The Clocks in This House All Tell Different Times

by Xan Brooks

  “Inside voice, Lucy,” says the boy at her side.

  Way back when you could still expect a proper sit-down restaurant service at the Griffin public house, the Tottenham Hotspur first eleven stopped by to feast on warm beef, cold cuts, mashed potato and veg. When the food had been served and the guests were eating, Duncan Marsh sat himself at a spare table and scribbled deft caricatures of the best-known players. He drew likenesses of Arthur Grimsdell and Charlie Rance. He conjured James Cantrell into a pious choirboy and made a gurning old man out of stolid Bert Bliss. Marsh was a gifted amateur artist and his pictures generated much hilarity when they were circulated alongside the whisky and cigars.

  Also sitting with the squad that day was a man named Harry Norman, who worked as a sports reporter for the Daily Mail. At the end of the meal, Norman took Marsh aside and mentioned that his editor might be on the lookout for cartoonists and that the publican should post a selection of his work to the London office. Flushed with drink, Marsh shook the reporter’s hand and politely thanked him for his interest. He added that he had never been the sort of fellow to go cap in hand for work, that was just the way he had been brought up, but that if the editor cared to contact him direct then he would, of course, be open to offers.

  Ten years on, he remembers that night clear as day. The saloon bar thronged with hearty, drunken athletes and him sat there too, at ease in their company. Anybody coming in through the door would have taken him for a member of the squad and in a sense he had been, at least for that night. He wishes he had kept hold of those caricatures; he wouldn’t half mind having a look at them now. He wishes as well that he had kept on with the drawing. The newspaper editor had never seen fit to contact him with an offer.

  Times were good. Now times are bad. He blames the council and the new thoroughfare. He blames the war and the flu and the weather and the brewery. He blames whatever he thinks he can get away with blaming. Inside the taproom he suffers through halting, circular, borderline incoherent exchanges with his remaining handful of regulars. Week nights it is usually just tragic Mrs Kitteridge and three alcoholic Irish hod carriers whom he has taken to referring to as the Collapsed Catholics, even though there is nobody else to acknowledge the joke. The regulars like to drink and he’s grateful for that, but there’s hardly enough of them to keep the publican busy. When no one’s glass needs freshening, he freshens his own.

  In the good old days when the air was sweet, Duncan Marsh relied on Coach to keep him stocked with food. Coach is head groundsman at some lavish estate out near Harlow or Hertford or one of those places – the sort of spread where the swells are always riding to hounds and blasting pheasants with buckshot. So long as their dinner is served at the correct hour every night and they find their knickers freshly ironed by the fire each morning, the swells don’t give too much of a toss what their servants are up to. In consequence, Coach and his brother were able to develop a nice little sideline providing fresh meat from the grounds to various restaurants and pubs. The estate had become so clogged with animals, with roe deer, rabbit, duck, sheep and trout, that nobody noticed when a few – or a few score – went missing. Marsh had heard of the poacher-turned-gamekeeper, but Coach had gone better still. He was gamekeeper, thief, butcher and delivery boy, all rolled up in the self-same package.

  You had to hand it to Coach: he’d seen business opportunities where nobody else would think of looking. Marsh paid Coach less than half what he once paid for the same meat at Smithfield, but that was OK because it was straight profit for Coach; all he was giving up was a few hours each week. The arrangement had worked well until the saloon bar stopped taking orders.

  He’s had no dealings with the groundsman for well over a year when the door heaves to and Coach walks in. Marsh is delighted to see him; he could use some conversation. He pours out a pint and fetches the tobacco for his pipe. When Coach asks how the Griffin is faring, he goes easy on the gloss because what’s the point of doing otherwise? His hands play pat-a-cake upon the bar. The taxes. The opening hours. The arterial road. If that wasn’t enough, he has somehow managed to rupture himself while walking the barrels from the cellar. For the past five months he has been wearing a truss. He can feel his innards sloshing whenever he rises from his chair.

  Mrs Kitteridge, soused on Red Biddies, calls, “Oh give it a rest, Marshy-Moo. We’ll have to get the violins out again.”

  “Shut your pie-hole,” the publican says.

  Coach sucks his pint, shakes his head and remarks that it’s the same story all over. Most of the pubs he once worked with have either gone to the dogs or shut up shop and it’s not just the hoi polloi who are feeling the pinch if that’s any comfort – the swells are having a rough old time of it too. Up at Grantwood, where he works, the old master has all but given up the ghost and retired to his bed. In the meantime, all of his duties have devolved to the young master, who’s prone to hare-brained schemes – he keeps throwing money at fripperies and cutting back on essentials. Anyway, says Coach, you should see Grantwood today. The taxes have crippled it, you’d hardly recognise the place. Half the staff have been let go, indoors and out, while a wing of the main house has been closed off, left to rot.

  And the garden, he adds, it would break a man’s heart. He and Crisis used to keep the front lawns perfect. You could eat your dinner off the freshly rolled grass. But guess what it is now: it’s a fucking sheep meadow. They’ve let the livestock in to graze. You walk out the door and down the steps and start fighting your way through a hundred shaggy brutes. They shit where they stand and you have to shut all the windows to keep their stink and bleating from sending you half round the bend. It’s no wonder the old master has taken to his sick-bed. Coach has half a mind to ask him to budge over and make room for him, too.

  “Anyway,” he says again. “That’s my share of hard times. How about the family? How are those youngsters getting on?”

  “The boy’s an imbecile,” Marsh says. “He can’t do a thing except eat, sleep and lift things that don’t belong to him. I’d sell him to Canada except the wife would complain. The grandchildren are another cross I must bear.”

  “The girl seems all right. And quite tidy looking, the last time I checked.”

  “Ah well,” says Marsh. “Maybe she’ll get lucky and marry a professional type.”

  Leaning in, Coach says, “You know I got this other business thing going. The meat trade is dead, it’s not worth my while, but I got this other thing going. I might have told you before, we’re active in charity work. Over at Grantwood, we look after these chaps. I must have told you before about the chaps we look after.”

  Marsh nods.

  “Poor buggers. Nobody wants them and they don’t get out much. But they’ve money to spend, what with bits of allowance and the charity dances the young master lays on. They don’t get out much, for obvious reasons. What they like best is a walk in the fresh air and a spot of nice human company.”

  Marsh says, “This used to be the finest country on earth. Now, like you say, it’s going to the dogs.”

  Coach explains that he has taken to organising field trips out to Epping Forest every Sunday when the weather is nice. The lads benefit from a change of scene in a secluded spot away from prying eyes, and so much the better if they have some company too. The tragedy of it is that they are still young men, poor buggers, and yet most people won’t touch them with a bargepole. One nice thing about youngsters, Coach says, is that they still have that innocence about them, which means they are able to judge the quality of the man as opposed to what condition his hide is in. Just lately he’s started tapping up a few of his old clients to see if they could use an extra bob or two and whether any of their offspring might like to help out with the charity. The funny men are grateful and the kids seem to like it, and if they like it then job done, Coach is happy too.

  “The money’s no great shakes, they don’t have much to spare. But I reckon I can str
etch to ten shillings a week. That isn’t bad when you break it down. Few hours every Sunday evening and home by midnight.”

  “Ten bob ain’t much.”

  “It’s no king’s ransom, I won’t lie to you. But we’re strapped, ain’t we? You and me both. The whole bloody country.”

  Marsh’s cigarette has gone out. He relights it in a fumbling fashion and then frowns at the groundsman. “What exactly are you saying here?”

  “Use your imagination. Or don’t. That might be better. Don’t use your imagination. The one thing I will say is nothing bad happens. I personally guarantee the safety of all the youngsters. They are under my care at all times. The other thing I would say is that the chaps are gentlemen. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t have any doings with them otherwise.”

  Marsh says nothing. He glances over Coach’s shoulder to ensure that nobody’s ears are twitching. But the Collapsed Catholics are deep in conversation, while Mrs Kitteridge appears to have fallen asleep. Her chin is parked on her chest and her dentures have slid free.

  “The chaps are gents and the youngsters are all first-rate. That’s the other thing I ought to mention. Polite, respectable. Little angels, every one. It brings out the best in them. They take the work seriously and they can see the good it does.”

  “And what do you do?” Masks asks, his volume jumping a notch. “You and Crisis, out in the woods. What part do you play?”

  The groundsman appears profoundly amused by the question. He requires a moment to collect himself. “Heavens to Betsy. I’m glad you think I still have it in me. Nothing, Mr Marsh. We don’t do anything, hand on heart, that’s not my bag. I’m shocked you’d even ask me.”

  “Well, I don’t know, I don’t know.” He draws on his cigarette and discovers it has died on him yet again. In his confusion he has somehow managed to secrete his matches in his seat pocket and retrieving the things proves to be quite the ordeal. “My fucking guts,” he says.

  Coach pulls a commiserating face.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “One other thing you might want to think about. Last thing, hand on heart. Officially speaking, these men do not exist. So you could say that whatever goes on never actually happened. Whatever relations your youngster has with my chaps do not really exist. And if that’s the case then your conscience is clear.”

  Marsh grimaces. “The ten shillings exists, though, don’t it?”

  “The ten shillings does exist. Except that this time it’s passing from my hand to yours.”

  “I think I like it better that way.”

  “I thought you might.”

  The pints have been sunk and the hour hand has spun full circle on the mantelpiece clock. The groundsman says it’s been good to have a catch-up. He explains that he’ll call back next week, once Marsh has had time to mull on it awhile. It was just a thought and the money might help, but so far as he’s concerned it makes no odds either way. Marsh shakes his hand and says it’s not for him. He adds that he’s mulling it now and the more that he mulls, the more sick he feels. “Sweet God almighty,” he says.

  “No harm done. Just a thought.”

  For all that, the landlord likes Coach and is oddly deflated by the thought of his departure. He doesn’t want to part on bad terms; he hopes his old supplier will stop by again. So he walks the groundsman out to his lorry, not even worrying that he has left the bar untended, despite the fact that on several occasions he has returned from the convenience to discover the Collapsed Catholics huddled sheepishly over tankards that strike him as having been recently topped up. Oily bastards, greedy pigs. One day they’ll dose themselves so high they’ll stumble right off the scaffolding, cement trays and all, and maybe then they’ll stop laughing. It’ll be good night and lights out.

  On the street, blinking in the sun, he says, “I have to hand it to you, Coach, you’re a right crafty sod, always something going on the sly.”

  “I told you. This is charity work.”

  “Oh yeah, and the other one has bells on. I’m betting you and Crisis get a little taste of it too.”

  “Barely enough to keep us in socks.” He cranks the engine and clambers into the cab.

  “Crafty sod. I don’t know how you live with yourself. And just the girls you’re interested in, yes? Dirty bastard.”

  Coach shoots him a quizzical look.

  “I mean, let’s say I said, ‘Oh yes, it sounds spiffing’ and then offered to throw the little lad in as well. Then that would be twenty shillings each Sunday instead of the ten. But oh no, crafty sod only wants to take the girls on his field trips.”

  The groundsman pulls the door shut and pops one elbow out the window. “Marshy, calm down,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the engine’s throb. “As it goes we do have a boy, a nice enough lad, but we don’t need another. If you want I can let you know when the situation becomes vacant.”

  The publican considers his grandchildren. He considers the Griffin and the arterial road. The bills and the brewery and the licensing laws. The six months, tops, he has to turn the whole place around. He has a sudden urge to kick the door of the Maudslay, but instead he staggers backwards, as though the very truck is diseased. His intestines joggle; the truss can’t hold him together. “You’re a dirty, crafty bastard, Coach. Charity work, is it? It sounds like you’re still in the meat trade to me. The more I think about it, the more sick it makes me.”

  Coach nods as if to say that this is right and proper. He says, “You’re a good man, Marshy. But the world will ask us questions.” Growling and rattling like a living thing, the truck eases its wheels from the kerb and crawls away up the street.

  9

  In the woods they lay out their picnics and play hide-and-seek. One day Crisis brings a kite and after a few false starts they are able to get it aloft. Her heart catches at the sight of that bright yellow diamond hanging high above their heads. The string tugs in her grip as though inviting her to let her body go limp and light and be carried along too, and for one lovely moment she is convinced it could happen.

  When Coach is in a good mood he lets either her or Fred into the cab to steer the Maudslay on the forest track. Much to his chagrin, John is not extended the same privilege; nor is Edith, although she insists she couldn’t care less either way. Lucy knows that the girl is still smarting over her altercation with the Cowardly Lion and hopes that, given time, she will come around. She enjoys sitting behind the wheel, navigating the narrow path, although the Maudslay’s power frightens her and she always climbs out with a sense of having just been thrown free of a runaway horse. One evening in the woods she drinks gin and smokes three cigarettes, one after the other, and spends the entire trip back clinging to the backboard, about to be sick. She is always home by midnight. She keeps the door key safely in her sock.

  With each fresh visit, it is as though the world shifts and resettles, or it may be that it is she who is shifting while the world stays the same. The visits are odd; there is no escaping their oddness. And yet the more she comes to know the funny men, the less conspicuous and clamorous their funniness seems. She finds herself regarding them almost as children, almost as peers; not really so different from Brinley or Edgar or any of the other noisy, uncertain boys who like to jostle her in the school playground. They only want to be noticed. They only want to be loved.

  By now she has come to appreciate the brash, cheerful Toto and the quiet, clever Scarecrow. Winifred is right – the Tin Woodman is dashing and romantic and never mind his appearance because he certainly doesn’t seem to, arriving with his morning suit pressed and his hair as oiled as an otter’s back. Only the Lion continues to vex her. He is docile with Fred and wary of everyone else. Even the other funny men treat him as a colleague to be tolerated rather than a friend to include. Lucy chooses to think of him as a benign, broken soul – not dissimilar to the blind horse on Ermine
Street – and makes a valiant effort to bond with him and have him walk with her for a spell. But when she takes his hands, he shakes his head.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much use today,” he tells her haltingly. “I’m afraid I’m not much use on any day.”

  Afterwards she will count even this as a victory of sorts. He let her take hold of his hands. He spoke directly to her alone. She resolves that one day the Lion will come to trust her as he trusts Fred. She does wish he had not set about Edith that time. She hopes that Edith overreacted. Privately she thinks that she probably did.

  Out on the trail, the Tin Woodman sings songs. Walking alongside, she picks up the lyrics from ditties and laments to the point where she can provide a pleasing harmony. They sing ‘In Dublin’s Fair City’ and ‘Don’t Do That To the Poor Puss-Cat’ and ‘I Know Where Flies Go’, which always strikes her as unaccountably sad. “Lay their eggs and fly away, come back on the first of May. Hatch their eggs and oh what joy, first a girl and then a boy.”

  The trees are a mystery until the Scarecrow explains them. The pair of them come rambling through thousands of bedraggled, sagging bluebells and he casually identifies every tree in their path, as though naming them on the very first day. Oak and beech are plentiful; they dominate the surrounding land. But the Scarecrow also teaches her how to recognise the hornbeam, the sycamore and the silver birch. He tells her that the trees in the forest are several centuries old but have been kept healthy by a process called pollarding, which involves stripping back the upper limbs. When a tree is top-heavy it will topple or split and very likely crash into its neighbours and bring them down as well. The pollarding prevents that; it ensures growth and progress. He says that every society, however advanced, could use some pollarding every now and again.