‘Is that young Daisy again?’ Aunt Hatt looked up from her accounts, hearing a tap at the front door. Susan got to her feet to answer. ‘It’s about that time.’
Margaret, at her own desk, had been musing on Charles’s letter. The very fact of the letter now enraged her. It felt as if her father had once more placed himself on Charles’s side. Yet, at the same time, how was there to be any resolution, any forgiveness? In calmer moments, she wondered whether, sooner or later, she would feel it the right thing to reply, but at Daisy’s arrival this was chased out of her mind. Her heartbeat picked up speed and she blushed, feeling Aunt Hatt’s eyes on her, as if her aunt could see into her head and know how often her thoughts now turned to Daisy’s father.
‘She’s growing fond of you, Margaret.’ It was said this time with a note of reproach, as if to say, You’ll be gone soon. Is it fair on this poor motherless child to allow her to fix on you only to lose you all over again?
They heard Daisy’s young voice, her feet hurrying in the passage.
‘This one’s here again,’ Susan announced at the door. For some reason she had decided to be sniffy about Daisy’s now daily appearances. Bridget, however, was a warm-hearted soul and always treated her very sweetly.
Daisy had her hair tied back austerely in a long bunch at the back, a black hat pulled down over her ears. From beneath its stiff brim, her eyes were looking out in their intent way.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ Aunt Hatt said kindly and Margaret smiled at her too.
‘Are you coming for your lesson?’ Daisy said to Margaret, in a voice so commanding that Aunt Hatt made a face as if to say, Well, this one seems to think she’s the boss!
‘Go on,’ Aunt Hatt said, as she had said every day that week. ‘There’s not much more for you to do here, Margaret. You might as well learn a few things while you’re here!’
‘Thanks, Auntie,’ Margaret said, laughing. But on the inside she was trembling with anticipation. Her heart soared. She knew she was doing Daisy a favour, giving the child some attention. But every day now, when Daisy showed her a few elements of silversmithing in between chatting to her – of which she also did a good deal – they were never alone together for very long. Philip Tallis always found a reason to call into the room. Daisy would be showing Margaret the right hammer to use to flatten a silver bangle, or to make tiny round wounds in the metal which then sparkled with light; or Margaret watched as Daisy moved her bowl slowly round and beat it into shape . . . And soon they would hear his footsteps along the passage.
Tea was often the pretext – a ritual almost as key in this household as in Aunt Hatt’s. Mrs Flett would bring in a tray with tea and bread and butter or a plain cake, and he would often linger in the room talking, even after the cups held only cool dregs . . .
‘I’ve finished the bowl!’ Daisy announced as they crashed in through the door of number twenty-four that afternoon. ‘Now Pa says all I need to do is fix it on to the stand and it’s done!’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Margaret said, infected as ever by the strength of the child’s enthusiasm. Was it right, she kept asking herself, to be so enthused by the material world? Daisy showed no signs of religious interest. Margaret had asked her once or twice whether she would like to attend the church at Carrs Lane with her on Sunday, but she was met with a look of blank incomprehension.
‘But Sunday morning’s the time when Pa and I go for our walk!’ she said. And Margaret saw that this Sunday habit was sacred to Daisy, the way fashioning things of beauty was sacred. And Margaret was pulled up short, confused by the thought that anything could substitute for church and still be of God . . . But what she saw between Philip Tallis and his daughter and between the two of them and their creations, was love. And what is that, she thought, if not part of that greater Love?
‘Since Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.’
She had loved Emily Brontë’s poems when she was growing up, even though her father did not approve of them, since they were written not only by a woman, but one too young for him ever to take seriously. Emily Brontë’s volume of poems was one of the books that she and Annie read secretly.
Father would say things such as, ‘The sacred and secular are not to be parcelled into separate compartments – everything is sacred.’
But – Margaret recalled this in the seconds during which she entered the room with Daisy – he did not behave as if he believed this. And she thought back with both pain and affection on the narrowness of the lives they had led, which her mother had chosen out of love and faith and which she had cheerfully lived. If their mother had not died, would it not have all been very different?
Mrs Flett appeared immediately and said, ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting tea again, Miss Daisy?’
Margaret wondered if she imagined a slight air of disapproval, which could not surely be about the tea, an everyday thing. Was it herself, visiting so often, that Mrs Flett disapproved of?
‘Oh, yes, please!’ Daisy said. ‘I’m ravenous. Is there any of that cherry cake left?’
Mrs Flett’s bony face smiled in spite of itself. ‘Oh, I think I can find a crumb or two.’
Daisy was bustling about, bringing her bowl with its lustrous surface out of the cupboard at the bottom of the dresser, when, as if drawn by a second sense, Philip Tallis appeared in the doorway. Margaret knew that he always tried to have a break at this time to see Daisy when she came home from school. But immediately he looked behind the door to where Margaret was sitting by the table, as if he was expecting – hoping, even – to see her there.
‘Ah – good afternoon. Time for classes to begin, eh?’
‘I think I’ll just be watching,’ Margaret said. She felt herself blush a little, wondering if it was so obvious that the reason she was here, had been here every afternoon this week – and it was now Friday – was because of him as much as Daisy. She was drawn by the work, the loveliness of it all, and by Daisy’s need of company. But that was not all. There was the pleasure and excitement of his company that she could not resist.
‘Pa – you’ll show me how to solder this on here, won’t you?’ Daisy enthused. ‘Now? You promised!’
‘I will,’ Philip Tallis said. ‘But let’s have some tea first – I’m parched.’ He came to the table, as Margaret had known he would.
‘How are you today?’ he asked quietly, removing his overall and seating himself.
‘Very well,’ she smiled. ‘Would you like me to pour?’
He nodded, placing his hands, with their big, square nails, flat on the table.
‘Are you very busy today?’ she said, handing him his tea.
‘Not too bad. Steady, you know.’ He smiled, and with a definite twinkle in his eye, added, ‘How’s the German order coming along?’
Margaret had told him about Caleb Turner’s struggle to make the dies representing Herr von Titz’s daughters. When she had begun the tale, Philip Tallis said, ‘Oh, yes, I can imagine Turner – “What’m I s’posed to do wi’ these then?” He imitated Caleb Turner’s lugubrious voice so accurately that Margaret was reduced to fits of laughter, despite feeling vaguely guilty.
‘Have you ever met Mrs Turner?’ she’d asked.
‘Oh, yes – she’s quite a cheerful body,’ he’d said, with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘Enough for both of ’em, I think.’
She loved sitting and drinking tea with the two of them. Daisy dashed back and forth to the table, never still, taking sips from her cup and wheeling away to do other things. She was what made things easy. Once or twice, when she left the room for a few moments, the atmosphere between them had become fraught with a need to say something, and when neither of them quite knew what and could not meet each other’s eyes, it was a relief when Daisy came swinging back in again.
Once the tea was over and Philip Tallis was about to begin on Daisy’s bowl, there was an urgent hammering at the front door. Daisy looked up and rolled her eyes.
‘Oh, no!’ she said, slouching against the table with annoyance. ‘I can guess who that is. That’s Mr Carson.’
Philip Tallis rolled his eyes as well. ‘All right – go along and save Mrs Flett’s legs, will yer, Daisy?’
A moment later, Daisy opened the front door to be met with a roar of greeting which made Margaret’s eyes widen.
‘Ah! Miss Daisy Tallis! What a marvellous sight to greet me on such a dull afternoon! Is your pa about?’
Philip Tallis looked round at Margaret, seeming about to warn her as he got to his feet, but it was already too late.
‘Where is he? Ah – Tallis, you ridiculous old curmudgeon, you!’ The tall gentleman came in like a whirlwind in his sweeping coat, a black beret pulled to one side of his head over tousled dark hair and dashing moustache, waxed and pointing upwards at the ends. He brought gusts of cold air into the room. ‘Thought I’d pay you a call as you never seem to stir yourself to come and see us. How’s . . . Ah! A visitor! Whom do I have the pleasure . . . ?’ He yanked the beret from his head and gave a theatrical bow.
Margaret got blushingly to her feet. She had not seen this man since the time he called at the house in the early days. He was so strange and alarmingly vigorous that she felt shy and on her guard.
‘That’s my friend – Miss Hanson,’ Daisy said. She seemed to have no shyness towards Mr Carson.
‘Ah – your friend,’ Mr Carson said meaningfully. ‘I see. Well – good afternoon, Miss Hanson.’
Margaret responded as her hand was shaken vigorously, and his dark eyes bored into her. She remembered the effect this man had had on her the first time she saw him. Close up, she found him rather strange. It came to her that beside the inner glow of energy that she sensed in Philip Tallis, all Mr Carson’s outward flurry seemed to her rather exaggerated.
‘Tea, James?’ Philip Tallis asked. ‘There’s a drop left.’
‘Yes, yes – ooh, cake, yes, please! – Now listen, Tallis. I’ve come to drag you out with me – and Daisy – soon, tonight. No, no –’ He waved a hand at Philip Tallis’s attempts to refuse. ‘I know you don’t think you go in for the Kyrle Society or the Guild or whatever you want to call it. But there’s something rather special tonight. We’ve a visiting speaker – a lady, moreover – and you’re coming even if I have to drag you bodily to Great Charles Street. You must bring Daisy – and this young lady as well. No one should miss it!’
Daisy was listening now with avid attention. ‘What is it? Tell us, Mr Carson!’
‘First of all –’ Mr Carson squatted down and spoke very solemnly to Daisy – ‘you must promise me to get your old man there by hook or by crook.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, James, spit it out,’ Philip Tallis said, picking up Daisy’s half-finished bowl as if he had better things to be doing. ‘Daisy will need her bed – she has school tomorrow.’
‘No, I don’t, Pa,’ Daisy said. ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow!’
‘Daisy,’ Mr Carson announced pompously, standing upright again, ‘will need no other schooling after this. Not only is the speaker a woman . . .’
‘Oh, tell us, Mr Carson!’ Daisy was hopping up and down. Margaret was beginning to feel overcome by suspense herself.
‘The lady is a Miss Hoyland,’ Mr Carson said. ‘A remarkable woman – a pioneer in the new colour photography. I have already heard her this afternoon, giving a talk about her work. But even more remarkably, she has travelled all the way to the United States of America . . .’ He spun his story out like a fairy tale and Margaret was almost as hooked as Daisy, whose mouth was hanging open now.
‘Miss Hoyland – Miss Jacintha Emily Hoyland, being the woman’s full appellation –’ he smiled, mocking his own pomposity – ‘has brought back colour photographs which she has taken of some of the work of Mr Tiffany in Fifth Avenue, New York.’
Margaret heard a small gasp, not from Daisy, but from Philip Tallis.
‘Yes. You see! You do want to come!’ Mr Carson did a little jig of triumph, hands on his waist, looking so funny that Margaret and Daisy both laughed. ‘You see, Miss . . . er . . .’
‘Hanson,’ Daisy said, smiling as Mr Carson turned to Margaret.
‘This fellow, here, Tallis – if ever there was a perverse and foolish old trout of a person, it is he. D’you know, this fellow has sold pieces of his work to Asprey’s in New Bond Street, no less!’
‘James –’ Philip Tallis’s face darkened and he sounded genuinely annoyed. ‘Will you for pity’s sake stop going on?’
Margaret watched, confused. She had no idea who or what Asprey’s was, who Tiffany was or quite what was going on. Mr Carson took in her look of bewilderment.
‘Mr Tiffany is one of America’s finest designers and makers of artistic jewellery, stained glass, windows, lamps . . . Objects of extraordinary beauty and technical brilliance.’
‘Can we go, Pa – can we?’ Daisy was quivering with excitement. ‘And can Miss Hanson come with us – please?’
Margaret was about to protest that she could not possibly go as her aunt would need her home. But a cross-current of deep, hungry excitement filled her. She wanted this – to know about it, to see things of ‘extraordinary beauty and technical brilliance’. And if it was the evening time, Aunt Hatt did not really need her for anything . . . She looked at Philip Tallis, not realizing the desperate appeal that had come into her eyes. She saw an answering look in his that seemed to soften him.
‘Well,’ he shrugged, with a defeated smile. ‘It seems I am far outnumbered.’
‘Magnificent – well done, Daisy! And Miss Hanson! I knew we’d get him there one day – somehow. Now –’ Mr Carson fished out a watch on a gold Albert chain and squinted at it. ‘We must get moving before too long. It gets under way at half past six.’