‘I haven’t seen him for a few days,’ Margaret said. With a sigh, she added, ‘That poor family. If only the father would come home – even if he’s not well, it’s better for them having him there, I think. He’s taken to the road again, I suppose. The poor man looked so sick and broken down.’

Philip Tallis shook his head gravely. ‘Terrible.’

‘He should come and learn with us,’ Daisy said. ‘The boy, I mean. You could teach him, Pa, and then he could get a better job and they wouldn’t have to worry so much.’

‘He’s only nine, I think,’ Margaret said. ‘Or perhaps ten by now.’

‘Well, I’m only ten as well!’ Daisy said. ‘I was ten on October the tenth,’ she added grandly.

‘I think –’ her father got up, putting down his empty teacup – ‘it’s time we showed Miss Hanson how to solder this wire. And then I must go.’

He lit the gas jet and invited Margaret to seat herself at one of the pegs at the bench. In fact it was a half-bench, with three pegs, the flat side pushed against the wall.

‘Take your time,’ he said.

They had balanced a tiny snip of solder on the gap between the two ends. She held the copper loop with tweezers and he showed her how to heat round the whole circlet of wire before training the flame precisely on the solder.

‘That’s good,’ he said encouragingly. All the time, she could feel him close to her, over her shoulder. The light was fading outside and he stepped away to light the gas lamps.

‘I’d best get back to the workshop before they all knock off,’ he said, but he spoke with an air of reluctance.

‘I like teaching Miss Hanson,’ Daisy said. ‘Can she come again, Pa?’

Philip Tallis smiled. ‘If she can stand being bossed about,’ he said drily, looking back at Margaret from the door.

‘Oh, I think I’ll survive,’ Margaret laughed. ‘I’ve enjoyed it so much – thank you.’

He nodded, then departed. Margaret felt a second’s bereavement as he left the room. The feeling was so strong it frightened her, as if he had been part of the light in the room.

I don’t know myself, she thought, tidying away the tea things. I don’t understand myself. With a sudden pang she thought of Charles Barber, of how she had been drawn so close to him and how she had loved that closeness. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me, needing such things? she worried. The anger she had felt when the letter arrived was dying and now the rift with Charles saddened her. He was sorry, she thought. Perhaps she should be more forgiving.

‘So,’ Daisy was saying, ‘now we have to put it in the pickle and then when you get it out you polish it and you can hammer it . . .’