‘Margareta, my dear, what brings you out on a cold day? Come in, come in,’ he said in a breathless voice, beckoning her through the door.

  The house was chilled and there was no fire in the grate, as Mother had feared. Greta produced the missing stockings, hand knitted in the finest wool, showing him the darning.

  ‘I must pay your mother for her kindness.’

  ‘No, no,’ she repeated Mother’s words. ‘This is too fine to lose.’

  ‘Adah, my wife, could knit as fine as a spider’s web.’ He sighed. ‘She had such fingers for the needle. I miss her so. Would you like to see her lace work? Come, see in the living room. I have some things of hers about me for comfort.’

  The old man showed Greta through to the little parlour which was crammed with heavy draperies and tall dark furniture. It smelt of tobacco and neglect and the dust made Greta sneeze. On the chair backs were lace cloths, yellowed with age. There was a photograph of a woman with a little boy in a tarnished silver frame.

  ‘Ah, Benjamin.’ Mr Abrahams shrugged his shoulders at the picture. ‘He went to America on a ship. We never heard from him again. It broke his mother’s heart. Adah was my helpmeet and my hand worker.’ He sighed. ‘She could string pearls, sort and grade stones with those long fingers of hers and had that special eye for quality, better than any apprentice. Now my fingers are stiff for such work.’ The dust caught his chest and he coughed.

  ‘Can I make you a drink while I am here?’ Greta offered, not wanting to leave him in the damp chill. When he accepted she went through to the back room. The range was almost out so she banked it up high and put on the kettle. ‘You sit down, sir.’

  ‘I haven’t time to be ill. I have a box full of repairs. It’s the season for balls in the Assembly Rooms and everyone wants their finery on show. Why they leave it all to the last minute I’ll never know, but business is business and Sol Landesmann is a good friend who sends work my way. I don’t want to let him down.’

  Soon the fire was rising. Mr Abrahams had a tap inside his scullery. She wished they had the same. ‘You could do with some help, sir,’ she offered, seeing the clutter and stale plates. ‘We should wash your lace work.’

  ‘No, no, leave things as they are,’ he replied. ‘But I see you have long fingers just like my wife. I wonder . . .’ He paused. ‘Would you be willing to learn to string beads of jet or stones? It’s skilled work, you need a good eye and steady hands. I could do with some help and one day you could be a pearl stringer. I can’t pay you much.’ He looked down at his own swollen hands. ‘Look at these clumsy stubs, how they shake and my thumbs go stiff . . . old age is not for cowards, my dear, and it comes not alone, they say.’ He coughed again.

  ‘You must have some of my mother’s elderberry cordial. It’s good for a chesty cough. I’ll bring some next time.’

  Greta heard the kettle rattling on the hob. She knew to give him tea with no milk. She saw how his hands shook when she passed over the chipped cup. ‘I’d like to learn something but I have to ask my mother first.’

  ‘She’s a good woman. If you come to help here, I will pay extra for my laundry. What I can teach you might help you when I’m gone. It would certainly lighten my load but I understand if you don’t think it is proper for a young girl.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that, I’d like to come and help.’

  ‘Your mother would not object to working for a Jew? You are Catholics.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ she replied blushing, knowing they were neither one thing nor another. ‘My father was Irish born but Mother makes us go to the Mission Hall. They helped us when he died. I have a brother and sister to mind so I’ll have to ask her permission.’

  ‘You do right to respect your mother’s wishes. If only Benny had done the same . . . but there is no pain on earth like a thoughtless child. I will write a letter to your mother so that she knows the terms, Margareta.’

  Mr Abrahams sat with his tea, nodding his head and smiling while Greta busied herself with chores. How strange that in the space of one wet afternoon she was beginning a strange apprenticeship, all on account of a pair of lost socks. Now why didn’t Nora Walsh see all this in her palm?

  In the following weeks, Greta began her training in old Abrahams’s workshop, first tidying his bench then watching how he cleaned and oiled each piece of a watch, standing back while he soldered on broken links and fixed loose clasps on bracelets and chains. In her spare moments she made sure his rooms were clean. She aired the dusty furniture and checked there was food in his cupboard.

  One morning he sat her down with a box of beads and a tray, showing her how to sort its contents by size and shape and how to use a tiny needle to string the beads together with waxen thread.

  ‘Always the best in the centre, the finest you have.’ He showed her some Whitby jet beads. ‘These stones came from the Yorkshire coast. Since our queen has been in mourning, everyone wants a brooch or a ring in black stones.’ Then he demonstrated how slack strings would weaken the thread and catch on things. He was so busy with watches, cleaning, oiling, that it gave her time to practise all he was teaching her, sometimes scattering parts on the floor when her mind wasn’t on the job. It was not as easy as it looked.

  The jeweller who supplied Mr Abrahams with repairs looked in one lunchtime, surprised to see a girl by his side. ‘What’s this, Saul, and a goy too. Apprenticeships are for boys . . .’

  ‘This is Margareta, my eyes and hands. She’s going to make a good stringer. Her family have been very kind,’ he replied, knowing she was listening. Greta could see Landesmann was not impressed, looking down at her threadbare dress and soiled apron with a sniff.

  ‘Be careful or she might rob you blind,’ he muttered in Yiddish. She needed no translation to sense what he was saying. She edged back out of the room.

  ‘Take no notice of that old skinflint,’ Abrahams said when the man had left. ‘If I didn’t need his work . . . Some people see only evil in this world, never the good in folk.’ He could see that Greta was close to tears, embarrassed.

  ‘By the way, I hope you won’t be offended at this suggestion but I have some of Adah’s garments, dresses and stuff, in a trunk. They will be turning to dust if I don’t part with them soon. Do you think your mother might like to make something of them? The materials are good. She had a good eye for quality in everything.’ He sighed. ‘Please help yourself. Adah would love to know they were put to good use so, please, go, see upstairs.’

  Greta climbed the steep stairs to the bedroom above the workshop. There were several large cupboards and a trunk which she opened, sneezing from the pungent stench of camphor balls in her nostrils. The box was crammed with clothes: woollen dresses, a cloak, black skirts and light cotton shirts, a silk two-piece, hand sewn and old fashioned, but she knew all of this could be transformed. Her heart leapt at such a wealth of choices. There would be clothes for all seasons for Kitty, for all of them. She clambered downstairs. ‘Are you sure? There’s a stall in the market that sells . . .’

  The old man threw his hands up in horror. ‘No! Adah’s clothes are not to be fought over by dealers. I just thought . . . but if they are not suitable . . .’

  ‘Please, sir, they are a gift to be treasured. You have no idea how welcome they’ll be to us. You are too kind.’ Greta’s tears rolled down her cheeks. She had not wished him to think her ungrateful.

  ‘Say no more then. It’s a relief. I would hate to see vultures picking over our home when I am gone. Better to let things go now and have the pleasure of giving you warmth in these cold winters. Off you go. Tomorrow you will learn about pearls.’

  5

  Greta struggled home with a pillowcase full of Adah’s cast offs. It felt like Christmas in the old days when there was money from the railways, meat on the table and little gifts for each of them. Working in the same old shirt and shabby skirt, shawl and bonnet day after day made her long for something smarter, something more suitable for an apprentice. She wanted a dark dress with a proper collar and a warm winter cloak like the girls who worked in the factories or shops. How could you work with pearls if you looked like a pig swiller?

  ‘Kitty! Look what I’ve been given,’ she shouted into the living room, spilling the garments onto the floor. ‘What do you think?’

  Kitty came rushing down the stair to see what Greta had brought. Seeing the pile of clothes she started ferreting through them, then jumped back putting her fingers over her nose. ‘This is all old-fashioned stuff and it smells of mothballs.’

  ‘Don’t you be so ungrateful. Think what Mam can do with these.’ Greta gathered the clothes up one by one, measuring the yards of useful material. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers and these will keep us warm all winter. There’s tweed and wool and good cambric and crêpe.’

  ‘Bagsy I have the cloak then.’ Kitty grabbed the plaid waist-length cloak.

  ‘No, I need that and it’s too big for you.’

  ‘There you go, you allus get first pickings.’ Kitty threw it back at her in a strop.

  ‘Cos I’m a working girl now,’ Greta argued. ‘When it’s your turn . . .’

  ‘I’ll just get your shabby leftovers.’ Kitty rooted through the dresses sniffing. ‘I’m having this then. One day I’m going to wear the finest silks and satins, just you wait.’

  ‘Wait and see what Mam says, she’s the best sewer.’ Greta wasn’t going to let Kitty maul her bounty any more. She could be such a sulky little cow when thwarted.

  Sadie came home tired after her laundry round, but her eyes lit up at the sight of Greta’s unexpected present. ‘Where did this lot come from?’

  Greta told her about Adah’s wardrobe stuffed with clothes.

  ‘He can’t bear to part with them and yet he gave you all these? I don’t like the sound of that. What will folk think?’

  ‘Why should they know once they are altered? We can help you do it. I want to wear summat decent for work.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Her mother hesitated. ‘I was going to tell you that Ma Bellerby at the Goat and Feathers needs you to look after her bairns full time. You’re so good with little ones.’

  Greta looked up in horror. ‘You can’t make me go to that awful gin palace. She’s that rough and there’s always fighting. I like it with Mr Abrahams. He’s promised to teach me threading and that’s a respectable trade.’

  ‘It’s not proper you staying there all hours. I don’t want you getting a bad name and wearing a dead woman’s fancy dresses.’

  ‘But, Mam, he’s old and tired and this was a gift. He didn’t want to sell her clothes. We can’t afford to refuse, can we? How can I take all this and then up sticks and leave him?’ Greta prayed her mother would see the sense of her pleading.

  Greta and her mother worked by lamplight into the small hours, unpicking, ironing out the fabric, cutting a pattern then pinning the pieces into place until they’d fashioned one neat green skirt. Mam was careful to make sure the pieces of fabric that were shiny or faded were used in a side pocket where it would not be noticeable. She also turned the fabric inside out so the texture was brighter. Kitty sulked all evening. ‘I’d look better in that than our Greta. My red hair shows the green off. She looks too plain.’

  ‘Shut up and go to bed if you’ve nothing better to say,’ Greta snapped knowing Kitty was indeed the prettier of the two of them. ‘You’ll get your turn.’

  ‘I never get anything new. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Life’s not fair, young lady, or why would we be stuck in this midden of a back yard?’

  Mother’s words silenced Kitty but Greta couldn’t wait for first light to show off her new skirt to her employer. Over the next few weeks they could make her a whole working wardrobe of clothes but the skirt would do for now. Perhaps one day she could work anywhere in this neat ensemble, even among the pearls shops of Stonegate. To think she would be working with pearls. They were round like little moons, creamy as milk teeth. She couldn’t wait to touch them.

  ‘Now, young lady, show me your hands,’ Abrahams ordered the next day. ‘How rough they are from all that washing but they’ll do. Oily hands are no good for my pearl repairs.’ He lifted a clutch of pearls out of velvet cloth. ‘Each one of these is a gift of nature, the tears of the gods. Good pearls are cold to the touch, here feel for yourself.’

  Greta felt the cool round texture in her palm. ‘Where do they come from?’

  ‘They are from inside the shell of an oyster or mussel. When a bit of grit gets under its shell the oyster coats it with layer after layer of nacre, or mother-of-pearl. She grows the pearl like a baby in the womb. You could open a thousand shells and never find anything better than these.’ He pointed to the pearls in Greta’s cupped hand.

  ‘But we sell mussels and oysters on the market to eat?’ Greta was puzzled.

  ‘Pearls in this country come from special mussels, Margarita margaritifera, they grow in freshwater riverbeds and in estuaries. All over the world there are different mollucs producing pearls in all the colours of the rainbow and most come out of the deep seas of the Orient. Divers swim down to collect them.’

  He brought out a necklace for her to hold under the light. ‘This necklace is weak and needs to be restrung and the clasp needs tightening. You must watch and work with other beads before I can let you loose on such a precious item but perhaps one day . . . It’s delicate work for tired eyes but it must be done.’

  Greta watched how he shed the pearls onto a tray, one by one in order of size, with such a tenderness of touch. ‘We must not damage the pearl or bruise its surface.’ He took off his glasses and smiled. ‘I always think, without the grit there would be no pearl. Sorrows have a way of strengthening the heart, never forget that, child.’

  She was concentrating on sorrows of her own as she polished the beads, ready to practise her own knotting. She tried not to think of her mother’s threat about working for old Ma Bellerby instead of Mr Abrahams. How could she tell him this news when she was enjoying this so much? ‘Mr Abrahams,’ she blurted out, ‘if I could come every day how long would it take to be trained up?’

  He looked up, seeing the worry on her face. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  She spilled out all her mother’s words and the threat hanging over her. ‘I don’t want to spend my day scrubbing and cleaning. I want to do something like this, skilled work, a proper trade, but Mother thinks it’s not proper . . . for a girl like me.’

  He peered over his steel-rimmed spectacles at her. ‘Then we’ll have to find a way for you to stay here. I will speak with your mother and explain. She has obviously misunderstood my intentions. Perhaps along with your little sister you could come and keep house here, live-in like a proper apprentice, and in the evenings we will conquer the art of pearl stringing. If I can make a good stringer out of you, you will never be out of work, believe me.’

  Greta sank back in relief. This was perhaps as close as she’d ever get to the shops in Stonegate with their beautiful jewellery and shining gems, but to work with these delicate objects was wonderful. To touch the gold and the pearls made her forget the mud and chill bleakness of the Walmgate streets, transporting her into another life. Perhaps her hands were her fortune after all.

  6

  Perth, 1879

  It was the week before Christmas when Eben Slinger made his last tramp round the villages, knocking on doors, showing them his card which read:

  Ebenezer Slinger, Esq. of London

  DEALER IN FINE PEARLS AND OBJETS D’ART

  Good prices given for the genuine article

  No one was willing to open their latch to him in Glencorrin except when he came to a small lime-washed cottage at the end of a lane, set back from the road, little more than a but and ben. It looked faded and the garden ill kempt. He’d asked at the post office about the families who lived locally and the cheery wifie had told him that the woman down the lane had been recently bereaved. Her son was in the forest working for the laird. Their name was Baillie, which he’d recognized as a travelling family name. She’d told him they were keen pearl fishermen. Eben was well rehearsed by the time he reached the door. It was opened by a grey-haired widow in black with a white cap on her head. ‘Mistress Baillie, I am sorry to interrupt your daily work but I wondered if I might have a word concerning your late husband.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Her eyes were sharp but glassy.

  ‘It has come to my notice that he was a keen fisherman, famed in the district for his collection of river pearls.’

  ‘So what if he was? It’s no any of yer business, young man.’ She made to shut the door.

  Eben held out his card. ‘Madam, don’t be alarmed. I am aware of many charlatans parading themselves as pearl dealers of repute but here are my references. I collect only the best and I give a good price for decent-sized gems. As you will see, here is a letter from the Laird of Kinloch himself recommending my services.’ He thrust the letter under her nose trusting that her ability to read without spectacles was non-existent, if she could read at all. She glanced briefly at it, unsure now, and the door stayed ajar.

  ‘I know, what with winters being harsh in these parts and the festive season upon us again, that many folk like a little extra siller to make ample provisions for Ne’r Day.’ He tried to use the local dialect to reassure his customers.

  ‘Aye, it comes gey pricey but it’s my son who deals with all that. You’ll have to speak to him.’

  ‘Sadly I must leave for London to see my family. Today is my last day,’ he lied, making to leave.

  ‘Ach, come away in and I’ll see what I can find. There’s no much left now to my knowledge.’ She left him standing in the kitchen next to the open hearth with its reek of peat smoke, the iron pot was simmering over the fire. There was a box bed cut into the wall and a shelf over the chimney. He had see many such humble dwellings on his travels in the north but Scots were canny with their money, didn’t splash out on fancy decorations.