Daisy Tallis now made a habit of waiting out on the front step of number twenty-four. Although the air was full of autumn chills and the evenings closing in earlier, when Margaret stepped out of the house or was coming home along the street in the late afternoon, she often saw the young girl sitting there.
Daisy hardly ever looked straight at her. She would turn her head this way and that, seeming to look dreamily into the distance. Eventually, once Margaret drew close enough, Daisy’s gaze would take her in, as if this was purely accidental.
‘Hello, Daisy.’ Margaret always greeted her with a friendly smile.
‘Hello.’ Daisy often looked solemn at first, but then her lips would curve up in spite of herself and suddenly she would change into an eager little girl.
Soon it became obvious that Daisy really was waiting for her and Margaret got into the habit of stopping for a chat. Aunt Hatt talked about Daisy as a poor, motherless thing and Margaret was drawn to the child. Annie, being Annie, had dived in head first and involved herself with the Poole family, feeding the hungry and clothing the naked – more or less. Talking to a lonely child was the least Margaret felt she could do. And Daisy only lived next door. Margaret never seemed to see her with other companions. Daisy, with her sad, watchful eyes, seemed marooned in a world of adults.
Margaret asked herself often these days whether she should not volunteer her services in some way at Carrs Lane church. She and Annie were only going to church once on a Sunday now instead of three times and it was quite a walk away. But, even more than that, something in her rebelled against the idea. Church, church – doing everything Father’s way all the time? No! She could not face up fully to how angry she felt with her father, how hurt by his betrayal. She would not do this – follow his rule, his confining path, even when she was far away from him. They had these weeks away – and now it felt as if there was so much more of life to find out about!
On Saturday morning, after Annie had gone to do her cleaning at Masters, Hogg & Co., Margaret was in the office as usual with her aunt and uncle, and Susan and Bridget. Their employees were also in the workshop, cleaning. There was no particular rush on this week and at dinner time they were all going to knock off for the weekend.
All was quiet and industrious in the office. Margaret was writing envelopes for invoices. The only sounds came from the street or from Aunt Hatt’s scratchy pen, Bridget spiking a completed order form or Susan’s occasional sniffing – except when Uncle Eb, wearing his overall, came billowing in like a small tornado before disappearing again.
On his next appearance, Aunt Hatt looked up at him with an expression that dared him to disturb them as he started picking up and laying down some of the post received that morning. Margaret continued writing on an envelope.
‘Ah,’ she heard her uncle say. ‘Germany, eh? Well, well. Not somewhere Georgie’s been lately, is it?’
‘That’s unusual,’ Aunt Hatt murmured, head still bent over her work, not wanting to encourage him. A moment later, the fragile peace was broken by a snort.
‘Feller called von Titz – with a z!’ Eb let out a bellow of laughter which set Susan giggling. Aunt Hatt looked disapprovingly at her husband over her spectacles, though her mouth was twitching.
‘Ebenezer Watts, you should be ashamed, in front of your niece,’ she said.
Margaret, having no idea what this was all about, looked at them, bewildered.
‘Oh-ho – von Titz! That’s a good one . . . Now . . . Hmmm . . . What does he want?’ Uncle Eb’s laughter subsided as he got caught up in the correspondence, stroking his beard. ‘Well, I’m blowed – two of them. There’s two orders in here – this is from . . .’ He read slowly, his eyes widening. ‘Ah – they’re related. A Mr Friedrich Schmale. Says he’s in London . . . South coast . . . blah blah . . . Coming to visit – in a couple of weeks’ time! Well, I’m . . .’
‘What does he want?’ Aunt Hatt looked up at last. But Eb was already in a flurry of action.
‘Margaret, young wench,’ he said, arms waving. ‘Go next door, will yer, and see if Caleb Turner’s still knocking about. Get him in here, soon as ’e can . . .’
‘Of course,’ Margaret said. She made a mental note to ask Aunt Hatt later what was so funny about the name von Titz.
She stepped out into a golden morning, squinting in the slanting, smoky light. Sure enough, Daisy Tallis was perched on the step next door. The moment Margaret greeted her, the young girl raised her head eagerly.
‘Are you watching life go by again, Daisy?’ Margaret said kindly. Her uncle was in a hurry as ever, but she did not want to push past without a word. After all, the Germans were not on the doorstep at this moment.
‘Yes.’ The girl nodded. Her head was bare today, the curtain of thick, honey-coloured hair down her back. A little smile teased at the corners of her mouth.
What a lovely child, Margaret thought. She often found herself wondering about Daisy’s mother. Aunt Hatt had told her that the woman’s name had been Florence and she had died giving birth to another child, which had also left this world before its life had even begun. Equally mysterious was Daisy’s father. Even after living here for a few weeks, Margaret had never, so far as she knew, set eyes on him.
‘Do you know if Mr Turner is still in, Daisy?’ Margaret asked. ‘I’ve a message for him.’
‘I think so,’ Daisy said.
I can’t miss Caleb Turner if he comes out, she thought. It wouldn’t hurt to stand and talk to Daisy a little longer. She was just searching for something to say when she saw a tall, bearded man striding along the road in a long black coat, an unusual black beret-like hat tugged down lopsidedly on his head. In seconds his purposeful walk brought him level with them and he turned in energetically at the gate. The man gave Margaret a brief nod and swooped down upon Daisy to touch her cheek, just for a second, with teasing affection.
‘Hello, Miss Daisy!’ he said jovially. ‘Is your pa about?’
‘Yes, Mr Carson,’ Daisy said, shuffling aside to let this whirlwind of a person in. He vanished at high speed into the house and Margaret heard him call, ‘Morning, Mr Henshaw!’ to the man in the front office.
‘Goodness,’ Margaret said. She had stood back to let him pass and only caught a glimpse of the dark beard and moustache and vivacious, smiling eyes. ‘Who was that?’
‘Mr Carson,’ Daisy said.
This did not enlighten Margaret any further.
‘He teaches at the jewellery school – with Mr Cuzner,’ Daisy said, adding fervently, ‘Mr Cuzner makes lovely things. My pa has known him all his life.’
‘I see,’ Margaret said. The sense of wonder that often overcame her in this place only increased. And she could not ignore the effect she felt from the man who had just dashed into the house, so bright-eyed and vigorous. Instantly she thought of Charles Barber and this brought only disgust and deep pain. Had she not been affected like this by Charles as well? All those exciting, shameful feelings – her obsession with him, her desire. It had only brought her punishment. Never again would she fall for the charm of a man! She was better off on her own.
‘Do you like drawing, Daisy?’ she said, with an effort to escape her churning thoughts.
‘Oh, yes – I do!’ Daisy said, seeming to light up at this.
‘Well – why don’t you come and see me later,’ Margaret said, pleased. ‘If your father will let you. And we’ll see what we can do.’
Noting to herself that she must buy paper and pencils, she went into number twenty-four. The door of the front office was only open a crack now. Stopping in the dark hall for a moment, Margaret listened, curious to find out if there was any sign of the lively visitor, or of Daisy’s father, but the middle door was closed. She could hear the low rhythm of male voices from behind it, but there was nothing to see, so she headed up the dusty staircase to Caleb Turner’s workroom.
‘I think it’s a job for someone in Germany,’ she told him. ‘Well – perhaps two jobs, Uncle said.’
Caleb Turner turned from his work table to look impassively at her and said, ‘Oh, ar? I’ll be over in a tick, then.’
Margaret departed downstairs wondering what exactly would excite Caleb Turner.
The hall seemed a fraction lighter than when she had come in and, reaching the bottom of the stairs, she saw that the door to the middle room was standing open. It seemed whoever had been in there was no longer and all was quiet. Perhaps the men had gone to the workshop at the back, she thought – including that Mr Carson. She saw him again in her mind’s eye, striding along the street.
She glanced at the front office, the door still just open a little. No one seemed to be moving about, and in a moment of curiosity, she stepped up close to the middle room. This must be where Daisy’s father works, she thought.
Through the gap in the doorway she could just see the fireplace and, at the far end, under the window, a bench with tools scattered on it. Beside them rested something bright, its curves accentuated by the light falling on it. She felt herself take a sharp breath and gathered her arms in, one hand going to her neck. To her astonishment a lump rose in her throat and a prickle of tears in her eyes.
There was something in the shape that made her move closer, narrowing her eyes to make it out. The object was a silver bowl, eight or nine inches across, the rim of which had been skilfully turned out and flattened. Even Margaret’s unpractised eye could see from the way the mottled surface of it caught the light, that it was hand-beaten. It rested on a silver base about half an inch deep.
The thing was magnificent – its shape, its proportion and simplicity, its subtle sheen – so beautiful that she could not stop gazing at it. How lovely, how very lovely, her mind kept repeating. She felt full of joyous excitement, as if she had been offered a revelation of something divine – beauty for the sheer, celebratory sake of it; a testimony to loveliness in the world. It was an object into which someone had poured their very soul.
Nothing in her life outside of nature had offered her beauty of this kind before. That anyone could fashion such a thing from a bare metal, using their hands, seemed a miracle.
She was tempted to slip into the empty room, to look closer, to cup her hands round the lovely thing. But the bang of a door closing somewhere at the back of the premises sent her scuttling towards the front door and out on to the street, in a turmoil.
Were these feelings all another snare of the devil, like Charles Barber, or was such beauty truly a working of the divine?
At dinner time, all the talk was about the Germans. Uncle Eb divulged that the two men were cousins. Herr Schmale was apparently in London: he had seen a gold bracelet in a shop in Hatton Garden and enquired as to the maker of it, since it was not the name of the jeweller under which pieces were sold, but rather the retailer.
Herr Schmale made it clear that he had been enchanted by the piece and was also interested in the process. He was keen to see how things were made and even to have a hand in the design of something unique for his fiancée.
While he was at it, his cousin, Herr von Titz, also wished to place an order – for individual framed portraits of his seven daughters. He would apparently be sending photographs for this purpose. Evidently Caleb Turner had accepted the possible challenge of creating dies for this order in his usual quiet way. Oh, ar, most likely, Margaret thought.
Annie, who had been working hard all morning, was silenced by hunger, eating Mrs Sullivan’s liver, gravy and potatoes as fast as a hungry dog. But during a gap in the conversation, Margaret could not resist asking about the stranger she had seen go into number twenty-four. Could it be he who had made the beautiful bowl – or was it the work of the mysterious Mr Tallis?
‘There was a man next door when I went to see Mr Turner,’ she said. ‘Rather a . . . noticeable sort of person . . .’
‘Like a ship in full sail?’ Uncle Eb said, charging his fork with potato. ‘Coat-tails? Queer hat?’
‘Yes. Exactly like that,’ Margaret said, smiling. ‘The little girl, Daisy, called him Mr Carson.’
‘That’s the one,’ Eb said. ‘He’ll have come to see Tallis. He’s one of them from the jewellery school – in Vittoria Street. There’s a couple of ’em come back and to, wooing Tallis. Not that it gets ’em anywhere.’
Annie polished off her last mouthful and fixed her gaze longingly on the remaining potatoes. Aunt Hatt laughed and spooned two on to her plate.
‘Healthy appetite you’ve got, wench, I’ll say that for you,’ she said. ‘Look at you – tiny thing. I don’t know where you put it all.’
Annie was too busy eating to reply.
‘Wooing him? Why?’ Margaret said.
‘Ask me another,’ Eb shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. I hardly see the feller. He’s a retiring sort, but he was about more before his missus passed on – that’s a good while back now. Nice lady she was, weren’t ’er, Hatt?’
‘Florence Tallis? Oh, yes – quite a character she was. Made some of her own things too.’
‘You mean she was a silversmith?’ Margaret asked.
‘Now and then,’ Eb conceded, rather grudgingly. ‘Not like a real professional smith, but a few of the ladies like to sort of have a go, you know.’
I’d like to have a go, Margaret found herself thinking – to her own surprise.
‘But this Mr Carson,’ she said. She felt a blush moving through her cheeks and even Annie, hearing something in her voice, had stopped gazing solely at the food and was looking at her. ‘Who is he?’
‘As I say, he teaches at Vittoria Street,’ Eb said. ‘It only opened a few years back, but a lot of them do their training there now. Come to think of it, his wife’s some sort of smith an’ all.’
‘You didn’t train there yourself then, Uncle?’ Margaret asked. She was somehow relieved to hear that Mr Carson had a wife.
‘Oh, no – there weren’t nothing like that. Learned off my father, I did. He never had a big shopping like we’ve got here.’ She could hear the pride in his voice. ‘But he taught me what I know, all right – no need for some bloomin’ school and all them fancy ideas.’
‘Well, you obviously learned well,’ Margaret said carefully, hearing the defensive pride in her uncle’s voice.
‘You ask Mr von Titz – he likes my work!’ Eb sat back and chuckled again.
‘Aunt Hatt,’ Margaret went on quickly, ‘I asked little Daisy Tallis if she would like to come in for a bit of drawing or something this afternoon. Would it be all right for me to go out and buy a few pencils for her?’
‘Course you can, dear,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘I always feel that no one does enough for that child, with only the maid and that odd father of hers. Now there’s a kind thought if ever there was one.’