Margaret watched her sister leave with the usual mixture of pride and exasperation. As the elder of the two, she felt she should keep an eye on Annie. But keeping an eye on her was one thing – trying to argue with her was quite another.

Herr Schmale bounced into their lives at midday.

There was an energetic knock at the door and Susan, at her table in the office, visibly jumped.

‘Oh, my Lord, that must be him!’ she said, breathless.

‘Well, don’t dither – answer the door to him.’ Aunt Hatt sounded equally dithery herself.

Margaret and her aunt waited as the door was opened and a bassoon-like voice boomed, ‘Ah! Zis is the working premises of Mr Vatts – am I right, madam?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they heard Susan say, her voice high and nervous. ‘Please come in.’ Margaret and Bridget exchanged glances and Bridget pulled a comical face which made Margaret smile.

Aunt Hatt stood up to greet the visitor. Margaret got to her feet as well.

From the sound of the voice she was expecting a tall, imposing person. Instead, round the door bounced a plump little man in a dapper, pearl-grey suit. He was pink-cheeked with curling brown hair and an impressive waxed moustache which made his smile look even broader. His hat was in his hand and he used it to add a flourish to his bow.

‘Good day, ladies!’ His voice reverberated round the walls. ‘I am Herr Schmale.’ It seemed Eb had guessed the pronunciation about right. ‘Vhich means “small” or “narrow” –’ He stroked his rotund belly. ‘I am Freddie Small – vich as you can see, I am not!’ He gave a long chuckle. ‘You are expecting me?’

‘We are indeed,’ Aunt Hatt said, going to shake hands. She seemed relieved at the sight of this jolly-looking arrival. ‘I am Mrs Watts. This is my niece, Miss Margaret Hanson – and Miss Susan Franklin and Miss Bridget Grey who are on our staff. Margaret – would you please go and fetch your uncle?’

Margaret hurried out to the workshop. The glazed tiles of the yard gave off a glow in the grey morning. Several of the men looked round as she walked in amid the smells of acids and gas, one or two with an appreciative look on their faces, though the presence of the boss stopped them saying anything. The place was filled with loud male voices over the thump of drop presses and the hammering of metal. Uncle Eb was standing behind one of the pegs, leaning over to watch one of the men as he worked with his blowpipe.

‘He’s here, Uncle,’ she said quietly. ‘Herr Schmale.’

As they left she heard one of the men say, ‘Shame it ain’t that von Titz bloke.’ She suppressed a smile, hearing the guffaws of laughter which followed.