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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.
