She put on the raspberry-coloured skirt, stroking the soft fabric almost in disbelief that she had something so lovely. The cream blouse went with it beautifully and a dark blue cardigan. She stood longer than usual in front of the glass, doing her hair.
I’m being so vain! she thought, bending to look in the little tilted mirror on the chest of drawers. Her grey eyes looked solemnly back at her. She wound her hair up, saw her strongly boned face, thick, waving hair piled in a becoming style and happy eyes looking back at her, and knew, though she tried to suppress it, that she was beautiful. It was as if now, aged nineteen, she had flowered suddenly and fully into womanhood. She looked strong, curvaceous, graceful, and this was exciting and alarming in equal measure. She smiled at her reflection, imagining that Philip Tallis was on the receiving end of that smile. Her eyes shone, and her face lit up with such joy that she felt panic-stricken by her own appearance.
Maybe I should stop all this vanity, take this skirt off and put on my usual Sunday dress, she thought. The dress was of a demure grey with a band of cotton lace at the neck. This inner struggle was ended by her realization that it was so cold out that whatever she wore would be largely covered by her coat.
‘My, my,’ Uncle Eb said, looking up from his porridge as she came down. He too seemed to be seeing her almost for the first time. ‘You off to church, wench?’
Annie had evidently left before he came down.
‘Er, no – not this time,’ Margaret said, taking a small portion of porridge and hoping she might force a bit of it down in her nervous state. ‘I’m going out for a little walk with Daisy, and er . . .’ She trailed off, blushing.
She could almost feel Uncle Eb’s ear pricking up. ‘And . . . ?’
‘Well – Mr Tallis. He invited me as he realized that so far I have seen very little of the town.’
‘Ah – did he now?’ Eb was smiling knowingly. ‘And just by the way – it’s a city, is Brummagem. First to be called a city without a cathedral and all that church big-wiggery,’ he announced. ‘How about that?’
‘Yes,’ Margaret smiled. ‘Mother told us that.’ As Congregationalists, they had been pleased at this break with the Anglican Church which usually decided such things.
‘Course, they’re talking about making St Philip’s a cathedral,’ he said. ‘But that’s not why we’re a city. We’re a fine “city of a thousand trades” without all their carry-on.’
Margaret nodded enthusiastically, glad that this had diverted him from the subject of Philip Tallis. But it was momentary.
‘So – walking out with Philip Tallis, eh?’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought?’
‘Not walking out, exactly, Uncle,’ she protested.
‘Well, yer going out, and you’ll be walking.’ He looked at her with mock innocence. ‘What else would you call it, bab?’
Daisy called for her, wearing a deep green coat with large buttons. It reached to her shins and was at least a size too big, but as ever, Daisy, young as she was, looked striking. Margaret was glad that Annie had already set off for church, as she didn’t want any more caustic remarks from that direction.
‘Are you ready?’ Daisy said, excited. ‘It’s not a bad day and Pa says we’ll go into Birmingham!’
‘Yes – just let me get my hat on.’
Margaret already had her coat buttoned. She used the hat as an excuse for a last peep in the hall’s rust-spotted mirror. She pushed the pin through the hat into her hair and thought, Here goes.
‘Bye, Auntie!’ she called. But Aunt Hatt was in the back making preparations for her Sunday bath ritual and there was no reply.
It was bright and cold outside. Philip Tallis was waiting. His shoulders looked very broad in the big brown coat and he wore a bowler hat over his thick curls. Suddenly Margaret was taken aback at how smart he looked and her pulse sped up even more. He tilted his head in a gentlemanly manner.
‘Morning, Miss Hanson.’ And Margaret realized, then, that he was as nervous as she was.
‘Good morning.’ She smiled uncertainly, glad that they had Daisy with them, but then he smiled back, his eyes lighting at the sight of her, and she was struck again by his face, the gentle seriousness she saw in him, combined with a touch of mischief.
‘Oh!’ Daisy exclaimed, looking Margaret up and down now they were in full daylight. ‘What a lovely skirt, Miss Hanson! May I see how you look – will you unbutton your coat?’
‘Daisy!’ Her father said, horrified.
‘It’s all right,’ Margaret laughed. She was secretly gratified that Daisy had noticed. She turned aside and unbuttoned her coat for a moment. Daisy, her face serious, studied the ensemble.
‘I love that cream colour with it – like raspberries and cream.’ She clasped her hands under her chin as if the matching of colour was a serious matter. And Margaret knew Daisy was not a frivolous child. She was serious about everything she did.
‘It’s so much nicer than the colours you normally wear,’ she said, sighing. Then added, ‘Though you look very nice in those too, of course.’
‘My aunt passed the skirt down to me,’ Margaret said, buttoning her coat again. ‘It is nice, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, Mrs Watts always wears lovely colours,’ Daisy said. ‘Let’s hope she gives you some more of her clothes.’
Philip Tallis and Margaret laughed at the brutal honesty of this.
‘Have you quite finished, Daisy?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She walked off. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’
‘I thought you might like to see more of the town,’ he suggested. ‘Daisy and I sometimes try to go out nearer the countryside on our walks – but that’s nothing new for you, is it?’
‘I would enjoy anything,’ Margaret said lightly. With you, she wanted to add. ‘But yes – I’ve seen precious little of Birmingham during my time here.’ She thought of her arrival in this bewildering place, her hot faintness on the tram journey, the talk about hanging . . . It had all felt so overwhelming then. She realized, with surprise, how used she had become to being in the city, or at least this busy part of it.
Bells were ringing as they set off and little groups of people were moving towards the churches, spruced up in their Sunday best.
‘I suppose we’re keeping you from your Sunday, er . . . worship,’ Philip Tallis said, rather gruffly. Margaret realized that it had only just occurred to him.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But it won’t hurt for once, will it?’ She thought of Annie’s scandalized expression and suppressed a smile.
‘Well, I should hope the Almighty will treat you kindly,’ he agreed, and she could hear his gentle teasing.
Daisy seized her father’s hand, then Margaret felt the girl’s other palm pushed into hers.
‘There – we can walk like this!’ Daisy skipped along happily and it gave Margaret a warm feeling, them all being connected like that, friendly and comfortable.
There were a good many children out playing in the chilly day as they passed along Graham Street, hearing the bells from the church in St Paul’s Square. Further along, a group were gathered round a man in a top hat who was turning the handle of a barrel organ. It was only when they drew close that they could hear the flat tinkle of the music through the clanging bells.
‘Oh, look!’ Daisy skipped even more in delight, seeing the ornate little contraption, which was drawn along on wheels. ‘He’s got a monkey in a top hat!’
‘So he has,’ Philip Tallis said. Often the monkeys on the barrel organs wore a tiny red fez, but this one sat solemnly with the air of a very small, pale-faced businessman, in his miniature top hat.
‘Gracious,’ Margaret said. She had never seen such a thing before. ‘However do they train them to do that? Don’t they bite?’
‘I wouldn’t go too close,’ Philip Tallis said as Daisy rushed in to see.
‘Oh, Pa!’ She hurried back. ‘Can I give him something – a halfpenny?’
Her father put on a mock look of long-suffering and rattled change in his pocket. ‘You’d have the milk out of my tea, you would, young wench.’
Daisy giggled and ran back with the money. The man tipped his hat to them and they stood a little longer, listening amid the crowd of jostling children. The church bells suddenly fell silent and they could hear the metallic little tune more clearly. Daisy was ahead with the other children and for just a second, Margaret saw Philip Tallis turn to her. Their eyes met and she felt him take her hand and give it a loving squeeze before releasing her again. Colour rose in her cheeks. The gesture was modest, but it spoke volumes of feeling and she loved him the more for it.
‘Come on,’ he called to Daisy. ‘Or we shan’t even get as far as Birmingham!’
He took them past Snow Hill station and St Philip’s, the church at the heart of town. Margaret looked about her at all the tall, gracious buildings along the new boulevard of Corporation Street, then along New Street. All the shops and businesses were closed and there was a quieter, more celebratory Sunday-morning feeling to the place.
‘It’s not the liveliest time to see it really,’ Philip Tallis said, as they turned down a sloping street with the elegant spire of St Martin’s church rising at the end. ‘This is where the outdoor markets are – you should see it in the week – packed, this area. The wholesale markets, like the meat market, are over there at Smithfield – and that’s the Market Hall –’ he pointed to a huge building, its entrance flanked by two columns. ‘You’ll really have to go in there one day.’
‘They sell pets and everything!’ Daisy said. ‘Chickens and rabbits – and the most delicious food. Oh, roast pork and crackling! It’s making my mouth water thinking about it!’ she groaned.
‘Never mind,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m sure Mrs Flett’s making you something nice for your dinner.’
‘Mrs Flett’s not a bad cook . . .’ Daisy began.
‘Now, now,’ her father silenced her. ‘We’re lucky to have the lady – she’s been good to you, Daisy.’
Just then, a thin, poor-looking man approached them, nursing a little bundle close to him as if it was keeping him warm.
‘Hot chestnuts, straight from the fire,’ he murmured.
‘Oh – Pa – can we have some!’ Daisy cried. ‘I’m so hungry!’
Philip Tallis hesitated, then dipped his hand into his pocket again. The chestnut seller was watching, teetering with expectation of a sale. Margaret could see how thin and ragged he was. She pulled her little drawstring purse from her waist.
‘Here – I’ll buy some as well,’ she said.
‘No, no . . .’ Philip Tallis gestured for her to put it back and bought a double helping. As they walked away with their newspaper-wrapped cones of nuts, she saw the relief in the man’s eyes.
‘He looked as if he really needed the money,’ she said, feeling the man’s desperation. ‘Here you are, Daisy.’
‘Look – we can sit down, over next to Lord Nelson!’ Daisy said.
Nelson’s statue stood grandly, the figure with the hull of a ship to his right, surrounded by railings set in a low wall. The three perched in a row, Daisy in the middle, enjoying the hot, waxy nuts.
‘He looked very poor, that man, didn’t he?’ Daisy said sadly.
Her father nodded. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. ‘Is there any news of that lad’s father – Poole, isn’t it?’
‘Wilfred Poole,’ Margaret said. ‘Well, yes – sort of. Annie said just last week that Lizzie, the sister who she works with, seemed very excited, saying that someone had seen him.’
Philip Tallis shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing, that. If only he’d just get himself home. Not that he’s much use to them when he’s there, I suppose.’
‘It’s moral support though,’ Margaret said. ‘Poor Mrs Poole – she’s so alone. There seem to be no other relatives. We talk about it all the time at home, round and round, what can be done? Even Aunt Hatt’s said she might come and visit her and see if there’s more we can do. It’s as if Mrs Poole’s a widow while her husband’s still alive – and either way, she’s no better off.’ She felt her anger rise. ‘It’s wrong that families should be put in this position. They’re barely keeping above water with Lizzie’s earnings and her mother’s bits of outwork. And . . .’ She was about to mention Den’s activities after dark, but thought she had better not. ‘What are the poor supposed to do? It seems as if the only options are either starvation or the workhouse.’
‘That lad . . .’ Philip Tallis said, shaking his head. ‘A proper urchin. He’s running wild.’
Daisy was listening intently. ‘Can’t you teach him, Pa?’
‘But how old is he? He’s not even ten, is he? The lad should be at school, not running about the streets selling firewood.’
‘He’s nearly ten, I think,’ Margaret said. She peeled another glossy brown chestnut. ‘We keep encouraging him to go. He’s got to until he’s twelve – that’s the law.’
‘Have they not been round – there are people who check up, aren’t there?’
‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said. ‘If they have his mother hasn’t said.’
‘Best to stay at school as long as you can,’ Philip Tallis said. Margaret had thought that with his self-made approach to life, he would not be a great supporter of school. ‘No progress without education.’ He looked round at her. ‘You seem surprised at me saying that.’
‘Yes, I am a bit,’ she said. ‘But I agree. I missed a good deal of school because of illness. I was fortunate that my father had a lot of books, being a clergyman. But without those . . . And even so, I feel ignorant of so many things.’
‘Yes,’ Philip Tallis said, with understanding. ‘I certainly do. I had the basics of schooling, but it was pretty poor.’
She was puzzled by him. They walked back up Spiceal Street among the slow-moving Sunday walkers, warmed by the chestnuts, though their breath clouded the air. Daisy went skipping ahead of them. Margaret dared to ask, ‘Why is it exactly that you don’t like going to the Guild? Mr Carson said your work is some of the finest . . .’
Philip Tallis shook his head impatiently. ‘I’ve nothing against the Guild. It’s full of sharing ideas and teaching people. I just don’t . . .’ He trailed off.
‘What? Fit in?’
His head turned sharply at her bluntness, as though she had touched a nerve.
‘Something like that, yes. Some of them are high-flown compared to me. And – having a business to run, a daughter to bring up . . .’ There was an edge of bitterness to his voice. ‘I want to develop, to learn. Mostly I’ve taught myself, looked at things, copied things, then . . . Well, thought of new things to do. It’s not that I don’t have the skills. But you have to keep working, trying, visualizing. I just find I’m better off on my own, that’s all. In any case – I don’t want to go to talks about embroidery or designing wallpaper. That’s not what I’m about. Thing is, here in Brum, there’s the metal-bashing work most people do, working in the quarter, and there’s the Arts and Crafts lot with all their high-flown ideas. I just feel I’m somewhere in the middle – neither quite one nor the other.’
‘Well,’ she said simply. ‘That seems reasonable to me.’
He glanced at her and she saw something in him relax, as if realizing himself understood. He gave a faint smile. Once again, briefly, he took her hand and she squeezed his as if to say, You are right to be how you are. Their eyes met again as they released each other.
‘We’d best be heading back,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the Town Hall on the way.’
‘Eb?’
‘Ummm?’
Harriet Watts blew out the candle that night and settled beside her husband under the heavy covers, in the smell of waxy smoke.
‘You still awake?’
‘Well, I am now.’
Hatt turned on her side and rested a hand on his comforting belly.
‘These girls don’t half get us into some things, eh?’
‘What – you mean you’re saying you’ll go with ’em tomorrow?’
‘It’s just – all these years I’ve lived here, I s’pose I’ve closed my mind to the way a lot of people live. You know – in the yards, and . . . Well, you see people on the street, but I’ve never thought they’re anything to do with me.’
‘You do what yer can, Hatt,’ Eb said sleepily.
‘Not much though, when you come down to it. There’s not much help for people, is there?’
‘Ummmergh . . .’
‘Eb?’
Her reply was her husband’s heavy breathing.
‘D’you think that Philip Tallis is sweet on Margaret? I mean, that it’s not just that she’s kind to little Daisy? I mean, he must be nearly twice her age?’
‘————’
‘Eb?’ She poked him. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ebenezer Watts,’ she mumbled, turning over. ‘Just when I’m trying to talk to you . . .’