Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

The sketch cried out for color and Sandra exchanged her number 2 for a handful of colored pencils pulled from a chipped Silver Jubilee mug-a flea-market treasure kept for its accidental misspelling of the Duke of Edinburgh’s name.

Red for the dungarees, pink for the T-shirt, bright blues and greens for the puddled silks, warm brown for the polished floorboards.

Absently, she went back to the silks, her hand attempting to reproduce the half-formed memory of an intricate silk pattern she had seen. It had been sari silk, like those spilled on her floor, but an unusual pattern, tiny birds handwoven into the apple green fabric. She’d asked the girl who wore it where it had come from, and the child had answered in soft, halting English, saying her mother had given it to her. But when Sandra asked if her mother had bought it here, in London, the girl had gone mute and looked frightened, as if she’d spoken out of bounds. And the next time Sandra visited, she had been gone.

Sandra frowned at the recollection and Charlotte stirred, as if unconsciously responding. Afraid she would lose her opportunity to capture the tableau, Sandra reached for her camera and snapped. She checked the image, nodding as she saw Charlotte’s sleeping face framed by silk, timeless now.

Timeless, like the faces in the cages in her collage…A sudden inspiration made her glance at the collage. What if…What if she used photo transfer for the faces of the women and girls, rather than fabric and paint? She could use the faces of women and children she knew, if they would agree.

Charlotte stretched and opened her eyes, smiling sleepily. A good-natured child, Charlotte was seldom cross unless tired or hungry, a blessing Sandra was sure she had not bestowed on her own mum. Setting down her camera, she knelt and lifted her daughter. “Nice nap, sweetie?” she asked as Charlotte twined her arms round her neck for a hug. Charlotte’s hair was damp from sun and sleep and her pale caramel skin still held a faint scent of baby muskiness, but she didn’t give her mother much chance to nuzzle.

Squirming from Sandra’s arms, she went to the worktable. “Duck pencils, Mummy,” she said, eyeing the empty mug. “I want to draw, too.”

Sandra considered, glancing at the clock, at the sun-brightened windows, and once again at the half-finished collage on the worktable. She knew from experience that she’d reached the point where staring at the board wouldn’t provide a solution, and besides, she wanted to try out her photo idea. A break was in order.

It was not quite noon; Charlotte had been up early and Sandra had let her fall asleep before her usual nap time. They’d agreed to meet Naz for lunch at two, that is, if he could drag himself away from the office. She gave a sharp shake of her head at the thought. He and Lou had both been working much too hard on an upcoming case, and Naz was showing uncharacteristic signs of strain. Family Sundays had always been a priority for them, especially since Charlotte’s birth, as they both were determined to give her the secure childhood neither of them had had.

Naz had been orphaned, his Christian parents murdered in Pakistan by the swell of fundamentalist Muslim violence in the seventies. Sent to London in the care of an aunt and uncle who felt themselves burdened by the charge, he had grown up adjusting to the loss of both family and culture.

And Sandra, well, her family didn’t bear thinking about.

But as for her husband, no Bangladeshi restaurant owner’s troubles with the law were worth damaging what they had so carefully built. She would have to have a word with Naz. In the meantime, it was a perfect May day, and there was still time to go to Columbia Road.

“I have a better idea,” she told Charlotte, putting the pencils firmly back in the cup. “Let’s go see Uncle Roy.”

Sandra held Charlotte’s hand as they made their way up Brick Lane through the bustle of the Sunday market. Fall-off-the-lorry day, Naz always called the Sunday market, with a hint of disapproval. He was right, of course. Half the things hawked by the traders had either fallen off a lorry or been smuggled across the Channel in the back of one. But Sandra loved it-loved the tatty chaos of it, the vendors with their makeshift trestle tables selling everything from French wine to cases of oranges (no doubt rotten at the bottom) to old car batteries.

When they passed the Old Truman Brewery, Charlotte tugged at her hand. “Roots, Mummy,” she said, pointing into Ely Yard. In the car park behind the brewery, an old Routemaster bus had been turned into a vegan restaurant called Rootmaster. Charlotte didn’t understand the pun but loved to eat in its top deck. The bus rocked with the wind and with the waitress’s tread on the curving stairs, and Charlotte would shriek with joy at every sway.

“Not now, sweetie.” Sandra clasped her hand more firmly. “We’ll meet Daddy there in a bit. And when we get to Columbia Road, I’ll buy you a cupcake for after.”

She waved at her friends in the vintage-clothing shop where she often bought things to use in her collages, but resisted the temptation to go in. The window gave back a distorted reflection of her mop of blond hair, and of Charlotte’s, a few shades darker but just as curly.

It was only as they neared the railway line that Sandra slowed, then stopped. When Charlotte tugged at her hand again, she scooped her up and propped her on her hip. In one of the recessed brick arches under the old railway bridge, an anonymous artist had pasted a black-and-white photo image of a young woman. She was nude, shown from the pelvis up, her torso almost as slender as a boy’s. The shape of the surrounding brick arch suggested an icon, and the subject gazed out at the viewer with such a serene grace that Sandra had mentally dubbed her “the Madonna of Brick Lane.”

But she was fading, the Madonna, the paper wrinkling, the edges beginning to peel and curl. Soon she would disappear, in the way of street art, to be replaced by another artist’s vision. Sandra pulled out her camera and snapped a shot. Now, at least, the Madonna would be preserved.

The inspiration she’d had in the studio suddenly crystallized. She would use photo transfers, yes, but fade them…They would vanish as had the women and girls held captive in so many ways over the years. Vanish like the girl with the sari-

Oh, no, surely not…Sandra tightened her grip on Charlotte. She’d heard the stories, of course, but not connected them with anyone she knew. It was impossible. Unthinkable. And yet…

She must be mad, she told herself, shaking her head. But now that the idea had taken hold, it grew, blossoming in all its permutations into something monstrous.

Charlotte squirmed. “Mummy, you’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Sandra relaxed her grip and kissed the top of Charlotte’s curls.

“I want to go. I want to see Daddy,” said Charlotte, kicking her trainer-clad toes against Sandra’s leg.

“We’ll see Daddy. But-” Sandra glanced once more at the Madonna, then turned away, keeping Charlotte on her hip, hurrying now. The suspicion might be mad, but she would have to prove herself wrong. She had an excuse for a visit-she’d ask to take a photo, for the collage. It wasn’t far. She’d just need to leave Charlotte with Roy for a bit.

She crossed Bethnal Green Road, then made her way through the 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 wagons filled with shrubs or small palm trees.