Necessary as Blood

quiet, council-estate-lined streets of Bethnal Green. Her hip began to ache from Charlotte‘s weight.
    As she neared Columbia Road, she began to pass pedestrians going the other way. Some carried bunches of cut flowers, some potted plants, some even pulled trolleys filled with shrubs or small palm trees.
    She heard the market before she saw it, the noise coming in staccato bursts. At first it sounded like a foreign language, then, as they grew nearer, the words resolved themselves into English, bawled in a cockney singsong patter. ‘Nice buncha daisies a five-a. Get yer tulips now, three bunches a tenn-a!
    Turning a corner, she passed by the pocket park and plunged into the bottom end of Columbia Road Flower Market. Every Sunday morning at the break of dawn, the flower vendors set up their stalls here, hawking everything from boxes of bedding flowers to small trees. It was only as an adult that Sandra had come to know the market from an outsider‘s viewpoint, as she had worked her way through school and art college here, helping Roy Blakely at his stall.
    Sandra hugged Charlotte closer and pushed through the crowd, ducking away from the tendrils of a stall‘s climbing roses that threatened to catch in her hair. Roy stood beneath his green-and-white-striped awning, tucking a folded note into the purse he wore at his waist. When he saw Sandra and Charlotte, he winked. ‘Come for the best of the lot, have we?‘
    The vendors would sell everything before they knocked their stalls down, and Roy would let Sandra pay only a pittance for the leavings on the stall. Her loft was full of potted plants, her small garden riotous, and most weeks she took home bunches of cut flowers for the house, but not today.
    ‘Cupcakes,‘ said Charlotte seriously, eyeing Treacle, the shop near Roy‘s stall. ‘Lemon.‘
    ‘Not just yet.‘ Sandra let her slide to the ground. ‘Roy, can I ask a favour? I‘ve something — I‘ve an errand. Would you mind watching Charlotte for just a bit? It won‘t be long — we‘re supposed to meet Naz at two.‘ She glanced at her watch, feeling the pressure of time.
    Charlotte jumped over a box of pansies and wrapped herself around Roy‘s knees. ‘Can I sell flowers, Uncle Roy?‘
    ‘That you can, love.‘ Roy stooped to give her a hug. ‘Go on, then,‘ he added to Sandra. ‘I can manage, now the punters have thinned.‘
    Sandra hesitated just for a moment, tempted by the comforting familiarity of the market. It would be easy to slip on an apron and give Roy a hand. But she‘d made up her mind, and now she must see it through.
    Bending, she gave Charlotte a kiss. ‘Right. Thanks, Roy. Ill owe you.‘
    Sandra glanced at her watch. It was five minutes past one. Waving to Charlotte, she turned away. When she reached the comer, a sudden impulse made her glance back, but the crowd had obscured her daughter as seamlessly as a closing zip.

Chapter One

Sadly, I have recently come to accept what I refused to accept for so long: that the house may be only ephemeral.

Dennis Severs, 18 Folgate Street:
The Tale of a House in Spitalfields

    The streets were greasy with moisture. The air inside the bus felt thick, almost solid, and in the damp August heat the personal-hygiene deficiencies of some of the passengers were all too apparent.
    Gemma James stood near the centre doors as the number 49 lumbered south over Battersea Bridge, gripping the stanchion, trying not to breathe through her nose. The man in the seat beside her stank of more than unwashed body — alcohol fumes came off him in waves, and when the bus lurched he swayed against her.
    Why had she thought taking the bus a good idea? And on a Saturday. She‘d had a few errands to run in Kensington and hadn‘t wanted to bother with parking - that had been her excuse, at least. The truth was that she‘d craved the mindlessness of it, had wanted to sit and watch London going about its business without any assistance on her part. She hadn‘t planned on having to protect her personal space quite so diligently.
    When the bus ground to a halt just past the bridge, she was tempted to get off and walk, but her map told her there was still a good way to go, and a few sluggish raindrops splattered against the already-dirty windows. To her left she could see the rise of Battersea Park, an impressionistic grey-green blur through the smeared glass. The doors opened and closed with a pneumatic swish. The drunk man stayed resolutely put.
    Gemma