‘No, Eb – you’re not renting this out as well – we’ve hardly room to turn round in there,’ Aunt Hatt said heatedly. ‘We’re practically sitting on each other’s knees . . .’

Eb, still chewing, looked round at them all and gave a wink.

‘Don’t mind him – he just likes to mither me,’ Aunt Hatt said.

‘So these houses have a good many different businesses in them?’ Annie asked. She looked much revived, after food. Margaret was grateful to her for keeping up the conversation. ‘Mother used to tell us about it.’

They had grown up hearing stories from Leah Hanson about this district spreading north from the heart of Birmingham, on what was once the old Colmore estate – also known as Hockley.

‘We’re very interested to see,’ Annie went on. ‘There are so many different trades!’

‘Ar – there’s a fair few,’ Eb agreed. ‘Some places round here have a different firm in every room. Next door, see – downstairs is all Tallis’s place. He’s a silversmith. Bit of an oddity, Tallis.’

Margaret wondered about this description. ‘What does he make?’ she managed to ask.

‘Oh, a variety – condiments sets and napkin rings, candlesticks, all sorts,’ Eb said.

‘He does very nice silver-backed dressing-table sets,’ Aunt Hatt added.

‘Yes, and there’s a sports line – tankards, trophy cups. He’s an engraver so they do a line in that. Any road, that’s Tallis – smaller outfit than we’ve got here but he does fine work. Then upstairs, there’s – Caleb Turner, he’s a die sinker. Good lad, Turner is – does quite a bit for us. See, us, we live at the back of this house. So up there –’ he nodded towards the ceiling at the front – ‘there’s Sid Cole. We gave ’im the front room for the light. Gem setter, ’e is. A good’un. Does a lot for me an’ all – lives in there too, he does. And there’s Jack the lad in the back attic, who you met. Enamelling’s his line.’

‘Does he live here as well?’ Annie asked with a twinkle at Margaret.

‘Our Jack? Oh, no – lives round the corner, with his mother. I think she’s hoping he’ll find himself a lady sooner or later – poor old Jack. He don’t seem to have much luck in that department.’

‘We saw the plates on the wall next door,’ Annie said. ‘Die sinkers . . . What’s a die sinker, Uncle Eb?’

Eb finished his mouthful, swallowing with dignity and setting his knife and fork down; then he pulled his pipe and a leather pouch from his pocket and began to stuff the pipe bowl with tobacco. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘anything you make, out of metal, like – see that brooch Hatt’s wearing?’ He pointed the pipe at his wife.