Clock Without Hands

by Gerald Kersh

  Middleton’s voice shook as he said: “My name is Middleton. Is that Mr. Pismire?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Pismire is not in.”

  “Oh. It is the right number I’m ringing, isn’t it? Mr. Charles Pismire, the solicitor?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Pismire will not be back before Tuesday. Can I take a message?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” said Middleton. “I received a letter from Mr. Charles Pismire, asking me to get in touch with him. But the office, of course, is closed, you see . . .”

  “Was it a matter of business, sir?”

  “Yes. I received a letter from Mr. Charles Pismire, informing me of a . . . a legacy – Mr. Joseph Hugh Middleton of Wagga-Wagga, New South Wales, Australia.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A matter of seventy-six thousand pounds,” said Middleton. “I wanted to have a word with Mr. Pismire and confirm.”

  The expressionless voice was the voice of Charles Pismire’s servant, a man named Sutton. His master had come home, hot and exasperated, before one o’clock, and said: “Sutton, I am going to Paphurst, and I am not coming back before Tuesday morning, whatever happens. I am going to rest. I am spending the week-end with Lord Paphurst, and I absolutely forbid you to disturb me in any circumstances – even if the house burns down. If anyone calls, you will take the message and say I’ll be back on Tuesday. Is that clear?” Sutton bowed: he had served Pismire’s father, and loved the son.

  “ – I only wanted to be sure,” said Middleton. “I just wanted to make certain that there was no mistake.”

  “I beg pardon, sir,” said Sutton. “I believe I heard you say that Mr. Charles Pismire had already written a letter to you?”

  “Yes, but——”

  “In that case,” said Sutton, “you may rest assured that every­thing is in order. Mr. Pismire will be back in Town on Tuesday. Is there any message?”

  “Only that Mr. Middleton – Edward Middleton – rang, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir. Good-bye, sir.”

  Middleton turned to Louisa. “You heard?” he said. She nodded. “You heard him say ‘rest assured everything is in order’? Eh?”

  “Um!”

  “Well, we’re rich, Louie!”

  “Yes,” she said; and fainted.

  PART II

  Fortunately there was no room in the telephone booth for Louisa to fall. Middleton caught her under the arms as she became limp. A passer-by might have thought that the couple were grappling in a frenzied embrace. It would happen, of course, that a policeman had to pass this point of all points on his beat at that moment. He stopped, and stared.

  Crimson with heat and embarrassment, streaming with sweat, Middleton shouted: “She’s fainted!” But his voice did not pene­trate the heavy glass of the booth: to the policeman Middleton was merely pulling faces, opening his mouth and baring his teeth. For a few exhilarating seconds he thought he had caught a certain sex maniac for whom Scotland Yard was looking at that time. He opened the heavy door, and said: “Now then! What’s all this?” As soon as the comparatively cool outside air came in, Louisa recovered. She cried: “Oh Ted!” and burst into tears.

  “My wife fainted,” said Middleton; and after he had breath­lessly outlined the state of affairs, the policeman said: “Well if somebody left me all that money I shouldn’t be surprised if I fainted myself. Good luck to you,” and went on pounding his beat, day-dreaming. Since he never caught a sex maniac, and no one ever left him seventy-six thousand pounds, he is probably wearing out his big shiny boots on the grey paving-stones of London to this day.

  Middleton and his wife walked slowly back to their rooms, hand in hot hand, looking at each other with moist, astounded eyes, not caring whether they walked on the pavement or in the road. They could think of nothing to say just then. Louisa was dumb with dreams. Middleton’s head seemed to rattle with the bewildering mixed pieces of fifty jigsaw puzzles trying to shake themselves into place, to make fifty pretty pictures. His mind was muddled, shirred, scrambled, broken up. Every step shook and shuffled his thoughts like numbered bits of paper tossed in a hat in a lottery. It was Louisa who spoke first, when they were passing the news­agent’s and tobacconist’s shop on the corner. She said, with a great sigh: “Well, I should think it would be all right, now, to get some cigarettes?”

  Middleton replied, with a start: “My God, yes, of course, Louie – anything you like,” and so they went into the shop and spent six-and-threepence on a box of one hundred of the fat oval Virginia cigarettes that used to cost one-and-threepence for twenty.

  “Would it matter if I smoked one now?” she asked. “I feel I could do with a cigarette now.”

  They walked along, smoking.

  “To tell you the truth, it’s the one thing I miss – a cigarette,” said Louisa.

  “Why didn’t you say so, Louie dear?” asked Middleton.

  “Well, you gave it up, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but that’s different. You can have anything you like now, Louie dear, you know. Anything you fancy?”

  “I’ll tell you something funny,” said Louisa, laughing, with tears in her eyes, “this morning I fancied some of those Garibaldi biscuits – the ones they call squashed fly biscuits – but I didn’t dare.”

  “Come on, then,” said Middleton, “and let’s buy a pound – two pounds.”

  “Not now. Let’s go home, Teddy darling. What I want now is a cup of tea, and some aspirin.”

  So they went back. There were three peaches left from lunch, to be eaten in the evening. One of them was bruised. Middleton picked it up, and threw it out of the window; saw it splash on the hot asphalt of the empty street, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The landlady was there, filling a pepper pot. She was a genteel soul, full of inside information about the peer­age; her knowledge of Royal Family affairs was impressive, and society scandal was not a sealed book to her. She said: “Why, Mr. Middleton, how strange you look! I do hope I have not had the pleasure of being the bearer of bad news? When that letter of yours came, it gave me quite a turn, I assure you.”

  “Read it for yourself, Mrs. Gibson,” said Middleton.

  Mrs. Gibson wiped her hands carefully, and read the letter. Then she said: “Sev-en-ty-six thou-sand pounds! Well, I’m sure no one deserves it more than you do, Mr. Middleton, and I congrat­ulate you, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” said Middleton, “it shook me for the moment.”

  “I’m sure you deserve every penny of it, Mr. Middleton. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: ‘If anyone deserves to have good luck, it’s Mr. Middleton.’ Seventy-six thousand pounds! The moment you set foot in my house, I said to myself: ‘There’s something about Mr. Middleton. There’s something about Mr. Middleton. You can see he isn’t one of the mob!’ And I was right. Something seemed to tell me. I must be pishic.” Then the bell rang, and she went to open the front door. Middleton heard Trew’s hearty voice saying: “Mr. Beginnington in? – I mean Mr. Endton. Middleton! Oi!” – in imitation of Bud Flanagan. Mrs. Gibson said: “Oh, Mr. Trew, did you hear . . . ?”

  Her voice died away. Middleton could not hear what she was whispering. Then Trew roared: “What? What? WHAT? Where is he? Where is he? Quick, and I’ll borrow a fiver before he blows it all on wine, women and song!”

  Trew shook the house as he galloped upstairs. Middleton, leaving the kettle boiling, ran up to the fourth floor and overtook Trew on the landing. “Trewie, old boy, Trewie, guess what!”

  “I just heard,” said Trew; and added, with malicious deliber­ation: “Can it be true?”

  “I’ll show you the letter, old boy. Besides, I rang Pismire’s place.”

  “You did? And what did Pismire say?”

  “His clerk, or somebody, confirmed – everything’s quite in order.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Trew. “What’s the amount, old man?”

  “A mere seventy-six thousand,” said Middleton, punching T
rew in the kidneys, “a mere seventy-six thousand pounds, Trewie, old boy, net personalty – and what do you think of that?”

  Louisa, hearing their voices, opened the door. Trew said: “Con­gratulations, Louisa; I couldn’t be more delighted if it had happened to me.” But he assumed a glum, discontented expres­sion; observing which, Louisa became radiant.

  She said: “Isn’t it wonderful? But you’ve got to admit, if any­body deserved it, it was Ted.”

  “Seventy-six thousand pounds – blimey!” said Trew, and fell into an easy chair, so heavily that Louisa winced. She could not forget that the furniture was less than half paid for.

  “Net personalty,” said Middleton with relish, “net personalty, old boy!”

  “Just what do you mean by net personalty, Middy, old man?”

  “Well, it says here in the letter that Uncle Joe left £103,751 6s. 8d., net personalty £76,000. I take it to mean that his net personalty was all that was left when all his debts were paid off.”

  “Would that include death duties, I wonder?” said Trew.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Middleton, “but even say taxes were still to be deducted – say they even knocked off fifty per cent death duties. Looking on the dark side, old boy, that would still leave getting on for forty thousand pounds, wouldn’t it?”

  “So it would,” said Trew, sour with envy. “I suppose you’re quite sure it’s all right, old man?”

  Louisa said: “We rang the solicitor, didn’t we, Ted?”

  “Yes, I got Charles Pismire’s home number,” said Middleton. “They said it was all in order. Louie fainted away when she heard it – didn’t you, Louie?”

  “Well, it did come as a shock,” said Louie.

  “Naturally, Trew, old boy, a man doesn’t get excited about this kind of thing without making sure there’s something to be excited about.”

  “Quite right, too. I was only asking, Middy, old man. I mean to say, accidents will happen in the best regulated families, and——”

  “ – Not being altogether a fool, old boy,” said Middleton im­patiently, “I invested a hard-earned twopence on a ’phone call to make sure.”

  “Keep your hair on, old man, keep your hair on,” said Trew. “Well, I’m glad the old feller did the right thing at last. The Lord knows you and Louisa deserve it.”

  “I hardly remember him,” said Middleton. “I couldn’t have been more than four or five years old when he left England. Fancy him remembering me at last!”

  “Well, old man, you did remind him of your existence now and again,” said Trew.

  “I sent him the same sort of Christmas cards as everybody sends to their relatives, nothing more.”

  “Well, and there you are, sole beneficiary, sixty-seven thou­sand quid to the good!”

  “Well,” said Middleton, “we were only a little family. Mother was the last on her side, and Uncle Joe was dad’s only brother, so on the whole that isn’t so remarkable. The way I see it, Uncle Joe must have felt the end coming, and I was the only relative he could think of. Blood is thicker than water, you know, old boy . . .”

  “I can see your point, old man,” said Trew, solemnly.

  After a pause Middleton said: “I’ll tell you something funny, Trewie, old boy. D’you know what? I feel awful. I feel kind of as if I wanted to be sick.”

  “So do I,” said Louisa.

  “That’s shock,” said Trew. “If somebody left me seventy-six thousand quid, God, I’d probably drop dead on the spot. Huh! Fat chance of any of my lousy family leaving me anything. My old man cut me off with a shilling – and he had to borrow the shilling off me to cut me off with, the unnatural old parent.” He paused for a laugh, did not get it, and continued: “Cheer up, Middy. Don’t let it get you down. You’ll soon get used to it – like having one leg, or whiskers. You’ll recover, Louisa, and then, of course, you won’t know your old pal Trew. And I’ll be polishing the seat of my trousers on an office chair, while you’re riding up and down the south of France in a white limousine with silver fittings. And as for the seat of my trousers, d’you know what? They’re so shiny that if I tore them now I’d have seven years’ bad luck.”

  “Have a cup of tea?” asked Louisa.

  “Tea?” cried Trew, “did I hear you say tea? What kind of talk is this. Why, actually I came along to take you out for a nice cold beer. I was going to pay for it, too,” said Trew, with a hollow laugh. “Tea? Millionaires don’t drink tea. As I was saying, I was going to take you two out for a nice cold drink, and so I will, as God is my judge. But being as you’ve got seventy-six thousand smackers, and I’ve only got seventeen-and-sixpence-halfpenny, Middy, you are going to pay for the beer I’m going to buy you. Is that clear? Is the beer clear? Come on, come on, it’s ten minutes after opening-time.”

  Middleton looked at the little alarm-clock and saw that it was indeed twenty minutes to six. He turned over the money in his pocket and found that he had only seven shillings. The Middle­tons lived precariously. They “arrived – like that” – as the French say, putting finger-tip to finger-tip. Middleton was scrupulous in the settlement of tradesmen’s accounts. He would not put a penny in his pocket until he had paid the butcher, the baker, the landlady, the furnishing company, the milkman, and the grocer; he hated debt for its own sake, and feared it for Mr. Mawson’s sake. Coughing uneasily, he said: “Well, old boy, the fact of the matter is, I haven’t got any money.”

  Trew opened his mouth wide and yelled with laughter. “Seventy-six thousand one hundred pounds, and so now he’s got no money!”

  “I mean ready cash,” said Middleton. “You see, things have been pretty tight just lately, what with one thing and another——”

  “Damn it all, man, haven’t you got a cheque book?”

  “Well, yes, I have, but——”

  “Cash a cheque, then, for goodness’ sake!”

  “I don’t like to, Trewie,” said Middleton. “Eh? What do you say, Louie? Wouldn’t it be better to wait till Tuesday?”

  He hoped that she would say Yes, but she said: “Oh well, Ted, I don’t know . . . if the solicitor said it was all right I don’t actually see the harm.”

  “Well, in the first place all the banks, naturally, are shut. And in the second place, Trewie, old boy, I haven’t got more than about thirty shillings in my account – just about enough to keep the account open. I mean, it would mean taking money under false pretences. You know, drawing on what I didn’t have.”

  Trew roared with laughter and said: “Why, what a holy inno­cent you are, Middy, old man! The whole thing is as clear as mud, and what could be clearer than mud, ha-ha – eh? All you’ve got to do on Tuesday morning is, go to – what’s the name of that lawyer again? Pismire. You go to Pismire, and naturally he gives you something out of the till for expenses. What they say in a case like this is: ‘If we can advance you a little money for this and the other, we’ll be very happy, my dear Mr. So-and-So. What about a couple of hundred pounds, let us say?’ Right on the spot! And then again, when you show that letter to your bank manager, good Lord, he’ll give you the key of the vault. Now don’t be silly, Middy, old man, cash a small cheque.”

  “What do you think, Louie?” asked Middleton.

  “All things considered, I don’t see why not,” she said.

  “Well, all right,” said Middleton, uncomfortably, “but who’s going to cash it?”

  “What about the old dragon?” suggested Trew, “I mean, the landlady? What’s the matter with her?”

  “Well, all right,” said Middleton, “let’s see.”

  “Of course,” said Trew, with something like a sneer, “if you like, I could advance you ten or fifteen bob until Tuesday . . . but somehow it seems kind of silly, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Gibson,” said Middleton, “thanks all the same, old boy.” Then he went downstairs to Mrs. Gibson’s room in the basement; but she was not there.

  On Saturday and Sunday evening, her rents collected a
nd her house in order, Mrs. Gibson took time off to enjoy a glass or two of Guinness’ stout in the saloon bar of the “Hero of Waterloo”, where she was well known and highly respected by a select circle of respectable householders of that neighbourhood. Generally, they conversed in discreet undertones, of matters too high for the furry ears of the sporting riff-raff that frequented the place; for the landlord of the “Hero” was Jack Duck, a retired heavy­weight fighter, an all-round sportsman and drinker, one of the three ugliest men in London. His face had been smashed to the thirty-two points of the compass, so that mothers frightened naughty children into silence by threatening to give them to Mr. Duck. All the bone and gristle had been surgically excised from his ten-times broken nose; his ears resembled old boxing gloves; his mouth and forehead were made up of strata of scar tissue. One of his great, blood-shot bull-eyes was fixed sightless in its socket; the other rolled and glared. Having run to fat, Jack Duck weighed two hundred and eighty pounds. Even his flat feet were terrible – they slapped the reverberating floor when he walked. After his last great fight, with Tissot, the Black Killer of Senegal, something went wrong with the left half of Jack Duck’s face. There was nothing left of him to spoil but his nervous system, and Tissot’s right hand did the trick. When Duck talked you stared at him fascinated. The left-hand side of his face was rigid, like clay; the right-hand side twitched and jumped and winked, leered and snarled. Yet he was famous for his silly good nature: since there was nothing more to be got by fighting, he was a man of peace. When his wife was not watching him, he let people eat and drink on credit. On two or three occasions the late Lord Lonsdale, in passing, stopped to say how-do-you-do and offer one of his huge cigars to Jack Duck. He always said that he would smoke the cigar later, and locked it in a safe: he had Lonsdale Coronas wrapped in tissue paper, and sometimes showed them to his intimate friends.

  So, apart from casual droppers-in, bums, spivs, and fly-by-night mystery men who lived one week here and another week there in furnished rooms and carried all their worldly goods in half-empty cardboard suitcases, Jack Duck’s customers made two groups – the sporting, and the respectable. Mrs. Gibson was the Emily Post of the householders of Wheeler Square. A man named Joe Gutkes led the sportsmen.