All around was an astonishing commotion of people, some talking, others silent and hurrying down the street. The girls had to keep alert to make sure they did not collide with anyone. Annie found herself twisting this way and that. A barefoot boy forcing a barrow bigger than himself along the pavement passed so close to her that he brushed her skirt; people scurried in and out of buildings; carts clattered past, horses leaving piles of their doings on the road, clouds of flies shifting about them. That, at least, was a smell that was familiar.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Annie asked, squeezing Margaret’s arm.

Margaret nodded bravely, though she was still pale. ‘Those people were kind,’ she murmured. ‘Like mother used to say.’

Margaret and Annie’s Birmingham-born mother had died six years ago and they longed for her every day. As children, they had asked her for stories about when she was growing up, in the city, before she met their father.

‘There’re plenty of good people in Birmingham,’ she used to say. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you different. Some of them may be rough and ready, but most of them’ve got hearts of gold.’

In a few moments, they reached their destination, another road of high terraces and smut-coated bricks.

‘So, this is it,’ Jack Sidwell said, stopping outside numbers twenty-four and twenty-six Chain Street.

Margaret looked up at the buildings, a pair of adjoining three-storey houses, their front doors side by side. At number twenty-four, to the left, the flat sash windows were flush with the building, but at number twenty-six, these had been replaced by wide bays dustily reflecting the sky.

Screwed to the side of this front door was a brass plaque which read ‘Ebenezer Watts & Son, Goldsmith & Jeweller’. Below it were two very small ones advertising ‘J. Sidwell, Enamelling’ and ‘Sidney R. Cole, Gem Setting’. At number twenty-four, the largest sign read ‘P. Tallis, Silversmith, Engraver’ and below, almost too small to read, was ‘C. Turner – Die Sinker’.

‘Mrs Watts?’ Jack called out as he led them into number twenty-six. ‘I’ve got ’em!’ Realizing too late that this made them sound like parcels, he tried again, pompously. ‘Your nieces are here!’ Margaret glanced at Annie and saw her smirking at his clumsiness.

‘Oh, girls, at last!’

In the brown light of the hall, they heard Aunt Harriet before she appeared from the first door to their right. Margaret felt the tension inside her ease in relief and pleasure at the sight of their aunt. She had met her only once as a small child and then not again until their mother’s funeral in ’98, which felt like a long time ago. Now she was meeting a woman with the loveliest, kindest face she thought she had ever seen.