“Anything?” the reporter tutted.
Lucy dipped her hand into her deep coat pocket. She brought out Gauge and showed him to the camera. It was time she put her own plans into action. “Dragons rule,” she said, and dashed into the library.
Chapter Seven
Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. She had never seen the library so full before – not even on Wildest Read Day when a famous explorer had brought in a snake. The crowd of protesters had swarmed into the gaps between the book shelves. They were all sitting cross-legged on the floor. All except two: her mother and Miss Baxter. They were standing beside a display board in the Local History section. The two policemen and Henry Bacon were making their way towards them.
“Now then, ladies,” one of the policemen began.
“This is a peaceful protest!” said Miss Baxter, wagging a finger as if he were her pupil.
“Not from where I’m standing,” the second policeman said. “This is public disorder. If you don’t clear the library, we’ll have to arrest you.”
“Unless they all take out a book,” whispered Henry, who was never one to miss an opportunity for a loan.
The policeman waved him aside.
“Boo!” went the crowd. “Save our clock!”
“At least hear us out,” Liz said boldly. “We’re here to demonstrate how much the people of Scrubbley are against these plans.” She pointed to the board, where there were some drawings of Councillor Trustable’s proposed new clock.
The first policeman sighed. “Between you and me, madam, I don’t care for them either, but invading the library is not the way to get them stopped.”
“Then try this,” Miss Baxter cried. And she pulled a can of spray paint from her handbag and sprayed a large purple ‘X’ all over the plans.
“That’s it, you’re nicked,” the policeman said.
Miss Baxter promptly sat down and sprayed his boots purple.
To Lucy’s horror, she saw her mother sit down as well.
That was it. Lucy knew, unless she acted, all hope was lost. Quickly, she hurried to the main library desk. The librarians who normally issued the books had deserted it to watch the hilarious goings-on. Lucy slipped behind it and went to the door which led to the clock tower above. To her surprise it was ajar. She peeped inside. It was dark and slightly musty, but she could see a spill of yellow light where the stairs wound upwards. A chill breeze whistled down the old stone steps. Lucy jumped back. She didn’t like the dark – or the thought of ghosts. But the thought of going to prison was even worse. She glanced over her shoulder. The policemen were trying to drag Miss Baxter away. Unbelievably, she had stolen their handcuffs and chained herself to a library trolley!
Checking to see that no one was watching, Lucy whispered urgently to Gauge. “Fly up there and see if you can fix the clock. If you only make it properly bong, that will be enough.”
Gauge twizzled his nose. He wasn’t sure about this. He’d had words with Gruffen before they came out and Gruffen’s book had clearly stated that Pennykettle dragons were not to be let loose in human society unless Liz said so. But on this occasion, he didn’t have much option.
“Go!” Lucy hissed, and threw him up the stairs.
He fluttered round the curving walls, up towards the light. In a matter of moments he had settled on a dusty wooden platform that was built around the workings of the ancient clock. Its cogs and wheels were huge compared to Mr Bacon’s watch. Gauge looked on in fascination as they ground slowly round, making a lovely deep tock every time one of the wheel teeth engaged.
High above, a pigeon cooed. The clock groaned and gave a dull sort of clunk. Gauge knew that it was trying to chime. But something was preventing it. Something unnatural. It was just as if the clock had been wounded in some way. He flew forward to investigate and landed on a rail just beside the main housing. As he did he heard a footstep. Instantly, he turned himself solid.
From the far side of the platform a figure appeared. It was Higson, Councillor Trustable’s assistant. Gauge recognised him because he’d watched all the hoo-hah outside through a hole in Lucy’s pocket. Higson was carrying a long piece of wood. He kept jabbing it at the clock, trying to wedge it between the wheels. It seemed to Gauge that the man was trying to break the clock or stop it from working. That made him very angry indeed. He was wondering if he dared risk scorching Higson’s ear when a foggy voice said, “Oh no, sir. That won’t do the job at all.”
Gauge rolled his eyes. From out of nowhere, another figure had appeared. He was very old and had no hair, apart from two bushy growths on either cheek. He was wearing a waistcoat, which had watch chains looping out of both pockets. Gauge smiled. His angry mood lifted. Here was a man who cared about time.
Higson whipped around in surprise. “What the…? Where did you come from?”
“Ah, that is a difficult question,” said the figure. “I seem to live here permanently now, if that’s any help.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Sir Rufus Trenchcombe. Clockmaker to the Crown.”
Higson shook his head in confusion. “Are you the, err, keeper of this clock or something?”
Sir Rufus’s chest seemed to barrel with pride. “Indeed, one could say so. Do you have an interest in time-pieces, sir? Were you seeking to release the stuck counter-sprocket by striking it with your planking?”
Higson clicked his tongue. “I was sent here to, err, service it, yeah. This, erm, counter-sprocket. Is that what’s wrong with it, then?”
“Indeed so! Faulty these three years past.”
Higson lifted his piece of wood. “So if that broke, then…?”
“It would need a vast repair. But the part is sturdy. The King’s cannon would surely struggle to break it. ’Tis made from the finest metals in Kent. A greater problem lies with the pendulum arm.”
Higson gave an interested nod. “And where’s that?”
“Why, there,” said Sir Rufus. In a flash, he seemed to disappear and reappear instantly on the other side of Gauge. He pointed to a long piece of rope which dangled down into the depths of the tower. “The balancing weight is missing. If this were adjusted and the counter-sprocket oiled, my clock would run appropriately and the chime would be restored.”
“Oh, would it?” Higson grunted.
He sounded disappointed. Then Sir Rufus added, “Of course if the weight be far wrong then the mechanism will altogether stop.”
Higson narrowed his eyes. Suddenly, he noticed Gauge balancing on the rail. Though he was clearly confused and wondering why a clay dragon was in the tower, he nevertheless snatched Gauge up. “How about this for a weight?” He tossed Gauge loosely in his hand.
“A most unlikely prospect,” said Sir Rufus.
The man gave a villainous smile. “Let’s try it.”
Before Sir Rufus could argue, Higson had drawn up the rope, tied Gauge to the end of it and thrown him down the tower shaft, into the darkness. The old clock ground to a weary halt.
Sir Rufus made a strange kind of wailing sound. “Treachery!” he cried. And he stretched out a hand as if to rescue Gauge, but his hand passed straight through the rope.
“Stone me, you’re a ghost!” Higson cried. And with a gurgling scream he fled down the stairs, leaving the clock in silence and Gauge still dangling somewhere in the darkness…
Chapter Eight
Until that point, the policemen had been struggling to clear the library. But things were about to change. As Councillor Trustable’s assistant burst through the door crying, “A ghost! Help! There’s a ghost in the tower!” half the protesters leapt to their feet. No one needed to be convinced of Higson’s sincerity. His hair was as stiff as a row of staples and his face as white as a ping-pong ball. He ran for the glass doors, hit the pane when it didn’t open automatically and almost knocked himself out.
“Ghost?” someone queried.
Henry Bacon helpfully put in, “Rumour has it that the spirit of Sir Rufus Trenchcombe roams the tower. Utt
er nonsense, of course.”
“You’re the librarian. Go and look!” someone cried.
Henry glanced uncomfortably at the stairway. “Not in my job description.”
Just then, the library clock gave a deep and resounding bong. Then another. And another. And another. And after a few seconds’ gap, another.
“The ghost’s angry,” someone suggested nervously.
But Lucy thought she could hear a joyous wail floating down the stairs. A ghostly breeze whooshed through the library. People screamed and ran for the street. To Lucy’s relief, the policeman who’d been escorting her mother to the door buckled at the knees and promptly fainted.
Lucy saw her chance. She tugged her mum’s sleeve and whispered, “Mum, I let Gauge go up there.”
Liz rolled her eyes. “Then you’d better go and see what he’s up to,” she hissed.
Lucy ran towards the tower door. “It’s all right, I’m not frightened of ghosts,” she shouted. And up the steps she pounded – not, of course, expecting to encounter Sir Rufus Trenchcombe at the top.
She stopped by the platform, too scared to even shake. The clock bonged again, almost deafening her.
“Ah, child,” said Sir Rufus. “Canst thou free the spirit caught on the rope?” He pointed a wispy finger.
Lucy glanced sideways and saw the pendulum rope jigging about. Suddenly, Gauge appeared. His wings were beating like mad. He was trying to escape from the shaft but the heavy rope was making it hard for him to fly. With an exhausted hrrr he fell back into the darkness. The clock responded with another loud bong.
Lucy ran to his aid. She grabbed the rope and pulled it up to the platform rail. Her nimble fingers quickly released the young dragon. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Gauge shook a cobweb off his tail and nodded. He frowned and turned his head towards the clock. Before Lucy could ask what he was doing, he had flown to the housing and was hurring deeply on one of the big wheels. To her surprise, Lucy saw that a patch of gooey gunge around the wheel was suddenly flowing like oil. The clock gave a heave and the wheel moved freely.
Sir Rufus Trenchcombe whooped with joy. “The counter-sprocket! The dragon creature has released the counter-sprocket. Now the clock may run more keenly.”
Lucy stepped forward and stubbed her toe against something on the floor. “Ow, what’s this?” She picked up a heavy piece of metal.
“’Tis the weight for the pendulum arm,” said Sir Rufus. He pointed to the rope.
“You mean, if I tie this on the end the clock is fixed?” Lucy asked.
“Almost certainly, child.”
So Lucy tied on the weight and let it fall down the shaft. Immediately, the clock gave a sequence of chimes. “It works!” she shouted. “It works! It works!”
Sir Rufus drifted towards the clock’s machinery. “Hmm. I fear some adjustment may yet be needed. The warmth of the dragon’s breath might have caused some damage to the chime counter.”
Gauge gave a hrrr that sounded like “Oops”. He blew a smoke ring and looked a bit sheepish.
Lucy flapped a hand. “Well, you look after that. I’ve got to save my mum from going to prison, now.”
“A noble gesture,” Sir Rufus said, bowing. “I am indebted to you, child.” He put out a hand and tried to shake Lucy’s. It was a bit scary, watching a ghost hand bobbing up and down through your own, but Lucy was brave and didn’t even squeak.
Gathering Gauge to her she said her goodbyes and hurried down the stairs.
To her relief her mum was still there, fanning the policeman who had fainted with a book. “Mum,” she cried. “Gauge mended the clock!”
The word quickly went round. Those protesters that were still about shouted hooray.
“What about the ghost, then?” one of them asked.
Lucy said, “He’s happy. And the clock properly works.” As if to prove it, high above them the clock began to bong. The crowd cheered loudly.
“Now we can all go home,” said Lucy.
“Just one second,” a smug voice said. It was Councillor Trustable. He turned his wrist and tapped his watch. “I make it four o’clock precisely.” He paused and cupped a hand around his ear. “Your clock has just chimed seven…”
Chapter Nine
The next day, it was in all the papers. The protest. Councillor Trustable’s new plans. The policeman’s purple boots (“Local Teacher Let Off With Warning”). The mystery of the ghost of Sir Rufus Trenchcombe. The strange goings-on with the clock.
Lucy sat, deflated, at the kitchen table, reading one paragraph over again. It said:
Lucy let her head sink onto her arms. “We’ve failed,” she said.
Liz sighed and glanced at Gauge. The young dragon looked terribly crestfallen. “It’s no one’s fault. We all tried our best. Gauge probably wasn’t meant to mend clocks anyway.”
Nevertheless, the dragon let his shoulders droop.
“Look, let’s go out for a walk,” said Liz. “Round the library gardens. We’ll take some bread for the ducks.”
Lucy sighed. “Only if Gauge can come, too.”
Twenty minutes later they were on their way to the library again. Lucy held Gauge to her chest all the way. As they walked down the precinct the little dragon could hardly bear to look at the clock. But, strangely, as they drew closer, a series of clicks and a few light flashes made him raise his eyes. A large group of people had gathered outside the library again. Most of them were carrying cameras.
“Are they protesters?” Lucy asked her mum.
“No, I think they’re tourists,” Liz said. “Look, they’re all taking photographs of the clock.”
The cameras flashed and clicked again.
Lucy pointed to Mr Bacon, who was making an announcement to some of the people. “Next tour of the tower at noon,” he was saying. “Five pounds for the chance to see the ghost of Sir Rufus Trenchcombe…”
“Well, I never,” Liz said. She chuckled softly. Over to one side of the precinct she could see Councillor Trustable watching the crowd snapping away. He had a thoughtful look on his face. “I think our clock is saved, Lucy. If it becomes a tourist attraction the last thing the Council will want to do is knock it down. It will bring people to the town and make lots of money. It looks like Gauge has succeeded after all.” She reached over and tickled his ears.
Hrrr! went the dragon. He flapped a paw.
“Careful,” whispered Lucy, “you’re supposed to be solid.”
“Oh, I think we can forgive him this time,” said Liz. And she raised a hand as well and waved at a small arched opening in the tower.
From behind it, Sir Rufus Trenchcombe waved back.
Suddenly, his old clock chimed five times.
Lucy looked at her watch. It was noon, or midday. But from that moment on, lunch time in Scrubbley would always be known as ‘five bongs’ – all thanks to a dragon named Gauge…
“Gosh, it’s chilly today,” Elizabeth Pennykettle said, stamping her feet and blowing on the ends of her fingerless gloves. “Still, these spring weekends are always good for business. How are we doing, Lucy?”
Liz’s daughter looked around the covered market stalls. She’d seen more elephants at a water hole than people shopping today. She looked at the rows of clay dragons on her mother’s stall then glanced at the open cash tin, which was on an upturned fruit crate beside her. There was a ten pound note and some coins in it. “We’ve sold two,” she said glumly.
“Well, that’s two better than none at all,” said Liz.
Lucy sighed and pulled on the braids of her bobble hat. She was about to reply when the clock in the tower of the library building gave out three distinct bongs. Anyone who didn’t live in the market town of Scrubbley would have thought this rather odd, for it was clearly about eleven o’clock in the morning. But to Lucy, who not only knew the whole sequence of bongs but the reason why the clock always chimed incorrectly, it was no surprise at all. It even helped reinforce what she’d been planning to say,
“Mum, we’ve been standing here for over an hour. I hate doing the market on freezing cold days. My toes are cold. And I think I’ve got chilblains – on my knees!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have to earn a living,” Liz said. “We have to eat and pay the bills like anyone else. Making and selling clay dragons is what I do. If you can think of a better job for me, speak up.” With that, she leaned across the stall and rearranged a number of her spiky green creations, moving some that had been at the back much closer to the front and placing others in little clusters, on stands.
Another spill of cold air ran though the market place, flapping the bunting on the roofs of the stalls. Lucy shivered and let her hands drift towards a female dragon in the corner of the table nearest her. It was sitting up on its back legs and tail as most of the Pennykettle dragons did. Nearly all of Liz’s dragons were characterised in some way. They carried cricket bats or wore a chef’s hat, for instance. The dragon nearest Lucy was slightly different. It had a small press of ivy leaves behind one ear. In truth, it was rather an ordinary-looking sculpture. Yet it was the most special of any on the stall. For this pretty little creature was only acting like a piece of solid clay, the way it had been taught to do in human company. But at any given moment it could soften its scales, lift its wings, make fire in the back of its throat and fly. It was real and barely three weeks old. Its name was Glade.
Lucy stretched the cuff of her glove from her wrist and held the gap in front of Glade’s snout. Then she made a strange kind of grunting sound, which to most people would have sounded like she had a bad cold. Actually, it was an ancient language called dragontongue, which Lucy and her mother had been able to speak since birth. To Glade’s ears the grunt translated as Hrrr, which could be interpreted in any number of ways, but which Glade understood to mean, “blow, will you?”
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