Heart palpitating, he managed to raise the hat with self-conscious aplomb.

‘The Misses Hanson? Mr Ebenezer Watts sent me to meet you.’ Pompously he added, ‘He found himself unable to leave the works this afternoon.’ As an afterthought he held his hand out to the elder, less intimidating sister. ‘I’m Jack Sidwell. I, er . . .’ It seemed a lame finish. ‘I work upstairs.’

The two women nodded. Neither of them spoke, which was even more disconcerting. They seemed completely bewildered. Jack wanted to stare at the fascinating younger one, but didn’t dare.

‘We’ve got to take the tram,’ he said, trying to keep up his courage. ‘Let me carry those.’

He took their old leather grip bags, one in each hand, and led them out of the station. One thing had become immediately clear to him: they both had a lot on their minds, and whatever it was, they were not thinking about him or his hat.

Each time the tram slowed, even a fraction, Margaret tried to look out between the swaying bodies in the packed carriage, to see this great city which was to take them in.

‘It won’t be yet.’ Annie, her younger sister, nudged her painfully in the ribs. Everything about Annie was sharp – her pointed chin, her elbows, her temper. ‘Stop fretting. He’ll tell us when to get off.’

She nodded towards the rear of the carriage, where they could just see their round-faced guide, Mr Sidwell, who had become separated from them.

Margaret did not have the energy to reply that she was just trying to see the place. What she could make out, however, was overwhelming. All those buildings – all the traffic and people! As the tram crawled along, she stopped trying to look out. The high collar of her blouse, her cuffs, her corset, all made her feel imprisoned. In the stifling heat, a sick panic rose in her. If only she could get out. She was shut in here, in this strange place with the hot stench of all these people.

‘Anyway,’ Annie went on, seeming unaffected by the heat and having, as ever, to be right, ‘Birmingham’s a big place.’

‘Oh, do just be quiet, Annie, please.’

Closing her eyes, she clung to one of the leather straps, pressing a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. I need thee every hour, most gracious Lord . . . She kept praying the words of one of her favourite hymns to give herself strength. But the tune brought back Sunday mornings at home in their father’s church, the swell of organ and cello, the things she had always known, that she had never expected to leave – not like this. Tears threatened to overwhelm her and she forced the thoughts away. Be strong in the Lord . . . Pray without ceasing. She must find courage.