Clock Without Hands

by Gerald Kersh

  “I hate them both,” said Jones.

  “To-morrow’s Saturday,” said Henry Ford. “No school till Monday.”

  “I don’t care one way or another,” said Jones.

  “I wish I was twenty.”

  “What are you going to do when you are twenty?”

  “Want to go abroad.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “We could get to Dover and go to Calais,” said Henry Ford. He was thinking of the map; the Channel was no wider than his thumb. He had heard that on a clear day the French coast was visible from Dover. Once in Calais, he reasoned, everything would be simple. He would go from Calais to the Bering Strait, arriving in the dead of winter when the sea is frozen. Leaping over the floating ice, he could reach the coast of Alaska, work his way south, picking up whatever gold he happened to discover en route and so get to Dakota. He had a great yearning for Dakota. In a little while he would come back with his pockets full of money and show Sixweston what was what.

  “What do we use for a boat?” asked Jones.

  Henry Ford was irritated by this question. He said: “It’s only twenty miles. People can swim twenty miles. Thousands of people swim the Channel.”

  Jones said: “Why talk silly: it can’t be done.”

  “You know everything, I suppose. But I bet you a million pounds it can be done.”

  “You haven’t got a million pounds.”

  Rummaging in his mind for something worth saying, Henry Ford found nothing, and said: “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you had.”

  “Well, I did give you half a dollar just now,” he said.

  Jones replied: “You can take your half-dollar back if you like.”

  “I don’t want it back.”

  Later, Jones said to Henry Ford: “You can have my rag if you like.”

  The boys of St. Timothy’s scrubbed the floors of the Home. Sometimes they fought over floor cloths. Jones owned a very beautiful scrubbing rag; the remains of a woollen under-vest which he had found on the heath. None of the boys had dared to try and steal it. A good scrubbing rag was something worth fighting for, and Jones, when he fought, did not care how hard he hit, or where.

  Henry Ford was touched. He said: “My scrubber’s okay, Jonesey, thanks all the same.”

  “Well, to-morrow’s Saturday,” said Jones.

  “Then comes Sunday.”

  “What’s the difference?” said Jones, drearily.

  Yet the day after next was destined to be an important day in the life of Henry Ford. For on Sunday afternoon, Mr. Bond, driven by dread of Mrs. Obscot’s anger, called upon the Gospels at World’s End Cottage.

  * * * * *

  Bond dressed for this visit with particular care, in the black coat and striped trousers which he wore only for the most momentous occasions, and – not without hesitation – stuck a couple of pinks in his buttonhole. Contemplating his reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door, he decided that, when all was said and done, he was by no means a bad figure of a man – in a way, an impressive sort of person; taller than most Cabinet Ministers, and much better dressed than, say, Mr. Bevin. His new bow-tie really looked very well indeed; it was black with a discreet pattern of white dots; and set off his face, he thought, and gave a touch of squareness to his whole head. His wife watched him, with her sour, ironical smile, and said: “Where’s the wedding?”

  “I have to go and call on the Gospels, as you very well know.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear me. However could I have forgotten that? Oh yes, of course, you must make yourself beautiful for the Gospels. Can I cut you a few more pinks for your buttonhole? Or shall I go and ask Lord Sixweston’s gardener for an orchid? What a pity you haven’t got yellow gloves to wear. Or perhaps I ought to be thankful that you haven’t. You look so dashing, I dare say I ought to be afraid that your Mrs. Gospel might lose her head over you.”

  “I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Mr. Bond, dark with anger.

  “Of course you don’t. Well, enjoy yourself; have a nice time.”

  At World’s End Cottage, Bond paused to dab his face with a handkerchief, and then rang the bell. Suppose they were not at home? A nice thing that would be. Footsteps sounded. The door opened and a beautiful, tall, dark lady appeared. Mr. Bond’s heart jumped and fluttered like a frightened bird. He felt him­self blushing from head to foot; breaking out in a hot bright red­ness like a neon tube when the electric current goes thrilling through it. The woman was naked, by heaven, stark naked. At least she would have been, if she had not been wearing a bath­ing suit, a most sensational bathing suit that consisted of a strip of yellow stuff at the bosom, and a scanty, skin-tight pair of knick­ers. He looked down and saw her feet. Painted toe-nails pro­truded through the opening of a pair of strange wooden-soled sandals. She was not at all disconcerted. “Oh, so sorry, coming to the door like this. I thought you might be a friend we were expecting,” she said.

  Bond did not know where to look. The whole world seemed to be bristling with breasts, bursting with buttocks, and straining under sweaty white skin. He forgot the little introductory speech he had prepared and said: “I – I – I – beg your pardon, Madam. I – I – I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, er, Mrs. Gospel, I have a – a – a message. Not exactly a message, no. Well, yes, in a way, yes, a message.”

  “Well, look, come in, won’t you? We are all having a drink in the garden, if you don’t mind stepping out there. It seems such a pity to waste all this sunshine, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes, you’re quite right. If I am not intruding.”

  “Not a bit, come in – or should I say, come in and come on out?”

  Mr. Bond’s nostrils, unpolluted by nicotine, detected an odour of strong drink. The door closed. He remembered that the inter­ior of World’s End Cottage was unconventionally luxurious, and that it must have cost a pretty penny; but he was too confused to observe much. It was like a dream . . . a respectable man walks along a respectable street, knocks at a respectable door; and a naked houri appears, conducts him through half-darkness full of strange shapes which elude recollection, into a beautiful garden full of sprawl­ing pagans drinking the wine of madness out of green glass cups. There were three more people in the garden. Two of them were men, and they were reclining upon ungodly couches of coloured canvas. One of the men was short and burly, nude except for a pair of flannel trousers and a singlet. The other man was wrapped in a long roomy red bath-robe, and was smoking cigarettes with a kind of nervous deliberation, as if he had wagered more than he could afford that he could smoke a certain number of cigarettes in an impossibly short space of time. Be­tween them, in the convenient shade of a little tree stood a low table with a box of cigarettes, a bottle of brandy, and a syphon of soda water. In the full glare of the sun, a great tawny blonde woman lay upon a red blanket. She glistened with oil, her bathing suit was a menace to civilisation; it did not fit closely enough, big as she was, and Mr. Bond knew that if he approached very close, lay flat on his stomach, watched closely, and waited until she moved, he would be able to see things which should never be seen or even thought of.

  The man in the robe looked at him with the air of a diabolical high priest as Mrs. Gospel – she had undoubtedly been drinking – said: “This is Mr. Thingummy. What did you say your name was?”

  “Bond, of St. Timothy’s,” said Bond.

  “Awfully sorry but you know how it is: I didn’t remember for the moment. This is Mr. Timothy. Mr. Timothy, my husband.”

  “How do you do?” said Peter John Gospel, but his tone indi­cated that he did not care how Bond did.

  “Great honour and privilege——”

  “ – Mr. Timothy, Mr. Belcher.”

  “How do you do, sir?” said Bond.

  “I do, I do. Do you? Will you?” said Belcher, pointing to the bottle.

  “Thanks all the sam
e, but I never touch it. I have never touched it in my life. I neither smoke nor drink, but don’t let that stop you,” said Bond.

  “Thank you, Timothy, I won’t let it stop me since you are so kind,” said Belcher, throwing Bond into confusion.

  Mrs. Gospel said: “The lady you see cooking gently in her own juice is Melissa. She’s asleep. Sit down,” said Mrs. Gospel, “and if you’re sure you won’t have a drink——?”

  “Perhaps a little soda water.”

  “Mr. Timothy has a message, Peter John.”

  “I have come really on behalf of Mrs. Obscot,” said Bond, deriving a certain courage out of the sound of the name: “Mrs. Obscot,” he repeated.

  “Obscot?” said Peter John Gospel, “I don’t know any Obscots. I know somebody named ‘Scot’. But he’s dead. Obscot, odd name. There is a place called Penobscot, I believe. If I remember right, Iroquois squaws tortured to death several European settlers whom they captured near Penobscot.” He went on ab­strac­tedly: “We don’t seem to be able to amass full details of Indian torture; but they must have brought torture almost to a fine art, as the Chinese did, since – I beg your pardon, do go on, Mr. Timothy.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Gospel, Bond.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. Obscot, Tim­othy, Bond – I don’t understand! Elucidate, will you have the goodness?”

  Betty Lou ran to his side, holding his hand, and said: “You mustn’t upset yourself. Mr. Timothy, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you upset Peter John. He’s in the middle of some very important work.” She had become grave, anxious, her expression had changed.

  “Better spit your message out and scram,” said Belcher, in his off-hand, brutal voice.

  Bond stammered: “It, it – it . . . Mrs. Obscot simply wanted you to know that she particularly hoped you would come to the concert. Mr. Belcher particularly. I promised to give you Mrs. Obscot’s message. Please pardon my unpardonable intrusion. . . . unpardonable liberty. I did not mean to disturb the gentle­man, Mr. Gospel, I’m sure . . .”

  Bond rose, dripping with sweat, and clutching his hat. Betty Lou was sorry for him. She said to Belcher: “I do wish you’d be quiet, Belcher – you forget yourself.” Then, turning to Bond, she said: “Pay no attention to him, Mr. Timothy. He’s just a bully; his bark’s worse than his bite. He’s got false teeth. But tell me, what concert do you mean?”

  “The church concert, Mrs. Gospel.”

  “Church concert? What church concert?”

  “I was under the impression that you had received a notice,” said Bond, in an agony of embarrassment.

  “Oh, the church concert——” began Belcher.

  But Betty Lou silenced him with a glance and said:

  “Oh yes, Mr. Timothy, the church concert, of course. When is it to be?”

  “I’m ever so sorry. I thought you knew about it, Mrs. Gospel, indeed. Next Thursday at seven o’clock at the Hall. I am told Mrs. Obscot’s niece is a – a – a – discovery, and there is The Monkey’s Paw and, and, Mrs. Obscot was very anxious for you all to come. But I thought you would have had one of the leaflets.”

  Betty Lou looked at her husband, and then, at Belcher. Turn­ing again to Bond, she said: “What a shame! If only you’d let us know sooner! We’d all have been delighted to come. We were looking forward to it. I’ll never forget that last concert, when the girl in green sang: ‘Down in the Forest Something Stirred’. If only we’d known. Oh dear, oh dear, what a pity! We all have to go to town on Thursday morning. If only it could have been any day but Thursday,” cried Betty Lou with anguish. “Why were we not told? We could have readjusted things. But I’m afraid, now it’s quite impossible. Out of the question. We just can’t do it. You do understand, I hope?”

  Bond said: “I hope you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Gospel, I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr. Gospel. And Mr. Belcher, I hope you’ll pardon me——”

  Belcher raised two fingers and uttered a benediction: “You’re pardoned.”

  “I don’t know what to say, I’m sure. But I was informed pos­itively that you, that you, had been informed.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Betty Lou. “If only we’d known . . .”

  “I thought you would have had one of our leaflets, a pro­gramme . . .”

  “You know how it is, Mr. Timothy, we get so many leaflets. They get put through the letter-box and one scarcely looks at them. Appeals for this, appeals for that. Peter John is very deep in his new book, and our little world stands still meanwhile. Had we known——”

  “Ah, had we but known,” said Belcher dramatically.

  Peter John Gospel said: “We’ll gladly pay for a few tickets. I mean if a pound or two – it is a charitable affair, I believe – if a pound or two, or something like that——”

  “No, no,” said Bond, backing away, “please, not at all, I assure you. This – this – this——” The word had escaped him.

  “Well, well, Mr. Timothy——” said Betty Lou getting to her feet.

  “Pardon my intrusion,” said Bond, “there was . . . there was . . . a misunderstanding. Someone has blundered as Lord Tenny­son says; I beg your pardon. Thank you. Goodbye. Great plea­sure. Hospitality, and everything – thank you again. Forgive me . . . better be going.”

  “Must you?” said Peter John Gospel, looking at his right foot.

  “Well . . .” began Bond; but Betty Lou took him by the arm and led him to the garden gate.

  “I’m so sorry about all this,” said Betty Lou, “if we’d known we would have come. We are awfully disappointed. But there it is. Good-bye, Mr. Timothy. It has been so nice seeing you, and if there is anything we can do, do let us know, won’t you?”

  And Bond found himself out of the garden. Betty Lou had got rid of him through the doorway nearest to hand. A previous tenant of World’s End Cottage, a colonel’s widow, had tacked to this door a plate which said Tradesmen.

  Bond saw this.

  Betty Lou, back in the beautiful garden poured herself a drink, threw herself into a deck-chair and said: “I love them. I’m sorry but I love them. Call me anything you like, but I love these funny men in striped trousers.”

  The woman who was lying on the red blanket sat up and said: “Oh, couldn’t you just tell him you didn’t want to go to the bloody old concert and have it done with?”

  Betty Lou replied: “We have to live here, Melissa.”

  “I thought you were asleep,” said Belcher.

  “I was only pretending to be asleep. I didn’t want to get in­volved,” said Melissa. “Somebody give me a drink.”

  “Go and get it yourself, you lazy bitch,” said Belcher.

  Peter John Gospel began to get out of his deck-chair, but Betty Lou said: “No, Peter John, you relax,” and she mixed a drink and gave it to Melissa, with a venomous look. Melissa took both without acknowledgment. The look spent itself in her head like a bullet in a sandbag; the drink lost itself in her stomach, and she lay down smiling and went on sunbathing.

  With hate in his heart Mr. Bond was walking back to St. Tim­­othy’s Home for Waifs and Strays. His collar was wet and wilted. Mister Timothy! His new bow-tie had drooped, his clothes were covered with dust; nothing mattered. He wanted only to get back, to get back quickly so that justice might be done. Trades­men! Thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Gospel he kicked a stone and hurt his foot. Good! Mr. Bond looked at his best boots. One of them was scratched. All the better! His toes throbbed. Excellent! Tradesmen, eh?

  Old George, the hedger-and-ditcher, out for a walk with his lurcher bitch saw Bond pass, brick-red and dripping with heat and rage. “There’s a hot man for you, Nell old gal,” he said, “run­ning about in that Sunday suit.” The lurcher blinked her sly yellow eyes. “I wonder what he’s after.”

  Bond was after Henry Ford.

  He tried to keep his anger under control, for fear that he might swear or strike too hard. His anger thus compressed, grew hotter. The hotter it grew the tighter he compressed it; and the tigh
ter he compressed it the hotter it grew. At last, in St. Timothy’s Home for Waifs and Strays, he called for Henry Ford and said:

  “You told me, Henry Ford, that you had delivered the concert announcement to Mr. Gospel. Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “You did, did you? And what did Mr. Gospel say?”

  Henry Ford, feeling guilty on account of the strawberries and cream and the half-crown, hesitated, and Mr. Bond went on, louder and louder: “You are a liar, Ford. You have lied to me, Ford. You lying young dog, you have been making things up. You never gave that leaflet to Mr. Gospel. You are a deliberate liar, a dirty, deliberate little liar. You depraved young scamp! You lying hound! Can you look me in the face and tell me that you delivered the leaflet, as you said you did, to Mr. Gospel? Look me in the face and answer me, you little rotter!”

  Henry Ford looked Mr. Gospel in the face and said: “I did, sir.”

  His voice was unsteady, and husky with emotion, so that Mr. Bond shouted: “Speak up, you dirty little blackguard and wipe your filthy nose, you disgusting little scoundrel. Look at your­self, you slovenly hangdog liar! Look at your beastly self, with guilt written all over your slobbering face – you criminal, you ungrateful little beast! You did not give that leaflet to Mr. Gospel, because I have been there to see. I have been there this very morning to see, do you understand, Ford? You have been lying!”

  “No, sir, I haven’t been lying,” said Henry Ford, “I haven’t been lying, sir. I did give the gentleman the thing about the concert.”

  “Oh, you did,” said Mr. Bond. “And what did Mr. Gospel say?”

  Desperately Henry Ford said: “Please, sir, he said: ‘Here’s richness!’ and sat me down in a velvet chair and . . . and made me eat strawberries and cream.”

  This was more than Bond could bear. He struck Ford on the cheek with the flat of his fat right hand and shouted: “Now I know you’re lying, you cad, you unmitigated rascal, you swinish little cheat, you!” Then, when Ford – overwhelmed by injustice – began to cry, Bond gripped him by the shoulders and shook him, saying: “Own up! . . . Admit that you were lying! . . . Confess! Confess! Confess! . . . Confess, or I’ll shake the horrible life out of you, you . . . little beast!”