The Clocks in This House All Tell Different Times

by Xan Brooks

  He has been left on the flagstones beside the front steps. They skirt the side of the house to collect him. Sweetpea says, “The man’s fine, don’t take on. He’s simply catching his breath.”

  Fred shouts, “Get up, Tinny. You can sleep it off later.”

  He lies splayed and still, like a cat’s offering to its owner. His out-flung arms end below the elbows which has the effect of making him appear to be a much smaller man – as though this figure is not quite the Tin Woodman either. Lucy has always recognised her friend by his hooks, by his voice and by his handsome copper face. Try as she might, she cannot reconcile the Tin Woodman she knows with this mangled thing on the ground.

  “Mercy,” says Sweetpea. “Not so fine after all.”

  They gather at a distance. The celebrations peter out. Finally Fortnum-Hyde says, “Truman, you brute, you crushed our monster to death.”

  He is about to add something further when the Scarecrow lunges forward. The viscount discerns his intent and neatly blocks the blow. He then goes into a shuffling boxer’s dance, circling the Scarecrow, who appears to be half out of his mind. Fortnum-Hyde ducks and bobs and reaches out to cuff the man smartly on the side of his head. He has the measure of the Scarecrow; his long reach is sufficient to keep his attacker at bay. He moves with ease and precision and it seems over-confidence is his only foe because when Fortnum-Hyde risks a sideways glance to see how his display is being received by the ranks, he lowers his guard for an instant – and this allows the Scarecrow just enough time to strike him hard on his left cheek.

  Fortnum-Hyde falls straight-backed, like a tree. The impact of his landing runs through Lucy’s heels. Were it not for George Washington’s immediate intervention, she believes that the Scarecrow would have gone on to close with Truman-Jones next.

  Now a melee erupts beside the steps to the house. The Scarecrow, outnumbered, joins Fortnum-Hyde on the flagstones. When Lucy rushes to protect him, a forearm slams her nose.

  “Oh jolly well done!” the playwright is screaming. “Why stop at one? Why not kill them all?”

  When it is judged the Scarecrow presents no further danger, his assailants leave off their kicking and cluster about the young master. The Scarecrow’s blow has caught him square; Fortnum-Hyde is out cold. His mouth is agape and his eyes show the whites. They haul him up the front steps and across the threshold, shouting for the servants to bring smelling salts and brandy. The door bangs shut at their backs and Lucy is alone in the darkness between the two fallen figures.

  “Tinny,” she cries. “Scarecrow.”

  Eventually the Scarecrow is able to get to his feet. He clutches his head and repositions his mask. “Is he dead?”

  Lucy cannot reply; her breath hitches. And this, she supposes, is all the answer he needs.

  The Scarecrow nods grimly. Then, a little unsteadily, he begins climbing the stone steps. When she shouts for him to wait, he gives no sign that he’s heard.

  Lucy gathers her senses and moves to catch him up. But the entrance hall is empty and the oaken doors closed. The grandfather clock whirs and clicks. She finds the telephone on the table and cups the earpiece to her head.

  “Operator” she says, “I need to speak with the police.”

  Her words fly off down the wire and then boomerang back. “Operator,” says the earpiece, “I need to speak with the police.”

  She has always arrived via the rear of the house. The entrance hall is alien territory; she does not know how it connects to the other rooms. Selecting a door at random she pulls it back and uncovers Mrs Cleaver, the housekeeper. In that instant it occurs that whichever door she had chosen would have had Mrs Cleaver standing behind it.

  She stands long and straight, in charcoal smock and white collar. Her severe slot-mouthed face is softened only slightly by the dandelion fluff of her hair.

  When Lucy explains that the telephone isn’t working, Mrs Cleaver impassively looks her up and down.

  She says, “What do you require the telephone for?”

  “Mrs Cleaver, please listen, the Tin Man is dead. They left him lying outside. We have to call the police right away.”

  The housekeeper blinks. “Who says that we must?” And then, when Lucy does not immediately reply, she says, “I take my orders from the masters and the mistress. What gives you the impression that I am here to serve you?”

  The girl wheels back on her heels, tries another door and discovers herself in the Regency Room with its high vaulted ceiling. She flies past the Picasso, aiming for the stairs, intending to seek out Clarissa, who will know what to do. And here at last luck runs in her favour. The lady of Grantwood has just that moment come down.

  Clarissa gathers Lucy without ceremony into her freckled arms. She says, “Oh Lucy, how awful. Did you see the whole thing?”

  “They killed the Tin Man. He’s lying outside.”

  “I know, Connie told me. It is utterly awful.”

  “We have to call the police. But the telephone doesn’t work.”

  Clarissa has them both sit on the bottom step. It turns out that Lucy’s nose has been bloodied from the struggle outside, when she was either hit or ran into somebody’s forearm, and she now sees she has stained the lady’s immaculate green dress. It is one further crime to add to all the rest and she attempts an embarrassed apology. But Clarissa is unconcerned, tells her not to be silly. “I mean, good God, Lulu. Isn’t that the least of our worries?”

  She rubs at her nose and finds further blood on her hand. The under-butler, Colvin, crosses the room carrying a bottle of cognac. His eyes skip sideways, registering the distraught pair on the step, but he proceeds on his errand without missing a beat.

  “They killed him,” she sobs. “Why?”

  Lowering her voice, Clarissa says, “The trouble with Rupert is that he never grew up. He’s like a spoilt little boy pulling the wings off flies. Everyone in this house is a plaything to him.” Again she reaches across to pull Lucy against her. “For the moment, however, I am most concerned about you. I promised I’d protect you and then this horrid thing happens. No child should witness what you’ve seen tonight.”

  “If the telephone doesn’t work, we can take a car to the village.”

  Clarissa hesitates. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Lu. I confess that at present I’m most worried about you.”

  They embrace on the steps and the wind bangs the shutters. Lucy weeps and gulps and then weeps some more. And for one brief, jumbled moment it seems that the night may not quite be lost after all, because a door is pulled open to allow the mountainous hulk of Truman Truman-Jones to lumber out under the wash of electric light. Spotting Clarissa on the step, his ruddy face cracks into a grin. It is apparent that the man has come with good news.

  “Disaster averted. He’s not dead, he’s alive.”

  Lucy is up on her feet in a trice. “Tinny?” she cries. She can hardly believe it is true.

  “King Roo,” confirms Truman-Jones. “He is conscious at last.”

  “But Tinny?” she persists. “What about the Tin Man.”

  When Truman-Jones’s gaze alights on the girl, his euphoric grin buckles under the strain. It is as if he has been presented with a complicated maths problem. The task proves beyond him and he turns to Clarissa for help.

  She says, “You dopey, murdering bastard, Tru.”

  “King Roo just woke up,” he says. “Can’t we all make an effort to look on the bright side for once?”

  Beside the steps in the forecourt he meets a fabulous creature. Its face has no features and its arms have no hands. In the moonlight its flesh gleams like Venetian glass, while its midriff appears to have been stuffed with a compound of clotted blood and dead leaves which has now leaked out across the flagstones. Elms decides that the creature is either sleeping or dead, although he knows that these two states are often separated by nothing more than t
he width of a cigarette paper. That’s how it was out at Cape Helles. That’s how it is all over, no doubt.

  He crouches over the thing and regards it with tenderness. “Bloody hell, poor old chap, you should be buried in the sand.”

  The creature makes no movement; it has nothing to say. Elms squats at its side for a minute, drawing deep breaths and marshalling his strength; he knows exactly what he needs to do. So he leans in, drags the body to his breast and braces his bare legs. Then he carries the Tin Man on a halting ascent to the house.

  28

  It is the measure of a man how he responds under pressure, and Rupert Fortnum-Hyde is renowned for his leadership skills. Stretched full-length on the couch, he replenishes himself with a goblet of cognac and gathers his supporters about him by the simply trick of pretending to ignore them. The playwright’s hysterical complaints are an idle distraction, and he is blithely unmoved by the rage of his sister. Finally, with an exaggerated yawn, he tells his good friend York Conway to keep an eye on the Scarecrow. If the cripple stirs up further bother he will require restraining. He has the sense that everyone in the room has become a degree too excited. They should look to someone like Raine and follow his example. “Please promise me, Raine, that you are not excited as well.”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  “Look at that,” he says blandly. “My fucking butler puts you all to shame.”

  He risks a glance about the room, performing a quick mental inventory and ranking its occupants in order of their importance. At the top he places Conway, Truman-Jones, his tiresome sister and her idiotic fiancée. At the bottom sit the surviving cripples and the pair of pleasure dolls. Toto has reached out and is gripping little Ferdinand’s hand; the events of the night have exhausted them both. He fancies he will have no trouble with those two, or with tearful Lulu, who is too sweet to make a scene. But the Scarecrow has a temper; that’s why he must be watched.

  Sweetpea Long fidgets at the door. The singer is not quite an equal and yet not quite a servant – and Fortnum-Hyde rather respects him for that. But Sweetpea sheepishly explains that the other Long Boys have fled. Washington and Skinny Boy rounded up the drummer and the trumpeter and told them what transpired. Anyway the upshot is that all four musicians have now cut and run; they did not even make time to collect their instruments. Sweetpea adds that the dead man had them spooked. They figured it was best to make themselves scarce before the authorities were called.

  Fortnum-Hyde receives this news with an amused show of disgust. “What authorities?” he says. And then with more confidence: “I’m the authority.”

  “They are like little children,” Conway says. “No doubt they’ll become tired eventually, and turn back. They’ll find it is quite a long walk through the dark to the village.”

  Sweetpea shrugs. “I have to say I’m tempted to follow on, too. The sad truth is that we have a dead body outside.”

  The viscount’s head is still ringing but the cognac has helped. It would not do to show weakness; it would encourage further dissent in the ranks. So when Julius Boswell demands that the police be notified, he raises his voice to shout him down. Fortnum-Hyde points out that calling the police would only add to the confusion. So far as the authorities are concerned, the Tin Man does not exist. One might make the case that he was dead to begin with. In the morning they will have the groundsmen dig another hole. The Tin Man can go right next to his friend.

  He turns to explain. “We had a fourth cripple who decided to do away with himself. A sad state of affairs, although perhaps it’s to be expected. One way or another, these fellows never last very long.”

  When the Scarecrow jumps forward, Truman-Jones is prepared. He puts the man on the floor and twists his wrist behind him.

  “Leave him alone!” Lucy shouts. “Don’t keep hurting him!”

  Fortnum-Hyde smiles. “Don’t hurt him,” he scoffs. “Please remember this is the same chap who attacked me for no good reason outside. Later, perhaps, we can arrange a rematch. And I assure you the result will be rather different next time.”

  On the floor, the Scarecrow writhes and thrashes. He resembles a rat that has caught its snout in a trap. Truman-Jones applies his knee to the small of the man’s back.

  “Beating up a one-armed man,” Clarissa says with a sigh. “Is there no end to your heroism?” She motions for Raine to relight her cigarette.

  Toto cries, “Scarecrow, calm down! This isn’t doing us any good.”

  The viscount waves his hand. “What has happened is in the past. Let us now make an effort to look to the future.”

  There is so much more Fortnum-Hyde would like to explain to them here. He wants to say that when accidents happen, they happen for a reason. That sometimes it is necessary for old, broken items to be laid to rest and for weeds to be uprooted and for the blackboard to be cleaned. It is his view that this onerous task falls to the young and the brave. Men who aren’t afraid of getting their hands dirty and who know that true progress is impossible when one is saddled with outmoded old luggage. He would like to tell them all this and more besides, but his cheek is still smarting and his head hasn’t cleared and he is therefore forced to be brief and trust them to fill in the blanks. “So it’s all good,” he says. “The future.”

  The butler dips to attend to Clarissa’s cigarette. Truman-Jones adjusts his knee upon the Scarecrow’s back. Julius Boswell clears his throat to present a further objection. And it is at this point that the door behind them rips open, hard enough to smack the wall and make Sweetpea Long start. He says, “Jeepers, what’s this?”

  Into the room staggers Arthur Elms, an agent of chaos, the last of his kind. His bare legs buckle and his head is thrown back and he strains under the weight of a burden it takes the onlookers a moment to recognise. He comes reeling forward, aiming for the vacant armchair by the fire only for the cargo to slip from his grasp in the final shuffling steps. It lands on its side and turns its face to the room. The sight jumps through the guests like an electrical current.

  Clarissa’s cigarette drops into her lap. “No,” she begins. “This is not right.” But her words are leapfrogged and laid low by Winifred’s scream and Toto’s cry and by the side table that is toppled when Raine mislays his composure and scuttles for cover.

  In the room, by the fire, Elms toils for breath. He lists and weaves drunkenly. His trousers are missing and he has cobwebs in his hair. He turns in full circles as if his bearings are shot.

  “No,” Clarissa says. “For God’s sake, get it out.”

  But Fortnum-Hyde has swung his long legs off the couch. Alone of the group, he is choked by amusement; it does not even matter that he has been interrupted. “Elmsy,” he splutters. “Oh Elmsy, you chump.” His gaze leaps from the corpse by the fire to its knock-kneed delivery boy and he brays happy laughter. He gasps, “Mr Elms, you have surpassed yourself. We have no further need of your usual party trick. You shall never be able to top an entrance like this.”

  The man completes his final circle and finds himself pointing at the couch. He is still out of breath but manages to join in with the laughter. “Look,” he calls to Fortnum-Hyde. “I can still do it, you know. It’s my gift to the house.”

  He does not rub his fingers against his thumb. He snaps them with a crack and it’s as though the magic he thought was spent had merely been trapped like intestinal gas – bunched up and knotted all the way to his torso. Now it unlocks and tears out like a jack-in-the-box and the flames are not blue but briefly, brilliantly white. They fry the hair on his wrist and catch the sleeve of his robe, and the shock sends him backwards so that he lands on a couch. He looks up dumbly, registering the stricken faces of the guests in the room and opens his mouth to reassure them that he is not too badly hurt, except that his robe has strayed onto the couch’s cushions and he’s abruptly aware that these too are aflame.

  As though from a great distance, he hears
Sweetpea say, “Jeepers.”

  The flames are not natural. They burn too fiercely, too fast. They devour his robe and crawl into the upholstery which has been primed, as though in readiness, by a month’s worth of spilled cognac. The entire couch seems to draw a breath and then cough – after which it becomes a bonfire. When the heat is too much, Elms staggers back to his feet. He turns another full circle and moves to extinguish himself against the velvet hangings. Too late, the Scarecrow shouts for him to stop.

  “The tanks of foam,” Clarissa cries. “There are two of them by the kitchen door.”

  Raine and Truman-Jones run to fetch them. But the tanks are no longer beside the kitchen door. Both had been emptied during that final frantic summer party and the canisters later deposited in dustbins. And so Elms loses himself forever amid the soft velvet folds, and scraps of burning matter drift out through the room.

  Hauling himself upright, Fortnum-Hyde sees flames run up the drapes and fan out across the corniced ceiling. He decides his show of unruffled disinterest has now run its course and that it is better to swiftly remove himself from harm’s way. He knocks Lucy aside in his dash from the room.

  If the drawing room door had been shut, the fire might have been contained. But the door is left open and the corridor fills with smoke. The carpets catch light and the wood panelling blisters. Grey figures jostle and grunt as they press towards safety. Outside the Regency Room, Fortnum-Hyde runs full-bore into Raine.

  “His Lordship, sir! His Lordship upstairs!”

  “Then for God’s sake go and get him. Or what’s the fucking point of you?” Ahead, he spies several servants breaking for the front exit and it is enraging to think that they are at the vanguard and he’s bringing up the rear.

  On departing the drawing room, Clarissa angles towards the back door that leads out to the gardens. Julius Boswell initially believes that he is following her lead but these closed quarters have become thick with fumes and it is possible he has taken a corner when he should have continued straight on. Somewhere far behind he can hear Sweetpea exclaiming “Hellfire”. His throat is grating. His eyes are streaming. He wanders blind through the smoke, holding his hands out before him.