began walking back from the crevasse the way they had come, through the rubble and piles of timber, much of it rotted. As always, the little dog was beside him, jumping over the stones, his tail wagging.
Hester followed after him, having to hurry to catch up. She did not resent his pace; she knew it came from the emotion driving him, the fear that a tragedy might occur before he could do anything to stop even the smallest part of it.
They did not talk in the half hour it took them to weave their way through the narrow streets and alleys, but it was a companionable silence. He was very careful to keep step with her and now and then to warn her of a particularly rough or slippery stretch of road or of the steepness of the step up to an occasional pavement.
She wondered if this was where he had grown up. During the brief space they had known each other, there had been no time for talk of such things, even had either of them wished to. Before today she had not known that his father was a tosher. But hunting the sewers for accidentally flushed treasures and keeping down the worst of the vast rat population that emerged from that underworld were closely allied trades, though rat-catching was the superior. The tosher would have been proud of his son. He should have been even prouder of his courage and humanity.
The streets were busy. A coal cart trundled over the cobbles. A costermonger was selling fruit and vegetables on the corner where they crossed. A peddler of buttons brought to her mind the need to replenish her sewing basket, but not now. She hurried to keep up with Sutton's swift pace. Women passed them carrying pails of water, bundles of clothes, or groceries. They skirted around half a dozen children playing games- tossing knucklebones or skipping rope. For an instant she ached to be able to do something for them-food, boots, anything. She dismissed it from her mind with force. Cats and dogs and even a couple of pigs foraged around hopefully. It was still appallingly cold.
The door where Sutton finally stopped was narrow, with peeling paint and no windows or letter box. In some places that would indicate that it was a facade placed to hide the fact that there was a railway behind it rather than a house, but here it was that no letters were expected. None of the other doors had knockers, either.
Sutton banged with the flat of his hand and stood back.
A few minutes later it was opened by a girl of about ten. Her hair was tied with a bright length of cloth and her face was clean, but she had no shoes on. Her dress was obviously cut down from a longer one, and left with room to fit her at least another couple of years.
' 'Alio, Essie. Yer mam in?' Sutton asked.
She smiled at him shyly and nodded, turning to lead the way to the kitchen.
Hester and Sutton followed, driven as much by the promise of warmth as anything else.
Essie led them along a narrow passage that was cold and smelled of damp and old cooking, and into the one room in the house that had heat. The warmth came from a small black stove with a hob just large enough for one cauldron and a kettle. Her mother, a rawboned woman who must have been about forty but looked far older, was scraping the eyes and the dirt from a pile of potatoes. There were onions beside her, still to be prepared.
In the corner of the room nearest the stove sat a large man with an old coat on his knees. The way the folds of it fell, it was apparent that most of his right leg was missing. Hester was startled to see from his face that he was probably no more than forty either, if that.
Sutton ordered Snoot to sit, then he turned to the woman.
'Mrs. Collard,' he said warmly, 'this is Mrs. Monk, 'oo nursed some of the men in the Crimea, an' keeps a clinic for the poor in Portpool Lane.' He did not add specifically what kind of poor. 'An this is Andrew Collard.' He turned to the man. ' 'E used ter work in the tunnels.'
'How do you do, Mrs. Collard, Mr. Collard,' Hester said formally. She had long ago decided to speak to all people in the same way rather than distinguish between one social class and another by adopting what she felt would be their own pattern of introduction. There was no need to wonder why Andrew Collard did not work in the tunnels anymore.
Collard nodded, answering with words almost indistinguishable. He was embarrassed-that was easy to see-and perhaps ashamed because he could not stand to welcome a lady into his own home, meager as it was.
Hester had no idea how to make him at ease. She ought to have been able to call on her experience with injured and mutilated soldiers. She had seen enough of them, and enough of those wasted by disease, racked with fever, or unable even to control their body's functions. But this was different. She was not a nurse here, and these people had no idea why she had come. For an instant she was furious with Sutton for the imposition upon them, and upon her. She did not dare meet his eyes, or he would see it in her. She might then even lash out at him in words, and be bitterly sorry afterwards. She owed him more than that, whatever she felt.
As if aware of the rage and misery in the silence, Sutton spoke. 'We just bin and looked at the diggin',' he said to Andrew Collard. 'Freezin at the moment, and not much rain, but it's drippin' quite a bit, all the same. 'Ow long dyer reckon it'll take some o' that wood ter rot?'
Mrs. Collard glanced from one to the other of them, then told Essie to go outside and play.
'They're movin' too fast for it ter matter,' Collard answered. 'In't the wood rottin' as is the trouble, it's them bleedin' great machines shakin' everythin' ter bits. Does it even more if they in't tied down like they should be. Only Gawd 'isself knows what's shiftin' around underneath them bleedin' great things.'
'Tied down?' Hester asked quickly. 'Aren't they dug in?'
'Staked,' he answered. 'But they shake loose if yer don't do 'em real ard an' careful, miss. Them machines is stronger than all the 'orses yer ever seen. Stakes look tight ter begin wi', but arter an hour or two they in't. Yer need ter move the 'ole engine a dozen yards or so ter fresh ground an' start over. But that takes time. Means that-'
'I understand,' she said quickly. 'They're losing loads going up and down when they take up the bolts and move the machine, then stake it and start it up again. And the more firmly they bolt it, the longer it takes to move it.'
'Yeah, that's right.' Collard looked slightly taken aback that she had grasped the point so quickly.
'Don't all companies work the same way?' she said.
'Most,' he agreed. 'Some's more careful, some's less. Couldn't all get engines the same. But more'n that, the earth in't the same from one place ter 'nother. If yer ever dug it yerself, you know Chelsea in't the same as Lambeth, an' Rother'ide in't the same as the Isle o' Dogs.' He was looking at her now, his eyes narrow and tired with pain. 'There's all sorts: clay, rock, shale, sand. An' o' course there's rivers an' springs, but Sutton knows that. More'n 'em, there's old workings o' all sorts: drains, gutters, cellars, tunnels, an' plague pits. Goes back ter Roman times, some of 'em. Yer can't do it quick.' He stared into the middle distance. Hester could only imagine what it was like for him sitting helpless in a chair while the world narrowed and closed in on him. He saw disaster ahead and was unable to do anything to prevent it. He was telling her because she asked, and she had come with Sutton, but he did not believe she cared, or could help, either.
His wife lost patience. 'Why don't yer tell 'em straight?' she demanded, ignoring the boiling kettle except for a swift movement to remove it from the heat. If she had intended to make tea, it was forgotten now. 'Were a cave-in wot took my 'usband's leg,' she said to Hester. 'One o' them big beams fell on 'im. Only way ter get 'im out before the 'ole lot caved in were ter take 'is leg orff. If they go on usin' them great machines shakin' everythin' ter bits up on top like that, sooner or later the sides is gonna cave in on top o' the men wots diggin' an' 'aulin' down the bottom. Or when we get rains like we 'ave in Feb'uary, one o' 'em sewers bursts, an' 'oos gonna get the men out before it floods, eh?' she demanded, her voice high and harsh. 'I know a score o' women like me, 'oose husbands a' lorst arms an' legs ter them bleedin' tunnels. An' widders as well. Too many o' them damn railways is built on blood an' bones!'
'There've always been accidents,' Hester said reluctantly. 'Is any contractor especially bad?'
Collard shook his head angrily, his face dark. 'Not as I know. Course there's accidents, no one's gurnin' about that! Yer do 'ard work, yer take 'ard chances. The wife's just bellyachin' 'cos it in't easy fer 'er. Is it, Lu? In't no better bein' a coal miner or seaman, or lots o' other things.' He smiled mirthlessly. 'Don't s'pose it's always rum an' cakes bein' a soldier, is it?' He waited for her answer.
'No,' she agreed. 'What is it, then, that you are concerned about?'
The smile vanished.
'I'm more'n concerned, miss, I'm downright scared. They got 'ole lengths o' new sewer built, an' o' course there's still most o' the old bein' used. Get a couple o' slides, mud, cave-ins, an' yer got men cut off down there. If yer don't get drownded, it could be worse-burned.'
