December 1904
Margaret hurried out to the backyard. It was one of Uncle Eb’s mornings up early to prepare the gold, stoking the furnace in the cellar. Rank fumes lingered on the cold air. Pushing open the door, she stepped into the other smells of the workshop. Despite the cold outside, thanks to the coal stove, its chimney curving up through the roof of the workshop, along with the flames of the gas jets and the bodies working side by side, there was already a warm, acid-smelling fug inside.
As usual, the place was full of activity, the pegs occupied by Uncle Eb’s men who were bent over their tasks, some of them hammering away at strips of metal; the thump of the presses and loud bangs from the drop stamps at the far end, and the hum of the extractor fans. Georgie looked up from where he was talking to someone at one of the pegs and gave her a smile, and a few others said ‘Morning’ politely. Margaret, somehow yearning to belong, often wished they were not quite so polite, that someone might call, ‘All right, bab!’ to her as they might to one of their own. But she was the boss’s niece, so they were all watchful and polite.
‘You after Mr Watts?’ One of the men, blowpipe in hand, removed his Woodbine from his mouth and set it down on the bench. ‘’E’s up the far end.’
‘Thank you.’ Margaret smiled and walked slowly along the room. She loved coming in here, seeing all that went on. As she had grown used to the place, the more she loved the busyness, the drive towards production of what in the end were all beautiful things. She was still astonished by it. For a second she thought about Christmas, about going home as they surely must, to return to their old life. A bleak feeling filled her. Though she loved her home, the meadows and hills around the village, it all seemed rather quiet and slow now, compared with the life here.
Uncle Eb was talking with Tom Haines, one of the drop stampers, their heads bent over something that Uncle Eb was holding. Tom, a dark-haired, stocky man, had been doing the work for twenty-five years and he had the uneven gait of a drop stamper to prove it. Margaret felt self-conscious as the two of them looked up and eyed her coming towards them.
‘All right, wench?’ Uncle Eb said. ‘Anything up?’
‘It’s just . . . Aunt Hatt says could you come into the office? Mr Lieberman has come in with . . . with the portraits for . . . Herr V.T.’ She felt herself blush with embarrassment at the impossibility of saying the man’s absurd – in English – full name.
‘Oh – ’ere already, is ’e?’ Uncle Eb said, handing the die they had been examining to Tom. ‘I’ll ’ave to go and see ’im, Tom. I’ll be back.’
In the office, Sam Lieberman, a small, middle-aged man with a dapper appearance and neat moustache, opened a box and brought out the seven portraits one by one with impressively precise slowness, laying them on the desk.
‘Oh!’ Margaret could not help exclaiming. ‘They’re so beautiful!’
The men who had created them, Caleb Turner, other men who had stamped them out and Sam Lieberman, had worked a miracle from the tinted photographs. From each of the little oval shapes, set on a different-coloured pastel background, looked out the face of a young woman. While there was a similarity in their pale plumpness, the portraits each captured something individual: the sheen on the brown hair of one, the shape of the lips, angle of eyes; a bow here, the shading of a cheek and a different hairstyle there. Each wore a gown of a separate, gorgeous shade – a deep red, peacock green or golden yellow – colours, the very sight of which filled Margaret with an excited joy. And each of the young women surveyed the world with a sweet, blue-eyed expression all her own.
‘My, my,’ Eb murmured respectfully. He picked up each one and peered closely at it before moving on to the next. ‘Well, Sam – you’ve done a fine job here, I must say. These are marvellous – some of the best I’ve ever seen.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll tell yer summat – these wenches look a darn sight better on here than they do in those photographs.’
Mr Lieberman, an old-world sort of gentleman, stood with his hands clasped together at his waist and gave a little bow.
‘Thanking you, Mr Watts. I do think they look rather fine.’
‘We’ll have to get Caleb in to see them,’ Uncle Eb said.
‘His dies were the making of it,’ Sam Lieberman said humbly. Too humbly, Margaret thought, gazing at the colours he had created, each picture a tiny alleluia of beauty.
‘Right – well, we can get cracking,’ Uncle Eb said. ‘We’ve got the frames all set already – we’ll get them fixed in today and we’ll have them sent off to that German feller in good time for Christmas.’ He reached out a hand and the two men shook on it. ‘Marvellous job you’ve done there, Sam – thank you.’
‘Is Den coming?’ Daisy asked in her commanding way when she arrived after school that afternoon. She walked into number twenty-six and the office with all the confidence of a child who has grown up in the business.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ Aunt Hatt said. ‘Are you teaching Den now as well?’
‘I’m trying to,’ Daisy said, rolling her eyes.
They all laughed.
‘Don’t forget, you’ve been doing these things all your life,’ Margaret admonished her gently. ‘Smithing may be like breathing to you but that’s not how it is for the rest of us!’
It was nearly a fortnight since Wilfred Poole’s funeral and things were not going any better for the family. Mary Poole had caught a chill in the cemetery and been brought low with it. Lizzie was also full of cold, but struggling on as usual. To add to the misery, the weather had grown very cold. Annie spent as much time helping as she could and Aunt Hatt sent her with contributions of food without fail, every day. They had managed to persuade Mary Poole that Den and Ivy must be at school, but that after school, Den could come over to Chain Street and learn some things from the Tallises. Uncle Eb said he might be able to think of taking the lad on in time, but at present he was just too young.
‘If that young bossy-boots Daisy teaches him a thing or two, it’ll keep him off the streets, any road,’ Uncle Eb said.
And Daisy loved teaching people. Den had started to arrive in the afternoons, lured as much by the tea and cake and attention he was given in the Tallis household as for any educational reasons.
‘I’ll go to school if I can come ’ere after,’ he’d said, in his gruff way. ‘I’ll wag it, else. There’s no point in all that flother and them teachers bossing us.’
Daisy had begun teaching him some basic smithing skills and Margaret usually went in with him, Aunt Hatt being quite happy for her to leave the office by then. As if by a sixth sense, when she arrived Philip Tallis would usually appear and all of them would have tea together while Daisy bossily instructed Den. ‘No – don’t hold it like that. No – you have to hit it harder!’
That afternoon, when Margaret stepped out of the house with Daisy, they met Den hurrying along the street, his skinny form as usual swamped by his clothes.
This time, Philip Tallis appeared the moment they were in the house, soon followed by Mrs Flett, with tea and toasted crumpets. Margaret saw Den’s eyes widen with glee at this. Mrs Flett was a kinder soul than her grouchy exterior would have you believe.
‘Come on then,’ Philip Tallis said. ‘Tuck in. No good working on an empty stomach, is it?’
Den did exactly that, taking a buttered crumpet in each hand and cramming them into his mouth.
‘Slow down, you’ll choke!’ Daisy said, waving her crumpet in the air. ‘And it’s rude taking two at once, Den.’ Den carried on scoffing, unabashed. ‘Miss Hanson, will you come out with Pa and me again on Sunday? Please?’
Margaret laughed. ‘But I go to church on Sundays, Daisy.’ For the last two weeks she had appeased her conscience and gone faithfully to Carrs Lane with Annie.
‘But God won’t mind!’ Daisy reasoned. ‘God’s everywhere, isn’t He?’ Margaret was taken aback. Despite Daisy’s complete godlessness, which made her fear for the fate of the child’s soul, she could not really argue with this logic. ‘Please! Pa says you’re leaving by Christmas and there’s hardly any time left.’
Margaret felt a pang at this. It was true. They could not just stay here, endlessly, not making peace with their father, not resuming their normal lives. Mostly she was so busy that she pushed all thoughts of her father, of Charles’s letter and everything, out of her mind. But she knew she was going to have to think about it because there was very little time left of this other, new life.
‘Come this Sunday – please say you will,’ Daisy said. ‘You ask her, Pa – she’ll listen to you.’
Philip Tallis laughed and looked bashful. ‘Stop bullying the lady,’ he said. Margaret could see that he did not like to ask. He was very reserved, very careful with her. And neither of them had made any firm declarations about the future. There was so little opportunity ever to be alone that it was difficult to talk about anything unless it was in front of Daisy.
‘He wants you to,’ Daisy said. ‘I know he does. Don’t you, Pa?’
‘I’m always happy to have Miss Hanson’s company,’ he said carefully. He looked at Margaret with a faint smile. ‘But we mustn’t force her.’
‘Yes, we must!’ Daisy argued. ‘Please.’
‘Enough now,’ Philip Tallis said. ‘Don’t be rude, Daisy.’
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll come,’ Margaret said. Of course she wanted to! ‘I’d like to.’
Daisy danced round in delight. ‘I knew you would! You’re coming! Now, Den – to work!’
As Daisy bustled about at the pegs on the workbench, her father quietly asked after the rest of the Poole family. Margaret told him all was not well, that Mary had a fever.
He nodded, a sober expression on his face. ‘Poor woman,’ he said. ‘And now she’s truly on her own.’
There was a silence in which Margaret felt he wanted to say something but did not know how to begin and the discomfort grew, so she spoke instead.
‘That friend of yours, Mr Carson,’ she said tentatively, ‘was very complimentary about some of your work. He said you are one of the best . . .’
Philip Tallis waved a hand dismissively, seeming embarrassed. ‘Oh, old Carson – he’s a talker, all right.’
‘But I’d love to see some of the things you’ve made,’ she said warmly, remembering the beautiful bowl she had glimpsed.
He looked at her, seeming puzzled. ‘But I can’t show you them,’ he said. ‘Or not the real thing. They’ve been sold. I might have a few drawings knocking about somewhere.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she said, feeling foolish. ‘But aren’t you making something else, now?’
‘There’s the odd thing, when I get the time. It’s not easy, you see – what with the business and Daisy and being on my own . . . Often the only time is at night and then the light is so bad.’
Margaret blushed. ‘Of course – I’m sorry.’
‘You see, Daisy’s mother used to take quite a hand in the business. Not just the paperwork – I have Mr Henshaw and the ladies to do that – but in the works as well.’
‘I gather she was very skilled, your wife?’ Margaret said, with a sinking feeling inside her. Everything she had heard about Philip Tallis’s deceased wife made her sound extraordinary. It was the first time they had talked about Florence Tallis, and she knew it had to be done. Even the thought of the woman made her push all her feelings towards Philip Tallis back into their rightful place. She could never fill the shoes of a woman like Florence Tallis, of whom everyone spoke so warmly.
‘She did learn quite a bit, yes. She did some smithing herself – but she was very good on the business side.’
‘It leaves you a lot to do,’ Margaret said, the inner shrinking increasing. She looked away, feeling distant from him.
‘Margaret . . .’ He glanced at Daisy, who was bent over the bench with Den, showing him how to do something. Seeing the children occupied, he leaned towards her. ‘Florence died more than five years ago. We had a good marriage, I won’t say we didn’t. But she is gone.’ His eyes met hers, full of meaning. ‘I am no longer married.’
She was embarrassed that he had read her feelings so easily, and looked down into her lap in confusion, pressing her finger into a loose grey thread of her dress.
‘Since then there has been no one else. Not until I met you.’
The longing look in his eyes brought her feelings sweeping back.
‘I love you,’ he said, quietly and simply. ‘I know I’m older – quite a bit older. But I wonder if you could get used to me?’
Margaret was overwhelmed. There was love – she knew she had the most tender of feelings for Philip Tallis – and there was fear, and confusion. She was afraid, after the shock and horror of what had happened with Charles Barber. Could she trust Philip – or herself? His world was so different from her own – this city, his lack of the faith she had been brought up to believe was the root and stem of her life. Added to this was the feeling that things were unfinished – at home with her father and with Charles himself. She had moved from what she thought was love to hatred of the man. Somewhere, she felt, there must be understanding. There must be peace, or she could not live with herself.
‘I . . .’ She looked at him, cheeks burning. ‘I know . . . Oh, I do want to be used to you!’ Feeling she had spoken too loudly she glanced at Daisy, but she was immersed in helping Den. ‘I love you, Philip – I do. But there are things . . .’ She looked away from him, her face hot with confusion. She could not tell him – not about Charles or what had happened.
‘I must go home for a time. There are some things I just have to do – to resolve. I can’t promise anything at the moment – even though . . .’ She stopped, wanting to pour out the tenderness of her feelings towards him. But she did not want to make a promise that, in her own confusion, she might later break.
‘But – you might come back?’ He reached out his hand and she linked hers with his.