Margaret was already eating her breakfast the next morning when Uncle Eb came bouncing down the stairs, booming out, ‘Nita! Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part!’ with a cheerful soulfulness. He scraped out the porridge pot – ‘Lean thou on my heart!’ he finished, head back as if howling at the moon.
Margaret laughed. She was getting used to Uncle Eb and loved his cheerful, optimistic nature.
‘Our mother used to sing,’ she said. ‘You remind me of her.’
Their mother had been the less conventional of their parents, and the one who lived with most joy. Tears filled Margaret’s eyes without her expecting it and Eb saw as he turned to her.
‘Well,’ he said kindly, sitting down with his bowl of porridge. ‘That’s to be expected, I suppose. She was a good’un, your ma. We had some happy times growing up here together, Lil and me. I missed her when she went off and lived over there. But it was what she wanted.’
‘When you’ve got more time, one day – will you tell Annie and me more about when you were young and you worked for your father?’
‘Ar – I’ll have a think.’ He smiled. ‘Memory lane – seems a good while back now. Though when you come down to it, nothing much’s changed – in terms of the job, what we did then is what we do now.’
He set about his porridge, looking up at her with such an appearance of twinkling joy that she laughed.
‘You’re very cheerful,’ she said. ‘Has Herr Schmale definitely put his order in – and the other gentleman?’
‘Herr Schmale?’ Eb plonked his bowl on the table, looking for a second as if he had no idea who either of the German customers were. ‘Oh! Yes – we’ve got started on the design of Freddie’s brooch. Von Titz is sending photographs.’
‘That’s wonderful news.’ She ate her last spoonful. ‘Uncle – may I ask you something?’
‘Umm?’ he said amiably.
‘I don’t quite understand – about the Arts and Crafts people. What’s – I suppose I mean, why do you not see yourself as one of them?’
‘Oh,’ Uncle Eb said, sitting back. ‘Well – I suppose I am. But that doesn’t mean they would see me as one of them. Too much of a rough diamond, me. They’re all very purist – everything by hand. Division of labour – the enemy. Machine-made things – the enemy.’ He mocked with a solemn expression. ‘Filthy lucre. Trouble is, it takes them an age to make anything and hardly anyone can afford it when they do. And I think, well, a man’s got to make a living and why shouldn’t . . . Let’s say the girls working in the pen factory with Annie . . . Those girls are never going to earn much, but why shouldn’t they be able to afford a bit of finery as well? The purists might call it tat, but a bit of gold on a woman never goes amiss, even if it’s nine carat.’
‘So you would be seen as just commercial?’
‘I am commercial. Churning it out, that’s how they’d look at me. You know what they say, “Give a Birmingham maker a guinea and a copper kettle and he’ll make you a hundred pounds of jewellery.” I put my hand up to that. Some of it’s tat. But what we make is a treat to look at as well.’ He grinned. ‘That lot’re just worried that blokes like me’ll put ’em out of business!’
At last she got round to uttering the name that so fascinated her. ‘What about Mr Tallis? He seems to do both.’
‘Oh –’ Uncle Eb got to his feet. ‘Tallis is a purist at heart. But a man has to make a living – and he’s one of the best. But he’s on his own, Tallis. Good for ’im.’ He turned, leaving his bowl on the table. ‘Them lot in the Guilds and that – very queer. Vegetarians and such.’
With these damning words, he set off to work.
The premises of Watts & Son were buzzing with activity. Herr Schmale had requested that he might be able to take his brooch – an expensive item – back to Germany with him. Yesterday there had been furious sessions of design and redesign. He wanted flowers, then he wanted leaves. Then flowers and leaves. Or should he have a fierce sunburst of colour, wrought in enamel instead of jewels? He seemed bedazzled by all the possibilities.
But by the end of the day, the design had been settled on an opulent combination of leaves and berries – emeralds, rubies and diamonds – which would all be cradled into the gold setting by Sid Cole and his helper, another fine and experienced gem setter. Caleb Turner had worked through the night carving out the die. When he brought it into the office, squinting from exhaustion and from working in poor light, Margaret looked at it in wonder. It never ceased to amaze her, the beauty that emerged from the mundane grime and stink of the jewellery quarter.
‘It’s going to be very lovely,’ she told Caleb Turner, smiling up at him.
‘Ar. Well,’ he said, his expression not changing a jot.
‘Get some sleep, Caleb,’ Aunt Hatt instructed. ‘You’ve done a fine job there.’
Some of the workers were carrying on with other orders, but a select number of them were fixed on getting Herr Schmale’s brooch finished in time for him to leave the following day.
That afternoon, as the light was beginning to fade, there was a knock at the front door. Everyone in the office looked up.
‘I hope that’s not Freddie Small come already,’ Aunt Hatt said.
Bridget went to the hall. She returned a moment later, a perturbed expression on her round face.
‘There’s a lad out there,’ she said. ‘Poor little thing. Asked for Miss Hanson. I don’t know which one but Miss Annie’s not here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s got nothing on his feet – and he’s filthy. Shall I send him packing?’
‘No.’ Margaret got up. It sounded as if someone was in need. Going to the door she peered out into the fading light and saw a scrawny figure outside holding a bundle of something over one shoulder. He wore a cap, trousers that came halfway down his calves and a shirt far too big for him which hung out, reaching almost to his knees. It took her a moment to see his face properly and realize who it was.
‘Is that . . . Den Poole, isn’t it?’
He stepped closer. Gruffly, he said, ‘Can yer buy some of my firewood, miss?’
Margaret went out on to the street. ‘Are you feeling better now, Den?’ she asked. The boy raised his free arm to rub his nose against his sleeve, then nodded. She felt how cold it was – and here he was with no shoes.
‘Come inside, Den,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ll buy some of your firewood – but come and get warm.’
Den obeyed, but with a proud tilt of his head. As they went back into the house, Margaret saw that the door of number twenty-four was open and Daisy Tallis was looking out, her hair hanging like thick curtains over her shoulders. Margaret smiled at her. She saw the girl look curiously at Den Poole before she returned Margaret’s smile.
‘Who . . . ?’ Aunt Hatt was in the hall, a look of horror on her face. ‘Who’s this . . . ?’ She managed not to say ragamuffin.
‘This is Den,’ Margaret explained. She was moved by his appearance at their house. She knew he had come to find her. ‘His sister is Lizzie Poole, who works with Annie. May I give him a cup of tea, Auntie?’
‘Tea?’ Aunt Hatt erupted. ‘He needs a darn sight more than tea by the look of him. Lad looks as if he needs a square meal, a bath and a delouse! Get Mrs Sullivan to give him what’s left of today’s dinner.’
‘Oh, Auntie, thank you!’ Margaret burst out in relieved amazement. ‘It’s true what my mother said – people here have hearts of gold!’
Mrs Sullivan’s heart seemed slightly less gilded, however, and her face was sour as gone-off milk as she spooned some of the day’s stew into a pan to heat. But as soon as Den was seated at the table in the back room, eating stew and boiled potatoes with silent intensity, Margaret saw a gradual unwinding in the child as he grew warmer and his belly filled. He picked up the plate and licked off every morsel and she did not like to correct his manners in the face of such hunger. He was so thin, she could see the tiny bones moving in his grubby jawline.
‘Are your little sisters feeling better too?’ she asked as Den picked up his cup of sweet tea with both hands and held it to his lips.
‘Ivy is.’
‘Not Ada then?’
Margaret felt a stab of real worry. It was days now. And would poor Mrs Poole have any idea what to do? She wanted to question the boy more, but she could see that now he had eaten his fill, his attention was fastened on the room around him. He looked all about him, seeming awed.
‘There’s a lot of things in ’ere,’ he said. ‘Is this a shop?’
‘No, Den – it’s my auntie’s room,’ she said. ‘She likes her bits and pieces. Pretty, isn’t it?’ In truth, she found the room stiflingly overcrowded. She was used to something simpler.
‘What about this poor boy’s feet?’ Aunt Hatt said as she arrived.
‘What happened to your shoes, Den?’ Margaret asked.
‘I ’ad boots but I growed out of ’em,’ he said. ‘They’m too big for Ada and Ivy yet.’
‘I’ve nothing here,’ Aunt Hatt said, almost to herself. ‘Anything of Eb’s or Georgie’s would be far too big. I wonder if Clara’s brother . . .’ She drifted away to speak to Georgie at the back and returned. ‘Clara’s got young brothers. We can’t help you tonight, young man,’ she said. ‘But we’ll find something for you, if your mother can’t. Poor little soul – and it’s only going to get colder.’
Margaret found a few coppers and relieved Den of his firewood before she sent him home. Once again she watched him disappear off into the dark, heading back with the sureness of a homing pigeon.
Annie, heading in the opposite direction from Pope Street, caught a glimpse of the lad, trotting along the pavement.
‘Den?’ she called to him, realizing who it was, but he was already gone.
Margaret was waiting for her.
‘Have you been to the Pooles’?’ she asked as Annie took off her coat. ‘We’ve had Den here.’
Annie turned to look at her, hanging her coat. ‘Oh – I saw him. What on earth was he doing here?’ She realized only now that she was tetchy with hunger after her long day.
Margaret explained and as the two of them went into the back, Annie thought, this is like home. Talk always of people in the village, of their troubles and cares. It gave her a warm feeling. It was more like when their mother was alive. Of course they had had such conversations with Father, but it was never quite the same.
‘That little one really needs to see a doctor,’ Annie said. ‘Little Ada. Mother Poole doesn’t seem to realize. She hasn’t the money, of course.’ She sank down at the table. ‘Should I get someone?’
Margaret joined her. ‘She’s only a scrap as it is. I think we should. We’ll have to pay.’
She was about to offer to make Annie some tea when there came a loud knocking on the door again. Margaret got up to answer it but stopped, hearing that Aunt Hatt had already opened it. They heard a familiar booming voice, then Aunt Hatt came in with a peculiar expression on her face.
‘Annie. You’d better come. I’m not quite sure what’s going on.’
‘Me?’ Annie got wearily to her feet, frowning. ‘Who is it?’ It had sounded like that German man, she thought.
For some reason Jack Sidwell was also standing in the hall, probably on his way home.
‘Hello,’ he attempted.
Annie brushed past, ignoring him.
When she reached the front step, she found Herr Schmale still outside, half hidden behind an enormous bouquet of flowers, his beaming face peering out between fronds of vegetation.
‘Ah! Miss Annie!’ he exclaimed, stepping in a little closer.
Annie’s bewilderment only increased. What on earth was going on here?
‘My dear . . .’ he began.
Her alarm accelerated swiftly to outrage when she saw Herr Schmale sink down on to one knee.
‘Ever since I saw you yesterday, my heart has been in an ecstasy of certainty! Never have I been so sure as ven I first vitnessed your beautiful face. You are voman of such perfection – such a voman as I never expected to see. I am but a humble man, though I have the means to keep you in good style. I have come tonight, before I have to return to Germany – to entreat you to become my vife.’
He leaned back, still balanced rather unsteadily on one knee, as if throwing himself upon her mercy.
Annie glared at him. Her hands went to her waist. ‘What?’
She heard a gasp behind her and knew Aunt Hatt and Margaret were witnessing this bewildering encounter.
‘Whatever are you talking about?’ she said. ‘We only met for the first time yesterday and I hardly know you. We had a conversation about trams – that’s hardly the basis for getting married, is it?’
Herr Schmale began to look crestfallen.
‘Are you crazy?’ Now she had started – her general irritation not assisted by her being extremely hungry – she seemed unable to stop. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be marrying someone else? I thought that was the whole point of why you’re here at all. And you’re wasting your time, in any case,’ she finished definitively. ‘I’m not going to marry anybody.’
She turned and stalked back into the house, pushing past the stunned audience of her sister, her aunt and a gaping Jack Sidwell.