Margaret stepped to one side, a hand over her mouth as nausea rose in her. She drew in deep breaths until it began to fade and walked on to deliver Aunt Hatt’s message, a feeling of sudden, utter exhaustion coming over her.

‘Dear God, no,’ she prayed. ‘Not this again – please don’t let me be ill again . . .’

After delivering her message in Frederick Street, she returned slowly to Chain Street, gradually recovering as she walked. The door of number twenty-four, her next task, was open and she saw the middle-aged man, in what she had learned was Mr Tallis’s front office, turn to look up at her over his spectacles and give her a brief nod before returning to his work.

Margaret climbed the dusty staircase. Apart from Caleb Turner, she was not familiar with the people who worked here. And though she now knew by sight the man in the front office and a middle-aged woman who also worked there, of Mr Tallis, who seemed to have the run of all the ground floor including his shopping at the back, she had seen no sign. She had once or twice caught sight of a young girl with long fair hair, who Aunt Hatt said was his daughter.

Caleb Turner’s workshop was on the first floor at the front. Uncle Eb thought highly of him, and though he was not the only die sinker her uncle employed to execute his designs, Mr Turner did a lot of work for him.

At her knock, Margaret heard a muffled response which she took to mean she should enter. As she came in, Caleb Turner turned from his workbench under the window. He was a middle-aged man, pale, with thin, grizzled hair and a temperament that could be described as unexcitable.

‘Oh, it’s you, bab,’ he said. ‘I dain’t ’ear yer on the stairs, yer that light-footed. Yer old man want to see me again?’ He always talked to her as if she was Eb’s daughter, even though he knew perfectly well she was not.

Margaret nodded, attempting to smile. She liked and trusted Caleb Turner. He had a wife and four children and seemed such a mild person.

‘You’re white as a sheet, wench.’ He swivelled round a bit more and peered at her, as if eyes so used to close work had to strain to see anything further away. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Margaret fiddled with the bottom button of her cardigan, embarrassed by his scrutiny. To distract him, she said, ‘May I see what you are working on?’

‘All right.’ He indicated with his head. ‘Come and ’ave a look.’