The Clocks in This House All Tell Different Times

by Xan Brooks

  Find the right door and disappear into the night. Grantwood House contains treasures; he can snatch something and run. York Conway has mentioned that King-Roo paid a small fortune for the jagged, freakish composition that hangs in the Regency Room – yet the instant he steals in to check how well it’s secured turns out to be the one where he is finally clocked. Mrs Cleaver rises early. It is as though she has been lying in wait. Her shadow falls across the canvas so that he twitches and pivots. He fears that his smile gives away his intentions.

  “What a lovely painting that the young master picked up. Who did you say the artist was again?”

  The housekeeper regards him with a dry contempt. “I didn’t, sir.”

  He splutters, “A friend of Rupert’s from over in Paris. I wish I could remember his name.”

  Another significant pause. “I’m sure you do, sir,” Mrs Cleaver agrees.

  The simple truth is, he despises them all. He hates the scurrying servants who have evidently decided that they are better than him, and the noble young gentlemen who know full well that they are. He hates neat, nimble York Conway and Truman Truman-Jones (so unnaturally large, he must weigh half a ton), and he has developed a particular aversion for Lord Hertford, forever lecturing his staff on the evils of social inequality. The simple truth is, he hates them all, every one.

  Not King-Roo.

  This objection brings him up short. It is as though one of the voices has spoken, very loud, directly in his ear.

  No, he allows. Not King Roo. Fortnum-Hyde is exempt. Even now, despite all his humiliations, he remains under the man’s sway. Such boldness of vision. Such sweeping authority. He marvels at the way King Roo holds court with such ease. How he sits on a chair as though it’s a throne in the Palace, with his legs spread wide and his hand sculpting the air as he speaks. Someone should write down what he says. He is pointing the way to the world up ahead.

  Gesturing for the butler to relight his cigar, Fortnum-Hyde says, “The twentieth-century has no room for mediocrity. It is a time for true courage. It is a time for good men to stand up.”

  He says, “The nation needs leadership. But all I see around me are rabbits and sheep.”

  Lolling back in his chair, wreathed in aquamarine smoke, he cries, “The future is coming, boys. Either jump on board or bail out.” It is all purely thrilling.

  “Am I a part of that future, Roo?” Elms had excitably asked during his first week in the house, at which point the young master had favoured him with a smile and said, “You are indeed, Elmsy” and he had spent the rest of the evening replaying the exchange in his head and wondering precisely what this future would be like. But of course that was when he was still able to make flames, when there was a point to his presence. Were he to ask the same question today, he knows what Fortnum-Hyde would reply. And that, probably, is the worst of it – the knowledge that he has disappointed the man he most longed to impress.

  Oh but he needs to get out – and sooner rather than later. It was half-true what he said: Grantwood House has taken on a disquieting air. He knows it, he feels it, he picks up on tremors that get by others unnoticed. The guests gathered in the drawing room resemble pots and pans arranged on a stove, coming steadily to the boil. The lids are just now beginning to rattle.

  His magic has left him. The voices, however, continue to roll up in distracting waves. The gruff Scottish fellow reports that it’s chilly outside and the garrulous woman chips in to complain that she has dropped all of her shopping into the dirty green stream. The others remain at a distance, he cannot discern what they say, but he is nagged by the sense that their numbers are growing and he catches a mental image of shadowed figures standing in lines, with the gruff man and hushed woman at the vanguard and then row upon row behind that. And it could conceivably be that each of these rows has begun an incremental advance, like timid soldiers or schoolchildren playing a game of grandmother’s footsteps. He fancies that several voices are screaming in the lines near the back. If they draw any closer he fears he might lose his mind.

  He needs to get out. Grantwood House is unhealthy; it is making him ill. If he cannot steal the French painting, then perhaps he could make off with some jewellery instead? The drawers of the dressers must be clogged with the stuff. The beautiful sister walks about festooned with trinkets; she is brought in like a fucking Christmas tree every night. He could grab a handful and slide away through the dark – except that he has had bad luck with jewellery in the past. Each time he walks, the amulet taps his breastbone to remind him of his sin. And if Grantwood House is a fake then it surely follows that its contents will be fashioned out of crystal and paste. Only his magic is real – and even that’s not real any more.

  Hunched on his armchair, his belly resting on his lap, Arthur Elms catches himself staring for long periods at the velvet wall hangings. He has to battle the ridiculous urge to pull the hangings apart, to check they don’t conceal some shadowy figure or secret door. The drapes fascinate him. They remind him of something. He can’t think what it is.

  Fortnum-Hyde yawns and extends his long limbs and with a tilt of his chin orders the platter sent round. “I’ve grown bored,” he announces. “Entertain me. Impress me.”

  Poor Julius Boswell has toiled through the day revising his one-act play and still the young master remains unconvinced; he decides that on balance it does not quite pass muster. Hulking Truman-Jones should by rights be in Bombay and yet here he sits, showing no inclination to leave. Even the once lively Long Boys are becoming lulled by the house. They have medicated themselves on alcohol and cocaine and will only consent to perform when ordered to several times. Fortnum-Hyde has come to regard them as recalcitrant offspring. He loves them so deeply but they need to buck up their ideas. He demands they compose another song in the manner of ‘Come Back Up To Bring It Down’; it vexes him to see the musicians sitting on their hands. Fortnum-Hyde has always considered himself a friend and supporter of the negro race. He confesses he almost counts himself as a spiritual cousin; it has even been remarked that his own features are faintly negroid in nature. But this naturally means he expects something in return. It means he holds them to the same lofty standards that he sets for himself. And besides, how will the world learn to love pep if they won’t crack on with new songs?

  George Washington asks, “What’s this pep he keeps talking about?”

  “He means jazz,” York Conway explains. “It’s his Lordship’s word for the music you play.”

  George Washington exchanges a look with the other Long Boys. He says, “All due respect. He can call it pep until his ass falls off. Ain’t never gonna happen.”

  Elms camps out in the chair, only stirring when the silver platter appears, determined not to attract attention. On the other side of the crackling hearth, Fortnum-Hyde casts about for a fresh line of attack and alights on his sister, draped in her evening finery. He reminds her again of the time she stuck her saw in the bone and enquires whether she kept score of all the soldiers she killed. But Clarissa has come armed, she gives as good as she gets. She asks in turn about Rupert’s own wartime score sheet. She cannot imagine he managed to kill any soldiers, he was that far from the line. From what she has heard, he chiefly shot grouse. His hunting prowess was legendary. He must be the only officer in history to be awarded a medal for his skill at riding to hound and shooting grouse from the sky.

  Fortnum-Hyde grins and scowls with the same contorted expression. Through an indulgent chuckle, he says, “Why you dopey cunt, that shows how little you know.”

  “Easy, King-Roo,” protests Julius Boswell.

  Elms stares fixedly at a vertical fold in the velvet hangings. If he were to hook a hand around its corner, would he find the wall immediately – or would his hand keep extending until his whole arm disappeared? Would he be able to step into the fold and escape the room and its people? And what might he find on the other side, through the portal �
�� something better or something worse?

  The door opens at his back to admit a draft of cold air. “Ah,” says Fortnum-Hyde. “The pleasure dolls.”

  The girls take their footstools; the magician steals a glance. The shorter girl is brash and depthless; she does not interest him in the slightest. But the other one is more intriguing. She is a little like him: she keeps herself to herself. He regrets that he started off on the wrong foot with this one. He wishes he had not crept into her bedroom. What was he thinking? He is at the mercy of mischief. Half of the time he does not know what he is doing, or what prompted him to do it. He is a mystery to others – yet he foxes himself most of all.

  Clarissa says, “Lulu and Ferdinand, what a blessed relief. Please come and save me from these tiresome bores.”

  “I’m sure they will be more than willing to oblige,” Fortnum-Hyde says. “They are good at providing relief, so I’m told.”

  Now Sweetpea leans forward to study the new arrivals. He is dressed in a shell-pink polo neck which is on loan from his host. A Panama hat sits aboard his narrow head. He is a fine-featured man with a calm, courtly manner. “Gracious,” he says. “Seems to me those crippled soldiers have their refreshment on tap.”

  “Rub-a-dub-dub. The pleasure dolls. They look like butter wouldn’t melt, bless them. But each would suck you dry without batting an eyelid.”

  Clarissa says, “Shut up, Ru. Lulu and Ferdie are friends of mine.”

  “I like them as well. I think they’re tremendous.” He turns to the others. “They’re outlaws. They’re buccaneers. A fine addition to the house. Heavens, who doesn’t love Ferdie? She’s a hellcat, that one. And then there’s Lulu. Sweet little Lulu.”

  The taller girl is staring, embarrassed, at her feet.

  “She looks like a veal calf. Don’t you, Lulu? Like a beautiful veal calf.”

  “I don’t know,” murmurs Lucy.

  “God damn those cripples,” exclaims Skinny Boy Floyd. “We’re sitting up here with nothing. They got all the action they want.”

  York Conway, very drunk, says, “I must admit, the darkie has a point. Whatever became of all the girls that were here? There are too many men in this room. I sometimes have the impression I’m in the bloody trenches again.”

  Clarissa says, “When were you in the trenches, Connie? Did Rupert give you time off from beating the bushes for grouse?”

  It is at this point that Fortnum-Hyde risks losing his cool. “Stop talking about the fucking war. The war’s in the past. What interests me is the future.”

  “Grouse season. Or is that over already?”

  Winifred pipes up. “If you want to shoot something I think you should shoot all the sheep. I’ve been thinking it over. I think they’re bothering Edith.”

  Fortnum-Hyde ignores this and returns to his sister. “I suggest you go up to your room and take Sweetpea with you. The man needs some relief. And you’ve been rather leading him along.”

  “Now then, excuse me,” says the playwright.

  “Go boil your head, Ru. I’m engaged, don’t you know?”

  Yet Fortnum-Hyde is enjoying himself now. He has happened upon the line of attack that he wishes to pursue. He says there is no call being prudish and that he personally recommends the dark meat. Last year he spent six months in Jamaica, supervising the sugar refinery when it had all of its problems – and my God, what a life. The music. The people. The sun constantly blazing. The women were as hot as the sand at midday. Clawing at his back like untamed tigresses. The sweet, wet suction of their loins against his. He confesses that he is half-minded to return to Jamaica, though it is perhaps wisest he did not. He suspects he may have sown his oats just a little too freely. He would be barely off the boat before he was accosted on the quay by half-caste toddlers of uncertain parentage.

  This talk of West Indian women has a curious effect on Truman Truman-Jones. His stare goes glassy. His mighty limbs start to tremble. When Fortnum-Hyde describes the sweet, wet suction of negro loins, he responds with a low, involuntary groan, as though invisible doctors are subjecting him to some invasive medical procedure.

  “Did you ever jigger a sheep?” George Washington asks the party.

  “Do what?” says the playwright.

  “Oh my, yes,” chuckles Sweetpea. “This is a favoured pastime of our country cousins. When you cannot find a lady, the livestock must do. It causes no harm to the sheep, or so these young fellows claim.”

  Skinny Boy nods earnestly. “Stands to reason. Inside of a sheep’s no different to the inside of a woman. Like putting your hand inside a good suede glove.”

  George Washington says, “Forget jiggering a sheep. Did you ever jigger a camel?”

  “Now there’s a notion. Can’t say that I did.”

  Fortnum-Hyde retrieves his goblet of cognac. “The glorious undead have no need of sheep. From where I sit, they have more appropriate entertainment to hand.”

  “Not any more they haven’t,” says Winifred.

  Again he ignores her. Conway asks what she means by that, exactly.

  “We’re having nothing to do with those chumps anymore. We’re going to make our money elsewhere, aren’t we, Lu?”

  Sweetpea’s serene face registers delighted amusement. “Oh mercy, listen to this. Good little girls grow up and be bosses.”

  “Sure enough, it’s the way of the world,” George Washington agrees. “Soon as they can, they start cracking the whip.”

  “Independent traders,” says Fred. From his berth in the chair, Elms sees her lean forward and make a remark, under her breath, to Fortnum-Hyde.

  The viscount responds with a laugh that is more air than noise. He asks, “How old are you, child?”

  “Very nearly fifteen.”

  “Then I think not,” he tells her. “The last time I was with a fourteen-year-old girl was when I was a thirteen-year-old boy.”

  But it becomes apparent that some haggling transaction is now underway. The haggling is being treated as a joke for the moment, although Elms wonders whether some of the jokers have a more serious intent. Skinny Boy asks out of interest about the girls’ going rate and the one they call Ferdie replies that she typically charges one pound a time. This provokes great merriment and mock outrage, with Skinny Boy protesting that she must have misunderstood. He wasn’t asking to hire both of the girls for an entire fortnight. He wasn’t asking them to do all of his laundry as well.

  Through tears of laughter, George Washington explains that a pound is a discount. These ladies are ruthless. They usually demand a man’s limb for a jigger. He points out that the cripples weren’t cripples until the pleasure dolls came to stay. The first night they said, “Oh, pay us with a leg.” The second night they said, “Oh, pay us with an arm.”

  Skinny Boy splutters. “Man, I knew that’s what it was. And the one with the tin mask, he don’t know when to quit. He says, ‘Take my old face and leap up in that bed. Take this old nose, I don’t wanna pick it no more’.”

  The shorter girl makes an effort to join in with the laughter. She cries, “His face looks like something that’s been left outside in the rain. I honestly thought I was going to throw up my dinner.”

  “But what did you do with the face, pleasure doll? What in hell did you do with the poor soldier’s old nose?”

  “I reckon she ate it. She’s telling you that was the dinner she ate.”

  Conway’s clear tones cut through the gaiety. He says, “It’s a fine attempt by Ferdinand. But the general consensus is that a pound is too steep.”

  “Ten bob then,” says Winifred. “That’s our final offer.”

  But this latest figure is not nearly so amusing. Conversation stops. The guests shift and scratch. When Truman-Jones, arriving late to the joke, cries, “I’ve heard of charging an arm and a leg but I never imagined it would be literally true”, Fortnum-Hyde frown
s to let him know he has spoken out of turn. A footman sends out the platter once more. But, perhaps for the first time, no one pays it any mind. The room’s attention is all on Fred.

  Conway says, “And so we arrive at the nub of the matter.”

  Sweetpea says, “It’s a fact, men need to scratch their itch on occasion.”

  Elms looks from Sweetpea to the girls and then on to Clarissa, who has a policy of refusing chairs to sit cross-legged on the floor. The young woman is bent forward, half-turned from the group and has busied herself with picking at a loose thread on the fringe of the Afghan rug. He can see a pale dusting of freckles across one exposed shoulder and a honeyed down on the nape of her neck. He glares at her furiously; her very beauty is scalding. Clarissa has absented herself because this exchange is beneath her. It belongs to a different world from the one she inhabits. How much would a man have to part with to secure such a creature? He could offer one hundred pounds and his limbs and she would still laugh in his face. He could offer his face; it would still not be enough.

  Coal slips and settles in the grate. Skinny Boy says, “Ten English bob. I do believe I can work with that.”

  Winifred looks at the man for an instant and then drops her gaze. She mutters, “All right then. Ten bob.”

  “Fred,” says the other girl, abruptly alarmed. “Wait.”

  In a rush, Truman-Jones says, “Do you know I must say I’m rather tempted myself. Fancy that, but there it is. What a hilarious thing.”

  The big man’s announcement helps lift the tension. Fortnum-Hyde explains that his friend can be quite the dark horse sometimes, while Conway chips in to say that this isn’t correct, he’s more like a dark elephant and will surely obliterate the poor girl. Skinny Boy points out that either way, horse or elephant, the gentleman will have to wait his turn because he booked her first and plans to take his time. She’ll be tired out afterwards; he can guarantee them that much.