‘I can’t go over all this again,’ Annie said later, furiously. She lay with her hair strewn over the pillow as Margaret stood by the bed, brushing hers. ‘Whatever is it that Father thinks he’s got to forgive us for? He does have the most astonishing way of turning things about to suit himself.’
Margaret looked at her, brush in hand, grateful for her sister’s conviction. ‘Every time I hear from him – or think about it, I . . .’ She trailed off, looking in the mirror, where she could see Annie lean up on one elbow, her face fierce in the candlelight.
‘You what? Think it was all your fault?’
Margaret sank on to the edge of the bed with a deep sigh. She thought of that other letter, just beneath her now, under the mattress, tugging at her feelings, throwing her into confusion again. ‘No, not all.’ She parted her hair roughly in two at the back and drew the left portion over her shoulder to plait it. ‘But I just . . .’ She paused a moment, looking across at the candle’s flickering shadows on the wall. ‘He was so . . . confused. Charles, I mean. And I was . . .’
‘Innocent is what you were.’ Annie flung herself back on to the pillow. ‘Maggs – he may have been confused, but he attacked you.’
Margaret sat silently doing her hair.
‘We can’t just stay here for ever,’ she said miserably, after a time. ‘And don’t you want things to be better – to make it up with Father? It’s like an open wound. I can’t just . . .’ Her anger of that morning seemed to have withered away and now she could feel the tears rising in her, her self-doubt returning and the cold formality of her father’s letter wounding her all over again.
‘What I want, just at this moment,’ Annie said, pushing up on to her elbow again, ‘is to go to sleep. But yes – I do want to go back there. For a bit, anyway. It’s our home. I miss the village. I miss the people – well, some of them. We need to grant forgiveness – but only when he apologizes. And I tell you another thing I’ve decided.’
Margaret looked at her, startled.
‘I don’t want to go back and live there and be expected to be a teacher and find some pious man to marry. I don’t want to marry. So even if I do go home, I shan’t be staying. God speaks to me – and not through Father or anybody else.’
Margaret stared at her, astonished.
‘I shall be eighteen next year. I think . . .’ She said it as if she had only just thought of it. ‘I might become a nurse – like Miss Nightingale. I think . . .’ She spoke with increasing conviction. ‘I – think it might be the thing I’m best at. I’m not . . . I know now I’m no preacher. I’d rather preach by doing – by helping people.’
Margaret felt a moment of panic. Annie, going off to do something so daring, so full of risk! Annie, leaving her alone! But she was not sure whether to take this seriously. Annie was always full of madcap schemes.
‘Heavens,’ she said, not wanting to indulge this too much. She began plaiting the other side of her hair. ‘You’re certainly full of ideas.’
Annie frowned at her and lay down again. She was asleep before Margaret had even got into bed. When she did so, she lay with her mind in a tumult. Perhaps I should go home alone and see Father, she thought. But the idea of travelling back to the village to confront him, the fact that Charles Barber was still there, filled her with panic. He had at least tried to apologize . . . Suddenly her mind was flooded with all the good, tender memories of Charles: his vulnerability when he first arrived, the hours they had spent together walking, talking and at last daring to exchange kisses. The way her thoughts had been filled with him, his personality and ideas, almost as if she was possessed – a feverish possession she had believed was love. Had it been? Love was a fever – or so the poets seemed to tell her. And then . . . The other Charles, the hateful, animal face of a man she could scarcely recognize . . . What was it she had done to bring that out in him – bring on one of these fits he talked about? Was she wicked in some part of herself, and had she turned him wicked also?
Her mind strayed helplessly back to that afternoon and the sweet feelings of being in the presence of Philip Tallis. Not fever – but a calm. A tender calm. She saw his eyes again as he had looked at her, and the way he had lingered in the room, seeming not to want to leave. And how she had not wanted him to, as if his being there completed things.
Oh, my Lord and Saviour, she prayed, amid this whirl of conflicting feelings, have mercy on my soul and let me walk ever in Thy ways.
As if to chime with their conversation, Uncle Eb told them jubilantly after the post had arrived the next morning, that a letter had arrived from the builder, estimating that they could take possession of the new house in Handsworth in early February.
‘February,’ Aunt Hatt said, lighting up with excitement. She was at her desk in the office. ‘Oh, Eb – how marvellous. We’ll have to buy a carriage as well!’
‘We shall,’ Eb said, pulling back his shoulders in a sober manner so that his tummy bulbed further out at the front. Margaret could almost see the appearance of a top hat on his head. Uncle Eb was becoming a man of substance in every way.
But there was another uneasy thought. February was only a few weeks away.
‘We’ll have to take our leave of you,’ she said, wanting to reassure her aunt and uncle that she and Annie were not to inflict themselves upon them for too much longer. ‘You’ve been so kind to us.’
Eb and Hatt exchanged looks.
‘It’s been a pleasure having you,’ Aunt Hatt said warmly. ‘You’re like daughters to us now, the pair of you.’ Her dark eyes were full of fondness. ‘And we’ve seen you come out of yourself, little Margaret. I’d say she’s come out of herself quite a bit since she’s been here, wouldn’t you, Eb?’
‘Oh, ar – quite a bit,’ Eb agreed.
Margaret felt close to tears at her aunt’s sweetness. But she could also see the question that lay under Hatt’s kind expression. They had never fully explained the situation and why they had come – Margaret just could not bring herself to.
‘Of course . . .’ Aunt Hatt went on uncertainly. ‘We shall have more space in the other place, if you needed to be with us for longer . . .’
‘No, Aunt,’ Margaret said firmly. In the daylight now, she was full of a new strength of purpose. ‘We must make sure that we resolve our problems at home before Christmas. I know my father is expecting us back.’
‘Oh, stay for Christmas!’ Eb said. ‘Our last Christmas in the old ’ome! We’ll make it a good’un!’ He held out a hand expansively. ‘Porter and plum puddings!’
Margaret smiled at his enthusiasm. Aunt Hatt had spent one Saturday afternoon boiling pudding basins with muslin tops in the steam-filled kitchen and they were stored on a shelf in the pantry. She thought of her father in the little house in the village, alone apart from the ageing Alice Lamb, and her heart ached with sadness. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’
There was a curt knock on the door and Caleb Turner came in, balancing three heavy dies in his arms. With a look at Eb which said, Criticize at your peril, he plonked them, one by one, on the desk.
‘Right – I’ve done five o’ them German wenches. I’ll get the other two in a tick.’
They all gathered round. The dies had been carved so that the oval patterns on them were each about three inches high. These heroic portraits of the German girls were to be stamped out in relief, enamelled and placed in gold frames set with gems.
‘They look marvellous, Caleb,’ Aunt Hatt said.
Margaret, who found it very difficult to distinguish the pattern on any die and how it would appear, and was also looking at them upside down, thought it better to say nothing.
‘Well,’ Caleb said gloomily. ‘I defy you to say which one’s which. I just hope he flaming well knows. I’ll get the others – the rest’ll be done by Wednesday, I should think.’
‘What about the colours?’ Aunt Hatt said.
‘He said he dain’t mind,’ Eb told her. ‘Just wants them to look nice. So long as they’re different colours, we’ll be all right.’
Hatt looked up at him with a doubtful expression. ‘Is Jack going to do them?’
‘He’s got toothache,’ Margaret said. Jack Sidwell had been appearing with his face swollen and wearing an agonized expression.
Eb chuckled. ‘He’ll have more than toothache if ’e works on these. No – Jack’s a badge-and-button boy – I’ll send them over to old Sam Lieberman. In fact . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘P’raps we should’ve got it done with . . . Well, it’s too late now. You’ve done the dies.’
‘What?’ Caleb Turner said. ‘You mean, cloisonné?’
Eb sucked in air through his teeth and thought for a moment.
‘No . . . You’re all right,’ he said, exhaling. ‘Sam’s very experienced at either – he’s the best.’ He clapped Caleb on the shoulder. ‘Fine work, old mate.’ He saw Margaret’s puzzled face. ‘Most of the enamelling round here’s done on metal stamped out from the dies – like these, see? You lay the enamel powders into the different bits when it’s stamped out and then fire it . . . It’s called champlevé. With cloisonné it’s a case of making the shape in wire instead and laying it on the top. Very fine work . . . But we’ll go with it as it is. No one’d make a better job of it than old Sam Lieberman.’
Caleb Turner’s look of doom increased. ‘Well,’ he said, turning to go. ‘We’ll see, won’t we? Oh – and if that lad wants his tooth seen to, send ’im up to me. I’ll soon whip it out for ’im.’