September 1904
‘Margaret?’ Aunt Hatt said, looking up from her desk in the office. ‘Could you go and deliver this for me, d’you think?’ She held out an envelope addressed to a firm in Frederick Street. ‘And on your way back, go next door and ask Caleb Turner to come in when he’s got a minute, will you? Eb needs to speak to him.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Margaret said, turning to go. She had been to Mr Turner’s a number of times now. Aunt Hatt had at first been hesitant about asking her to run messages.
‘We don’t want you overdoing it,’ she said.
‘Auntie, I’m perfectly well now, thank you,’ Margaret said. ‘I shall enjoy it. It’s interesting.’
Three weeks had passed since she and Annie arrived in Birmingham. Margaret was moved by how kind and welcoming the Watts household had been. She realized, with shame, that she had not expected this in what she considered an ungodly household. She had settled into her tasks in the office and was finding all the work done in the quarter fascinating.
Georgie and Clara had come to the house to share a meal with them a couple of times. Clara was a lively, friendly redhead who both she and Annie liked immediately, and little Jimmy, just a year old, a beaming, freckled carrot top who made them all smile and was very happy to come and sit on her lap. Margaret was truly moved by the warmth of her mother’s family.
They had also taken the cable tram out into Staffordshire, along the Soho Road. On the way Uncle Eb pointed towards the window and said to Margaret, ‘Just over there’s where Matthew Boulton’s manufactory used to be. It would’ve been behind all them buildings – over on the heath – huge place, it was. They knocked it all down a while back – in the sixties. He was the feller really started all this jewellery trade here, yer know. Marvellous, all the things ’e did. He was the one who made sure Birmingham had its own Assay Office.’
‘Its own what, Uncle?’ Margaret asked.
‘Oh – the Assay Office – it’s where they check that everything’s what we say it is – the right quality of gold. Everything we make has to go through there – say we send them a batch of a hundred bracelets, they test one to make sure it’s got the right gold content, and then they mark all of them with the hallmark – that’s an anchor for Birmingham. That feller, Matthew Boulton, got sick of having to send all his goods to Chester which was the nearest – so he got them to set up an Assay Office here.’
Only Margaret benefited from this as Aunt Hatt was in full flow to Annie about all the different-coloured curtains she was going to have made for the new house and how she was planning to arrange the new parlour . . . Annie, not being one for fripperies, turned to Margaret and rolled her eyes: Margaret could only hope that this had been discreet enough for her aunt not to notice.
They alighted from the tramcar and walked through the sunny afternoon to see the famous new house. Georgie and Clara met them there with Jimmy and they all stood outside a very promising-looking shell of a building.
Aunt Hatt was going into raptures once again about hot-water pipes and bathrooms and Eb stood in the scrubby earth at the front peering inside.
‘Ooh, don’t go in there, Eb,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘You don’t want anything falling on you.’
‘It’s very big, isn’t it?’ Annie said.
‘I want us to have space for all my grandchildren to be here at once!’ Aunt Hatt said.
Georgie nudged Clara, who had Jimmy in her arms, and Margaret heard him say, ‘Best get to work then, hadn’t we?’
‘You watch it, Georgie Watts,’ Clara said, elbowing him back.
Margaret thought of this, smiling, as she went out. She had been glad the house did not seem to be almost ready, because even though it was roomy, she felt that her uncle and aunt should begin this new phase of their life without two nieces in tow. And at the moment she did not want to think about going back to face her father. In fact, these days she tried as hard as she could not to think of him at all.
This was not too difficult during working hours as her uncle and aunt kept her busy. Every day she took Annie her dinner at Masters, Hogg & Co. She often delivered messages, which gave her a chance to explore, and there were plenty of trips to the post office. For larger deliveries of goods, Aunt Hatt used one of the messenger boys who loaded up their basket trolleys full of precious goods. But there were always plenty of letters to post in addition to this.
At first Margaret had been frightened walking the streets, as if she was in a foreign country, amid people who seemed tougher, more energetic and determined than she could ever be. But already she was getting used to walking around the quarter and starting to look forward to it. All the mucky blue pavements, the busy streets hemmed in by warrens of workshops – now she had realized why people called the place a ‘hive of industry’ – were starting to feel familiar and less overwhelming. And apart from a curious stare now and then, most people were far too busy to trouble about her. The sun lit the shabby sides of buildings at an autumnal slant today, but it was not cold as she stepped out into the morning and she found she was walking faster, like everyone else here in the city, a spring in her step.
Some of the streets were dotted with the businesses of any normal town: shopkeepers selling bread and groceries, banks and pubs, wardrobe dealers, fishmongers, butchers, beer sellers . . . But Frederick Street was like a poem to the crafts of the district and each day she learned more of its lines. William Caley, chaser; David Montagu, gold chain maker; Arthur Cohen, gold ring maker; Herick Emile, gem setter; Clarence Clutterbuck, diamond mounter; Sanders & Son, precious stone dealers; Harrison & Hipwood, metal spinners; David Levy, watch manufacturers . . . On and on along the street on each side, unbroken by any other sort of commerce. The air was acrid with smoke and vitriol and other chemicals used for processing precious metals.
And that morning she noticed a plaque at one property which read ‘Dorothy Bradley & Son, Silversmith’. Surely that couldn’t be right? She paused for a moment to stare at Dorothy Bradley’s modest premises, full of a strange excitement. Could a woman really be a silversmith?
All her life, Margaret had never thought it possible to be anything apart from a wife or a missionary teacher. But perhaps there were all sorts of other possibilities?
Margaret was suddenly filled with a sick feeling of doubt. Here she was in this place, allowing it to corrupt her. Was that what it was? The devil’s seduction – in the crudest guise of gold and silver. A busy, energetic life, all geared to making money. How could she be lured in so quickly, so easily? Was this the City of Destruction from Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress and was she being tempted away from the wicket gate of Christ’s way? But – and this sickened her more – she had been so sure that Charles Barber was a message from God! She was going to marry Charles, be a minister’s wife, honour and please her beloved father . . .
‘Move over a bit, will yer, if ye’re just gunna stand there,’ a voice yelled at her. A lad was behind her with a basket trolley, trying to get it along the pavement.
Margaret stepped to one side, a hand over her mouth as nausea rose in her. She drew in deep breaths until it began to fade and walked on to deliver Aunt Hatt’s message, a feeling of sudden, utter exhaustion coming over her.
‘Dear God, no,’ she prayed. ‘Not this again – please don’t let me be ill again . . .’
After delivering her message in Frederick Street, she returned slowly to Chain Street, gradually recovering as she walked. The door of number twenty-four, her next task, was open and she saw the middle-aged man, in what she had learned was Mr Tallis’s front office, turn to look up at her over his spectacles and give her a brief nod before returning to his work.
Margaret climbed the dusty staircase. Apart from Caleb Turner, she was not familiar with the people who worked here. And though she now knew by sight the man in the front office and a middle-aged woman who also worked there, of Mr Tallis, who seemed to have the run of all the ground floor including his shopping at the back, she had seen no sign. She had once or twice caught sight of a young girl with long fair hair, who Aunt Hatt said was his daughter.
Caleb Turner’s workshop was on the first floor at the front. Uncle Eb thought highly of him, and though he was not the only die sinker her uncle employed to execute his designs, Mr Turner did a lot of work for him.
At her knock, Margaret heard a muffled response which she took to mean she should enter. As she came in, Caleb Turner turned from his workbench under the window. He was a middle-aged man, pale, with thin, grizzled hair and a temperament that could be described as unexcitable.
‘Oh, it’s you, bab,’ he said. ‘I dain’t ’ear yer on the stairs, yer that light-footed. Yer old man want to see me again?’ He always talked to her as if she was Eb’s daughter, even though he knew perfectly well she was not.
Margaret nodded, attempting to smile. She liked and trusted Caleb Turner. He had a wife and four children and seemed such a mild person.
‘You’re white as a sheet, wench.’ He swivelled round a bit more and peered at her, as if eyes so used to close work had to strain to see anything further away. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Margaret fiddled with the bottom button of her cardigan, embarrassed by his scrutiny. To distract him, she said, ‘May I see what you are working on?’
‘All right.’ He indicated with his head. ‘Come and ’ave a look.’
She moved, intrigued, towards the bench which was littered with tools. Dust motes floated in the light from the window. In front of Caleb was a circular die. She was astonished by his work. He could carve the most involved-looking things in a day or two. Bending to look closely, Margaret saw, carved into the metal, a face, about an inch and a half high, the back of the head draped in a robe. The two halves of the die would fit together perfectly, with a thin piece of metal in between, into which the pattern would be stamped.
‘It’s for the coffin factory,’ Caleb said. ‘The Virgin Mary, that is – for the Catholics, like. I do a bit for them now and again – and one of their own fellers passed on last week, so they’re short-handed.’ She realized he meant what was called ‘coffin furniture’ – metal decoration for wooden coffins.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Margaret said. In her upbringing, anything to do with Mary, the mother of God, was seen as alien popery, but the thing was so lovely that this did not seem to matter. All she wanted was to gaze at it.
‘Oh, it’s cheap tat they’ll be stamping out of it,’ Caleb said cheerfully. ‘But there you go – it’s only going under the ground in the end, ain’t it? Any road, I’ve got to get this done. Tell Eb I’ll be round dinner time.’