Annie, supporting Margaret by the arm, looked about her with eager interest. Jack Sidwell walked ahead of them, carrying a bag in each hand.
Annie’s lips turned up for a second at the sight of Jack as they wove along the busy pavement. There was a rash creeping up his neck and every time he looked at her, he blushed furiously. It was like Adam Blake all over again, she thought contemptuously. Adam, a lad in the village, was forever gawping at her yet couldn’t manage to get a coherent word out of his mouth. She seemed to have this effect on boys, but from her point of view they (and men in general) were all rather ridiculous.
Annie, aged seventeen, had a grand view of her life and how it was going to proceed, and this towering vision did not particularly involve the presence of males. Especially not if their father or most of the other men she knew were anything to go by.
They were walking along the busiest streets she had ever seen: narrow, cobbled, the blue brick pavements teeming with people. On each side rose buildings, elegant under their coating of soot, some ornately patterned with carvings, and in various colours of brick. Some were obviously large manufactories from which issued metallic clangs and crashes. You could feel the vibrations of thumping and banging through the pavement. Some of the warrens of terraces could have been mistaken for dwellings alone, had it not been for all the signs and plaques announcing that they contained a host of businesses. And everywhere, on each floor and in every available space, were windows, long and light-welcoming, elegantly shaped, some arched, some decorative. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of someone bent over a bench behind one of the ground-floor windows and here and there glowed a bright finger of flame. Smoke poured from chimneys, adding to the stenches of the fetid summer air.
Annie looked about her, finding it all most exciting. She had always wanted to get out and see more of the world, and now this was a chance to begin. All the same, she was concerned about Margaret, who was much frailer than she was. Her sister did seem to be reviving though, now that they were out walking in the air – even this balmy air, thick with smoke and grit, so different from the freshness of their village home.
All around was an astonishing commotion of people, some talking, others silent and hurrying down the street. The girls had to keep alert to make sure they did not collide with anyone. Annie found herself twisting this way and that. A barefoot boy forcing a barrow bigger than himself along the pavement passed so close to her that he brushed her skirt; people scurried in and out of buildings; carts clattered past, horses leaving piles of their doings on the road, clouds of flies shifting about them. That, at least, was a smell that was familiar.
‘Are you feeling better?’ Annie asked, squeezing Margaret’s arm.
Margaret nodded bravely, though she was still pale. ‘Those people were kind,’ she murmured. ‘Like mother used to say.’
Margaret and Annie’s Birmingham-born mother had died six years ago and they longed for her every day. As children, they had asked her for stories about when she was growing up, in the city, before she met their father.
‘There’re plenty of good people in Birmingham,’ she used to say. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you different. Some of them may be rough and ready, but most of them’ve got hearts of gold.’
In a few moments, they reached their destination, another road of high terraces and smut-coated bricks.
‘So, this is it,’ Jack Sidwell said, stopping outside numbers twenty-four and twenty-six Chain Street.
Margaret looked up at the buildings, a pair of adjoining three-storey houses, their front doors side by side. At number twenty-four, to the left, the flat sash windows were flush with the building, but at number twenty-six, these had been replaced by wide bays dustily reflecting the sky.
Screwed to the side of this front door was a brass plaque which read ‘Ebenezer Watts & Son, Goldsmith & Jeweller’. Below it were two very small ones advertising ‘J. Sidwell, Enamelling’ and ‘Sidney R. Cole, Gem Setting’. At number twenty-four, the largest sign read ‘P. Tallis, Silversmith, Engraver’ and below, almost too small to read, was ‘C. Turner – Die Sinker’.
‘Mrs Watts?’ Jack called out as he led them into number twenty-six. ‘I’ve got ’em!’ Realizing too late that this made them sound like parcels, he tried again, pompously. ‘Your nieces are here!’ Margaret glanced at Annie and saw her smirking at his clumsiness.
‘Oh, girls, at last!’
In the brown light of the hall, they heard Aunt Harriet before she appeared from the first door to their right. Margaret felt the tension inside her ease in relief and pleasure at the sight of their aunt. She had met her only once as a small child and then not again until their mother’s funeral in ’98, which felt like a long time ago. Now she was meeting a woman with the loveliest, kindest face she thought she had ever seen.
Harriet Watts was a small, comfortably rounded woman with vivacious brown eyes and dark chestnut hair twisted back in a soft, becoming style. There was something exotic about Aunt Harriet which appealed immediately to Margaret. She was wearing a dress of dark crimson with a white collar, and in the gloom, points of golden light glittered from her ears and from a brooch at her throat as she hurried to greet them.
‘Margaret – oh, look at you!’ Aunt Harriet stood on tiptoes in her elegant little shoes, to kiss her cheek. ‘Well, I never – you’re taller than me now!’
Margaret felt the tears come at this warm welcome, even though she did not mean to cry.
‘And little Annie – oh, my word. You’re – seventeen, is it – already?’ Annie was kissed and pressed for a moment against Aunt Hatt’s sturdy, lavender-scented form. Their aunt stood back and gazed at both of them again. The gold earrings glistened as she moved her head.
‘Both so lovely. Oh, Eb’ll be delighted to see you. He’ll be through in a little while – he’s got a bit of a rush on today. Come through to the back . . . Oh, Jack!’ He was still lurking in the hall, holding his hat. ‘You can go now, thank you.’
‘I, er . . . Oh . . . Right.’ He disappeared up the staircase in front of them, the straw hat pressed to his chest.
‘Thank you, Mr Sidwell!’ Margaret called after him timidly, feeling that he had not been given quite enough credit for his efforts.
‘He’s a good lad,’ Aunt Harriet said, rolling her eyes comically. ‘Now, the front room here is the office.’ She put her head round the door for a moment. ‘Girls – these are my nieces, Margaret and Annie. I’m just going to settle them in.’
Margaret saw two young women, not much older than themselves: one, handsome and dark-haired, seated at a small desk; the other, a plump girl with round cheeks and spectacles, standing at a bench which ran under the window.
‘These are my right-hand women,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘This is Susan –’ she indicated the seated woman, who bowed her head solemnly – ‘and Bridget.’
She looks nice, Margaret thought, as Bridget said hello and smiled at them. The room was very crowded, crammed full of desks heaped with papers and shelves full of ledgers. On the bench was a pair of weighing scales.
‘Now, this is our room.’ Their aunt led them along the passage. In a recess in the wall to the left were pegs, on which hung coats and hats. ‘I try to keep it nice. So much of the house is given over to the business, but – anyway, we’ll soon have our new house, away from here! Did you know we are moving out – we’re building a house! I’ll take you up to your room presently – but I expect you’d like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, yes, please, Auntie,’ Annie said. She was always hungry. She ate like a horse and seemed to burn off food like one as well.
‘Fanny!’ Aunt Hatt said, calling commandingly, and a thin young woman with pale hair under a cap appeared from another room further along the passage.
‘Make us all a pot of tea, will you, please?’ Aunt Harriet said.
Fanny muttered, ‘Yes, Mrs Watts,’ and disappeared towards the kitchen, peering curiously at the sisters as she did so.
‘Come on in . . . We’ve a cook, Mrs Sullivan – she and Fanny come in during the daytime. Now, you come and sit comfy, my dears, and we’ll have our tea.’
The room smelt strongly of lavender mingled with coal dust from the grate. Margaret felt she had stepped into quite another world from that of their own puritanical home, in which any superfluous clutter or possession was forbidden.
The visible parts of the walls were covered in deep red paper patterned with gold-and-white flowers, and the curtains were in a similar shade. The mantelpiece was draped in velvet of the same warm red and crowded with a dense array of knick-knacks: candlesticks, china vases with lavender sprigs poking from them, ornaments and photographs, all competing for space with a large and loudly ticking brass carriage clock. The polished wooden floor was overlain with rugs and the room crowded with furniture.
Aunt Harriet left the room for a few moments to supervise the maid. As promising rattling sounds came from the kitchen, the girls removed their hats and, as instructed, settled in the leather chairs beside the unlit fire. The polished fender and mellow tick of the clock were homely and soothing.
Margaret sat back in her chair with a sigh of relief. They were here at last. Things felt safe and welcoming and she was eager to get to know her mother’s brother and Aunt Hatt too. But just now, she felt a sudden longing to sit back and go to sleep.
Annie, still alert, was looking curiously about her. There was a gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace, and on the wall opposite the window hung a painting of two little blonde children hand in hand in the waves of a sunlit beach.
‘You look like a bird in a new nest,’ Margaret remarked. She nodded at the painting, thinking of their own rare holidays by the sea, when they had a mother as well as a father, and of the golden innocence of the children. She was still fragile as a reed with shock after all that had happened. ‘That’s what we used to be like.’
‘We still are,’ Annie said, turning to her passionately. But her face creased with concern. ‘Are you all right? Not feeling . . . ill?’ She was always so worried, so protective after Margaret’s years as an invalid.
Margaret drew in a deep breath. ‘Yes. I’m quite all right. It was just the heat, I think.’
‘And all that talk about the hanging.’
‘Yes.’ Margaret lowered her head. Her voice came out brokenly after the silence that had stifled them all at home. ‘Oh, Annie, shouldn’t we be on our knees, repenting?’
‘We, repenting?’ Annie erupted. ‘Why, in heaven’s name . . . ?’
‘Here we are, dears!’
Aunt Harriet’s voice silenced her. She swung in through the door bearing a tray with a crockery teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate holding a generous-sized fruit cake, all of which must have taken some strength to carry. Aunt Hatt showed no sign of a struggle. She laid it on the table, which was covered in a white lace cloth.
She looked round at them, obviously sensing an atmosphere in the room.
‘Are you all right, dears?’
‘Yes, thank you, Aunt,’ Margaret said, fighting to slow her breathing.
Aunt Harriet had a calm warmth about her which was a balm to their frayed emotions. But Margaret knew that their aunt must be wondering what on earth was going on. Why they were here, needing to stay.
‘Now,’ Aunt Harriet said, pulling out a chair from under the table and seating herself gracefully on it. ‘I’ll just let that brew for a moment.’ She placed her hands in her lap, crossed her feet in their neat black shoes, leaned a little towards them and said, ‘Well, it’s very nice to see you both. How is your father?’
‘He’s well, thank you,’ Margaret said, managing a normal tone. ‘At least, his rheumatics trouble him a little, but he is very uncomplaining.’
‘He is,’ Aunt Harriet agreed. ‘A stoic soul, your father. Not neglecting himself for his flock, I hope?’ She was speaking cautiously, Margaret could see. Being tactful. Neither Aunt Harriet nor their mother’s brother, Uncle Ebenezer, were religious people.
‘No more than usual,’ Annie said.
Margaret gave her a look for the tone in her voice.
Aunt Harriet smiled warmly at them. Margaret thought how lovely she was to look at, but she could also see the uncertainty in her aunt’s eyes.
‘When you wrote and asked if you could come to us for a little while . . .’ She stopped, obviously not wanting to pry, but her confusion was clear. ‘Whatever the reason, dears, you’re welcome, especially now our Georgie has set up his own home. Only –’ she lowered her voice further – ‘I had the impression from what you said that there had been a spot of bother between you? I should hate to think of there being a rift of any sort in the family.’
Margaret and Annie exchanged glances. Margaret gave her sister a powerful look which said, Don’t you dare say anything. Not now.
‘No, Auntie, it’s not that . . .’ Margaret ran out of words; the blood was rushing to her face. I can’t just come out and tell her, she thought. Overwhelmed, she pressed her hands to her face and began to weep.
‘Oh, my dear –’ Aunt Harriet leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry for asking. Don’t get upset. We won’t talk about it – not unless you want to.’
‘I’m so ashamed,’ Margaret blurted, between her sobs. ‘I’m so sorry, Auntie – for putting you to all this trouble.’
‘She’s got nothing to be ashamed of!’ She heard Annie’s voice, low and fierce. ‘Margaret’s not the one at fault.’
‘All right, dear,’ Aunt Harriet said, seeming perturbed by Annie’s tone. ‘But we don’t need to go into anything now, do we?’
There was a silence in which Margaret managed to control her tears. She wiped her eyes and looked up.
‘Come along – tea.’ Aunt Harriet got up and they heard the comforting sound of pouring tea. ‘Here – have a piece of cake and let’s not be miserable, eh? Whatever it is, it can wait until you’re more rested.’