The Clocks in This House All Tell Different Times

by Xan Brooks

  Teasing, she says, “Work must be dreadful for you. To be so bothered by books.”

  “It’s a waking nightmare. They rustle their pages at me.”

  “And you worry that they mean you harm?”

  “Mental harm. Only mental harm. I’m not bad at the printing. I’m not so good at the reading.”

  “Well, you see, there’s the difference. I think he saw printing and reading as all part and parcel.”

  In avoiding the shelves, James Winter finds himself ambushed by the small framed photograph beside the curtained window. “Oh,” he says. “And here he is.”

  “Yes,” she says. “There he is.”

  “Lying in wait.”

  “Turn him to the wall if it makes you feel safer.”

  She decides that, yes, she does like the replacement typesetter. Or rather, she appreciates the qualities she might previously have regarded with amusement or scorn. She likes his athletic build, his square face, his open, innocent air. She likes the fact that he is younger than her. It makes him seem freshly sprung, an elastic green sapling, untainted by anything. It is even a faint relief that the bookshelves distress him.

  And as for Jim Winter, well, he likes her too. He says he likes her shape and her voice. He has found himself charmed by her unguarded, mobile features and bewitched by her boldness – the way she trapped his money with her foot and made him pick a shoe. He confesses that he was engaged back in Taunton but that the girl broke it off and that this was surely for the best; he is well over it now. He says that he likes little Michael as well. He says he’s an all-round good lad, a credit to his mother, a youngster you can trust. “A disaster in goal,” he adds. “But still an all-round good lad.”

  Below the old photograph sits another framed item: a shrivelled pink skin, mounted on card and pinned behind glass. “Bloody heck, what’s this?”

  She cranes her neck. “It’s really nothing. A silly thing.”

  “Ignore me, I’m nosy.”

  “No,” she says, “It’s a balloon. Or it was a balloon. It was important to me once. It’s not any more.”

  “A balloon,” he says. “Well that does make more sense.” But a flush has risen on the back of his neck and she realises with a start that he had initially mistaken the balloon for something else. That for one upsetting moment he believed the lovely, lonely widow kept a spent, used preventative framed on her living room wall. She has to bite down on her lip to keep the laughter locked in.

  At about this time of night, the village ducks go insane. They abandon the water and congregate on the green where they proceed to fight and fuck for hours on end. Stepping out to investigate, she has witnessed a number of avian gang rapes in which the hen is held down by one drake so that the others can run up and work at her hind quarters. She has seen assaults so violent that they can only have resulted in the death of the combatants. It is impossible to reconcile the cheerful, bustling ducks of the day with these nocturnal carousers. She can hear them now through the window, they yap at one another like dogs. The neighbours’ mongrel takes the day watch and the ducks take the night.

  Presently she will sit him on the settee and allow herself to be kissed. She shall gently explain that they should go slowly because she is shy and has not been with a man since the last time with her husband; that inconsequential old lie. And yes, it was true when she said it to Mr Lincoln the schoolmaster, but then it was naturally untrue in the months and years after that. It was false when she said it to the asthmatic electrician and then again to the married quantity surveyor, and the unmarried gamekeeper who became so stirred by the claim that he lost control of himself before she could get his flies open, and it is false to repeat it to handsome Jim Winter whom she has decided she likes a good deal after all. What would happen, she wonders, if these men were somehow thrown together? She pictures them all on the back seat of a stalled country bus, passing around a bottle, confessing their sins. But that would never happen: too many coincidences. She suspects she is safe.

  And when she sits the man on the couch and tells him her trifling untruth, this is his cue to tell her his in return. So Jim Winter will say that if she’s not ready it’s fine, that he is happy to wait, because it is not so much this night that matters as all the nights to come. And that this is because he has come to adore her direct gaze and her expressive face and the way she has shouldered her loss and raised such a fine son. And so, he confesses, he has started to hope for a future in which she has some small part to play, assuming she is not too appalled by the prospect, and she accepts that he might even believe what he says, at least in those minutes when he is sat on the settee with her turned to face him and the bed immediately over their heads. That is one benefit of an uncomplicated man. They live on the surface and act themselves into being, so that by telling a lie they manage to make it become true.

  When Margaret is drunk, at the Angel or in this very room, she has a habit of beating back over recent years and bemoaning all the ruin she finds. She leaves lipstick smudges on her glass and wine stains on her teeth. She drops cigarettes in her lap and needs help to retrieve them. Margaret has become an embarrassment, with her loud voice and her drinking and her parade of spiritualists. Respectable types have begun to avoid her.

  But in the midst of her lament, this poor, drunken woman will invariably turn imploringly towards Audrey and Jean and say, “And what was it all for?” Meaning the war. “What was it for?” – her big coup de grâce, her unanswerable question. Then she and Jean will shake their heads and pull commiserating faces and there endeth the lesson. When all the while what she really wants to do is to point at the wine glass and at the stray cigarette and say, “What was it for? This is what it was for, you dozy, miserable cow. It was for you to be able to sit here and get sloshed and be sick and repeat the same tired sentences again and again. It was for me to take a man I barely know by the hand and then lead him to my bed. It was for some people to live and for some to be killed, the same as it ever was; that is how the world works. And if our husbands are dead then that means we have survived and what we’ve won is this moment and the next one, this night and the next, to do with what we want, to drag it down or to raise it up. What we have won is our lives and there is no greater prize, there is nothing more precious. So there you go, that’s what it was for. And what more do you want, you dozy, bleating, drunk cow?”

  She instructs the typesetter to tread on the inner edge of each step, to prevent the stairs from creaking and disturbing the child. She does this to let the man know that she is a responsible parent and that the boy’s welfare and stability are her primary concerns. She does it to show she is first and foremost a mother. She does it to ensure that this man takes her seriously. The truth, however, is that Michael typically sleeps like the dead and that when the child is out he is out until morning. Once inside her room, with the door closed behind them, she knows she can be just as loud as she likes.

  16

  Fred claps her hands and clears her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a sorrowful announcement, please try not to cry. Miss Edith has decided not to join us this evening. She wanted to attend but her sulk got too bad, it took a turn for the worse. Oh ladies and gentlemen, please do try not to cry. It is all very sad. Miss Edith has gone. She will not be coming again.”

  It’s the hottest day of the year so far, they might as well be marooned in the Spanish interior, and when Coach pulls away she can feel the whole of Edmonton in her lungs: the smell of baked horse dung, dust and tar, and the aroma of old cooking that has no space to escape. And undercutting it all, the exhaust fumes from the Maudslay, which appears to be poorly. Coach has to crank the handle for several minutes before the engine turns over; he thinks the plugs need a clean. The omens are ill ahead of their last trip to the forest.

  “Fucking cocking contraption,” says Coach.

  To pass the time on the drive, Fred suggests that they share
treasured memories of their former co-worker. For her part, she says she’ll never forget the night Edith fell down in that puddle and made such a scene, or the time she claimed that she couldn’t manage the Mench because her monthlies had come on, or the sound she made in the bushes, howling like a cat. But these are just her memories, and she is sure the others have theirs. Edith may be gone but she brought so much joy to the world.

  “She had quite a long nose,” ventures John with a frown.

  “She did,” says Fred. “She did have quite a long nose and we shall always remember her long nose with a smile. Thanks for that, John. What a nice contribution.” She turns to Lucy, adopts a businesslike air. “Actually, this is good for us. I’ve been thinking it over and we should ask for a raise. If the funny men are still paying the usual amount, then we need to get more otherwise it all goes to Coach.”

  Lucy is unconvinced. “But if we get a raise it only goes to the oldies.”

  “Only if they know about it. We ought to talk to Coach and Crisis. We need to see how we can work out a deal. If we’re doing more Mench we should be paid more as well.”

  They come through the suburbs and onto Turpentine Lane. Ancient oak and beech pile up all around and the birds are excited; they keep dive-bombing the truck. The funny men have arrived bearing gifts. They carry thick glass jars filled with fortified wine that has the consistency of treacle and leaves the mouth full of grit. The weather is such that she would prefer to drink water, but she accepts the wine all the same, which immediately makes her lightheaded. The Tin Man’s mask grows so hot that it sticks to his face. He turns his back and has Crisis undo the strap and employ the mask as a fan to take the worst of the heat from his skin.

  This operation complete, Coach lifts his jar in a toast. He says: “To the continued good health of the Grantwood estate. Without which none of this would be possible.”

  “To the Grantwood estate,” Toto says heartily.

  “Outside it’s all beggars and Bolsheviks. Everyone wanting something for nothing. But still, never mind. As long as the sun keeps on shining on the Grantwood estate.” He appears to lose his thread; the wine is working its magic. “May the sun never set on the Grantwood estate.”

  “To the Grantwood estate,” says Crisis.

  “Too fucking right,” says Coach.

  It is perhaps not the ideal moment to raise a matter of business, but Winifred has never been one to keep her counsel. Now, without preamble, she lays out her case. “I was meaning to say, me and Luce want more money. It stands to reason that if Edith’s left we’re working much harder. If we have to work harder we should be getting more money.”

  Crisis guffaws. “What were you saying about the Bolsheviks, bruv?”

  Coach says, “I don’t see you working. I see you drinking our wine.”

  “You know what I mean. We’re going to have to work harder.”

  “I think Fred’s right,” blurts Lucy. She glances to the Scarecrow for support but he is looking elsewhere.

  The Tin Woodman, by contrast, is enjoying himself. He says, “Dear me, poor Coach. Here’s your very own labour dispute on your very own doorstep. Poor old Coach, he thought Grantwood would protect him. Vive la revolution! Wheel out the guillotine. Poor old Coach, don’t you see, the irony’s priceless.”

  “You know what I mean. And you should pay us, not the oldies.”

  “Hark at this one,” Crisis marvels. “Little Miss Bolshy.”

  Coach says, “Yeah, I know what you mean. Little Miss Bolshy, wanting something for nothing. Greedy little brat who don’t know she’s been born.”

  Toto chips in. “You have to admit, the girl has a point. Either you pay them more or we pay you less. That’s basic accounting. Don’t be chiselling us now.”

  And all at once Coach finds himself outgunned. He scowls at Toto and then back to Fred. He says, “Fair enough, you’ve had your say, we can sit down and talk about it properly later.” But his temper is flaring and his muscles are twitching. He promptly drops the glass jar, which splashes his shirt front, bounces off his belly and shatters on a rock. And now his fury breaks cover. “Look what you fucking made me do!” he shouts at the girls, after which he rounds on the Lion, who is only trying to help. “Leave it! Leave it! Don’t pick up the pieces, what the fuck are you doing?” For a second, Lucy fears he might be about to turn violent.

  The Tin Man says, “What an ill humour we are all in this evening. Might I recommend a quiet walk in the woods?”

  And so when the wine has been drunk and the sun has dipped, Lucy helps the dwarf into his wicker chair and pushes him for a spell along a crooked forest trail. The moon climbs from the trees, vast and full, and it makes the place look so beautiful, like a fairytale illustration. It could almost be daylight, except that all of the colour has been drained from the world. Those darting shapes to the side must be a family of deer. The creatures overhead are either squirrels or owls. And here once again she is struck by the wonder of life. When the light hits it differently, even familiar places turn strange. She supposes this is why artists return through the year to paint and repaint the same favoured landscape.

  Afterwards, in the clearing, she learns that the Lion is missing. No one saw him go. Fred explains that she has been occupied with Tinny, while it transpires that the Scarecrow and John stayed with the groundsmen at the trucks. The Lion is not given to wandering off on his own and his absence sparks rueful amusement among the remaining funny men, who pretend to regard Coach and Crisis as being somehow to blame. Toto jokes that first off they lost Edith and now, bloody hell, they have mislaid the Lion. One loss might be forgiven, but a pair looks quite careless.

  Coach says, “Oh yeah, very good. Please be sure to speak up if you’ve got anything useful to say.”

  They post Toto and John at the trucks and trudge out through the trees. The Tin Man suggests that they spread out in order to cover more ground but Coach won’t hear of it. He says he doesn’t want anyone else getting lost, for Christ’s sake. He adds that if Tinny spreads out and takes one of the girls along with him then who can say what might happen? What with all that temptation, they probably wouldn’t see him for another hour or more. He says he knows full well what Tinny means when he talks about spreading.

  “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” says Fred. “But mind you, he’s right.”

  “The big dirty get,” says the groundsman with a grin.

  They call out for the Lion and before long they locate him. He is sat beyond the clearing with his back to a tree. The Scarecrow takes Lucy by the shoulder and attempts to turn her away. “Don’t look at him,” he says.

  She tears herself free. She needs to see what has happened. The Lion sits with his back to the trunk, with one leg bent and the other laid straight. He has taken a shard from Coach’s broken jar and he has used it to open the veins in his wrist. His clenched face has loosened and whatever disturbed him has now departed for good. The blood has run out to drench the ivy at his side. In the gentle lunar cast, it is possible to believe he has dozed off and spilt what remained of his fortified wine.

  Dimly she is aware of Winifred’s hiccuping sobs. Crisis says, “Well now, fuck me, what a ballsed-up sorry mess.”

  “Don’t look at it, Lucy,” the Scarecrow says again.

  “Heavens above,” the Tin Man says softly. “I do hope this isn’t what happened to Edith as well.”

  “How can you joke?” she cries. “Oh God, what a thing.” And now amid all this confusion, she senses the presence of further figures behind her. She thinks it must be Toto and John but instead sees two boys, a year or two younger than her, bizarrely got up in bright hooded cloaks. They have been drawn by the shouts or by Winifred’s sobs. Their faces are pale and they are on the brink of flight.

  “Fetch Great Crested Owl!’ shouts one scout to the other.

  Coach runs a hand across his face. “Fetch what?”
he says faintly and to no one in particular. He resembles a man freshly shaken from a dream.

  “Fetch Great Crested Owl!” And with that the boy scouts turn on their heels and dart away through the trees.

  Working together, the men gather up the Lion and begin hauling the body to safety. Coach is breathing hard; Crisis appears to be giggling. But they are barely into the clearing before Great Crested Owl is upon them. He arrives in a tumult, like the trooping of the colour. His bracelets are jangling, his headgear is flapping. The two hooded figures snap at the scoutmaster’s heels. “Explain yourselves, gentlemen!” bellows Great Crested Owl. “I demand an explanation!”

  “Sir, please,” gasps Coach. “I’m having myself a fucking heart attack here.”

  The Owl’s voice is thunder. “What has befallen this man?”

  “He’s tried to do it before, many times,” says the Tin Man. “This time he got lucky.”

  Eventually they are able to load the Lion’s body into the back of Crisis’s truck. They push it over the gate and let it drop out of sight. Coach, Crisis and the Scarecrow are liberally printed with blood. She notes that John, on witnessing their approach, has folded himself into a foetal position on the grass and that even Toto appears to have turned his wheelchair away so that it is facing the trees. “Oh Toto,” she cries. “The Lion is dead.”

  “Get out of it, quick,” Coach mutters to Crisis.

  But the Great Crested Owl is still moving among them. His embroidered cloak billows. His tail-feathers rustle. He demands to know where they are taking the body; he wants them to notify the authorities this instant. He wants to ride in the cab with Crisis and be deposited at the nearest constabulary.