‘I shall return soon, Monster, never fear. Soon.’

Ada got to her feet and groped her way back to the spiral stair, her cane extended.

Tap, tap, tap.

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

I found myself with Abigail again soon after. The ’Grims lost no time in rounding up the favoured few and carting us – by chartered charabanc, no less – from the chapel to ‘Sweetville’ itself. We soon found ourselves in a plainly furnished waiting room – more like a corridor, and we scarcely fitted in, there was so many of us eager to join up. Abigail and me was right at the back – pushed tight up against a door marked ‘Mill – Strictly No Entry!’ – written in big, red gothic letters. You could hear the Mill’s machines shrieking and clanking away behind the door like a caged beast straining at its bonds.

Abigail squeezed my arm, her round face shining with the vim of it all. ‘I’m dead nervous aren’t you?’

I just shrugged.

‘They have to be sure, you see,’ she continued. ‘Only the best for Sweetville! I hope me teeth don’t let me down. If I stay in me old job any longer, I reckon I’ll rot.’

‘You been there that long?’

‘No, I mean I’ll really rot. It’s from the stuff they dip the matches in.’ She said the next word with some difficulty. ‘Phosphorus. It gets into your bones. Eats you away. Some of the older ones come off shift glowing in the dark!’

I tried to change the subject. ‘What’s up with your teeth anyway?’

Abigail pulled a face. ‘Like old pegs they are. Never been me best feature.’ She put up her plump little hand to cover her mouth. ‘I’ve not asked where you’re from. Not local, are you?’

‘Nah. Up from London.’

‘London!’ she said, and she sort of breathed it like it was a magic spell or something. ‘Different up here then I bet.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I looked up and down the row of applicants. ‘Like a bleedin’ horse-market. Do you know anyone who’s come to live here? In Sweetville, I mean?’

Abigail looked a bit unsure. ‘I … I had a pal who come here three month back. Sissy. She wrote to tell me how perfect it all were.’ Her face fell again. ‘Funny, though. I’ve not heard a peep from her since … Ooh. Hang on. We’re moving!’