suddenly. He had the oddest feeling that he could say
