by Mike Ashley
“You won’t find a better location in this town, Mr. Bell. You have two nice rooms upstairs for your living quarters, and a large room in back for storage or a workshop. And there’s the big display window on the street,” he said earnestly.
“I’ll take it, Mr. Lockyer,” the tall man said.
“A wise decision, Mr. Bell. There’s no property in this town more suitable for a jeweler’s shop.”
“I’m not a jeweler, Mr. Lockyer,” Bell corrected him.
Lockyer shook his head vigorously and waved his hand as if to brush away his error. “No, of course not. You’re a clockmaster. You mentioned that. Sorry, Mr. Bell.”
“I make and repair timepieces. I do not deal in trinkets.”
“You’re certainly needed here, Mr. Bell. Do you know, if anyone wants a clock or a watch repaired, he has to take it all the way down to Boston? That’s a long trip, and, more often than not, it’s a waste of time.”
“I never waste time, Mr. Lockyer.”
“People are going to be mighty glad you came here. And you will be, too. You’ll do well here, Mr. Bell,” the smaller man said. He paused, smiling at the dark outline of the other, then he went on, “As a matter of fact, I have a watch you might look at when you’re all set up. It was my grand father’s originally. Kept perfect time for nearly a century, that watch did, but last year I dropped it on the stone floor down at the railroad station, and that was the end of it. I took it to the best jeweler in Boston, and those people held on to it for nearly six months, and then told me they couldn’t do a thing; it was beyond repair.”
“Bring it to me.”
“Do you think you might be able to replace the works?”
“I’ll repair it, Mr. Lockyer,” Bell said. “Take it to your office tomorrow.”
“I will, Mr. Bell. I’ll have the lease all ready for your signature. My men will get to work here first thing tomorrow morning. You’ll be able to move in by the end of the week.”
“I’ll do my own cleaning and move in tomorrow. Just give me the keys.”
Lockyer looked uncomfortable. “Well now, it’s always been our policy not to turn a place over to a tenant until it’s spotless,” he said, looking around at the dusty surfaces and cobwebbed corners. “I appreciate your hurry, but I just wouldn’t feel right giving you a place in this condition. It needs a good cleaning.”
“I always do my own cleaning. Let me have the keys, and I’ll be open for business tomorrow afternoon,” the tall man said.
“You’ll never manage that, Mr. Bell,” said the other. “There’s too much to be done.”
“I know how to make the best use of time, Mr. Lockyer. Come by at six tomorrow, and your watch will be ready.”
Lockyer entered the shop a few minutes before six the following evening. He was astonished at the changes that had been wrought in a single day. The windows, the glass countertop, and the display case were all spotless. The floors and woodwork gleamed freshly polished. The shelves were filled with an assortment of clocks. Some were quite ordinary; others were like none that Lockyer had ever seen before.
Bell was not in the shop. Lockyer went to the display case and stooped for a closer look at the clocks behind the glass front. The hour struck, and he was immersed in a medley of sound. Tiny chimes tinkled like tapped crystal; deep-tolling bells and reverberant mellow gongs vied with chirps and whistles and birdsong in a brief fantasia. Scores of tiny figures came forth to mark the hour each in its own way.
Lockyer found himself drawn to the capering figures of a Harlequin turning handsprings, one for each of the six peals of the little silver bell at the very top of the clock. The figure was smaller than his thumb, yet it moved with supple smoothness, free of the awkward lurching of the clock figures he had seen so many times before. At the sixth stroke the Harlequin turned its final handspring, bowed, and retreated inside a pair of gaily painted doors that shut firmly behind it. Lockyer leaned close, stooping, his hands on his knees, fascinated by the tiny figure’s grace. He started at the sound of the clockmaker’s voice and straightened quickly to find Bell standing behind the display case.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” the tall man said.
“I was watching. . . . I was fascinated by this,” said Lockyer, his eyes returning to the clock now placidly ticking its way to another hour and another performance. “I’ve never seen a clock like this . . . like any of these.”
“You must come again when the hour is striking, and see the others. Some are quite unusual.”
“They must be very expensive.”
“Some are priceless. Others are less expensive than you might think.”
Lockyer leaned down to look more closely at the Harlequin clock. He touched his pudgy fingers to the glass of the case in a childlike gesture, and drew them back quickly in embarrassment. Looking at Bell, he said, “How much is that one?”
“That one is not for sale, Mr Lockyer. I’ve been offered a great deal of money for it, but I’m not prepared to let my little Harlequin go.”
“It’s a marvelous piece of work. Everything in the shop is marvelous . . . and you’ve set it all up so quickly!” Lockyer said with a frank, ingenuous smile. “It’s incredible that you accomplished so much in less than a day.”
“Would you like your watch, Mr. Lockyer?”
“Oh, surely you haven’t had enough time. . . .” Lockyer broke off his protest as Bell drew out his grandfather’s watch, bright and new-looking, and held it up for Lockyer to hear. The watch was ticking very softly. Lockyer took it, looked at it in amazement, and held it to his ear again.
“It will keep time for your grandchildren, Mr. Lockyer. And for their grandchildren, too.”
Lockyer’s expression grew somber, but only for an instant. He asked, “How did you do it? The watchmaker in Boston told me it was ruined. He said no one could fix it.”
“There are very few things that can’t be fixed. Perhaps I’ve had more experience than others.”
Looking from the watch to Bell in silent wonder, Lockyer said after a time, “It looks brand-new. I must admit, I didn’t think you could fix it.”
“It was a pleasure, Mr. Lockyer.”
The smaller man looked at his watch again, held it to his ear, and shook his head bemusedly. He tucked the watch into his vest pocket and reached for his wallet. “How much will it be?”
Bell raised his hand in an arresting gesture. “There is no charge.”
“But you must have put a lot of time and work into this.”
“I never charge my first customer.”
“You’re very generous.” Lockyer looked at the shelves behind the display case. “Perhaps . . . you mentioned that some of your clocks are not too expensive, and perhaps . . . I’m sure my wife would be pleased with a nice clock for the mantel.”
“Then we shall find one to her liking,” Bell said. He walked slowly down the length of shelves, paused, retraced his steps, and at last stopped to take down a clock mounted atop a silver cylinder embellished with enameled swans on a woodland lake. He placed it on the countertop. The clock was silent; its hands were fixed at a minute before twelve.
“It’s waiting for its proper owner,” he explained.
He touched something at the back, and the clock began to tick. When the hands met at twelve, the cylinder opened, and, to the accompaniment of a sweet melody, a little dark-haired ballerina stepped forth, bowed, and began to dance. Lockyer stared at the figure in astonishment and murmured the single word “Antoinette.”
At the last stroke, the tiny dancer withdrew, and the cylinder closed around her. Lockyer continued to stare for a moment, then he rubbed his eyes and looked up at Bell.
“It’s uncanny,” he said, his voice hushed and slightly hoarse. “We had a daughter. She loved to dance. We hoped that she’d be a ballerina, but it wasn’t to be. She died of pneumonia two years ago.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Lockyer. I hope I’ve not caused you pain.”
“No! Oh
no, Mr. Bell. That little dancer is the image of Antoinette as she was when we lost her.”
“Then you have your daughter back. Every time the hour strikes, she will dance as she once did.”
“My wife would be so happy,” said Lockyer, his eyes fixed on the clock. He spoke like a man voicing his private thoughts. “She’s never gotten over it, really. She seldom leaves the house anymore. But that clock. . . . I know it must be very expensive, but I’ll manage to pay for it somehow.”
Bell stated the price. Lockyer gaped at him, and at last cried, “But that’s ridiculous! You could sell this clock for a hundred times that much!”
“I choose to sell it to you for exactly that price, no more and no less. Will you have it?”
“I will!”
“Then it is yours,” the clockmaster said. He made a quick adjustment at the back, turning the hands to the proper time, and then he took up the clock and handed it back to Lockyer. “It’s properly set now. It will require no further adjustment. I hope it brings pleasure to you and your wife.”
“It’s certain to do that. Thank you, Mr. Bell,” Lockyer said as he backed from the counter, the clock cradled in his arms.
The Clockmaker’s shop soon became a point of interest in the town. Schoolchildren and idlers clustered outside the window to observe the hourly spectacle. Customers came in increasing numbers, some to bring a watch or clock for repair or adjustment, and some to buy one of the timepieces that Bell sold at such modest prices. All who entered the shop stayed long, entranced by the marvels of workmanship that filled the display case and lined the shelves.
Lockyer was a regular visitor. At least once each week, usually more than that, he showed up at Bell’s shop to report on the remarkable accuracy of his watch, to thank Bell for the ballerina clock, and then to examine the latest product of Bell’s workshop. He was awed by the speed with which the clockmaker could create his marvelous mechanisms. Every week brought something new.
Late in the year, when Lockyer stopped in the shop on a rainy afternoon, Bell was placing a new clock in the display case. At the sight of Lockyer, the clockmaker smiled and set the clock on the glass top, extending his hand in welcome.
“Would you care to see it work?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Bell,” said Lockyer eagerly. He put his umbrella in the stand by the door and came to the display case.
He saw a dark sphere, about the size of a cannonball. It appeared to be of crystal, so deep blue that it was almost black. Atop the opaque crystal was a small white-and-gold clock no bigger than a child’s fist. The hands of the clock stood at one minute to twelve.
Lockyer studied the crystal, and could distinguish nothing within but darkness. The clock was exquisite, the crystal flawless, but this seemed a disappointingly simple timepiece to come from one who was capable of the intricate and subtle mechanisms that filled the shop.
As if he had read Lockyer’s thoughts, Bell said, “It is not quite so simple as it appears.” Lockyer glanced sharply up in embarrassment. Bell smiled and set the clockwork going.
It appeared to Lockyer that by the time the hands had met, the darkness in the crystal had softened somewhat. At the first stroke of twelve, a light appeared at the center. With each successive stroke, a new light glowed somewhere in the crystal, and all grew steadily brighter. The outer lights moved about the central one, brightest of them all, and smaller lights, hardly more than pinpoints against the rich blue that now suffused the sphere, circled some of the outer lights. Silent and serene, they moved in stately procession around the bright center. At the ninth revolution, the lights began to fade and the darkness deepen. When the twelfth revolution was completed, only the faint glow at the center of the crystal remained, and then suddenly it was gone, and all within was darkness once again.
“That’s marvelous! It’s . . . it’s the universe!” Lockyer blurted.
“Only a representation of one small part,” said Bell, lifting the sphere and placing it in the case.
“It’s incredible, Mr. Bell. Incredible. Those lights . . . and the way they move . . . how did you do it?”
“I have my secrets. I thought you’d enjoy seeing this one, Mr. Lockyer. It will not be here after today.”
“Are you actually selling that? Who could afford such a—” Lockyer silenced himself abruptly, more embarrassed than before. Bell’s dealings were no one’s business but his own; if he undervalued his own work, the fact did not seem to trouble him, or to do him any harm.
“I charged a fair price. And the woman who ordered this very special clock for her husband can well afford it.”
“Sutterland. It can only be Elizabeth Sutterland.” Bell nodded, but said nothing, and Lockyer went on, “Well, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but it hurts me, Mr. Bell, it really hurts me, to think of a beautiful piece of workmanship like this clock being in the hands of a man like Paul Sutterland. He doesn’t deserve it.”
“Mrs. Sutterland seems to think he does.”
“Elizabeth has forgiven him a hundred times, taken him back when he’s done things. . . .” Lockyer stopped himself. He gestured angrily, and stood with reddened face, glaring at the dark sphere.
“Perhaps she loves him, Mr. Lockyer.”
“If she does, she’s a fool. I’m not a prying man, but I can’t help hearing things, and if only a fraction of the things I hear about Paul Sutterland and that crowd of his friends are true, Elizabeth should have left him long ago.”
“Things may improve, Mr. Lockyer. People do change.”
Bitterly, Lockyer said, “Some people do. I know Sutterland, and I know that he’ll never change, not if he lives to be a hundred.”
“We must hope.”
Lockyer nodded impatiently and went to the door. He took his umbrella, put his hand on the doorknob, and then turned to Bell. “Look, Mr. Bell, I’m sorry. I had no right to say the things I said. I got angry for a moment. Elizabeth is an old friend. A lot of people in this town respect her.”
“It’s perfectly all right, Mr. Lockyer.”
“It isn’t all right. That’s what troubles me. Sutterland is cruel to his wife and children. He treats his servants brutally. And to think of her giving him something so exquisite. . . .” He gestured helplessly.
“As I said, we must hope. Perhaps this anniversary present will mark a turning point for the Sutterlands.”
Mrs. Sutterland arrived late that afternoon. She was a beautiful woman, her fine features almost untouched by time, her thick hair a glowing auburn; but years of unhappiness had left their mark in other ways. Her manner was cool and formal, and there was a tautness in her voice that served as a barrier to all but essential conversation.
The sight of the clock changed her. She folded back her veil and looked with unfeigned delight at the motion of the tiny worlds within the sphere. When the last light faded, she turned eagerly to the clockmaker, her eyes aglow, her expression animated.
“Mr. Bell, this is a wonder! I’ve never seen anything to rival it. My husband will be overwhelmed!” she said exuberantly.
“I’m happy to see you so pleased, Mrs. Sutterland.”
“I’m delighted. It’s quite beyond anything I expected, Mr. Bell.” She placed her gloved hands on the crystal and looked into its dark depths, and as she looked, her expression hardened and weariness seemed to enfold her like a shadow. When she addressed him again, the barrier was in place. “If by any chance the clock should be damaged, Mr. Bell – we will, of course, take the greatest care of such a delicate mechanism, but children and servants can be clumsy – if some mischance should occur—”
“I will repair it,” said Bell.
This town, like all towns, had its share of idlers and wastrels. Some of them were frequent observers of the noontime display in Bell’s shop window, but, being the sort of men to whom punctuality was not so much a virtue as an imposition, they did not become patrons. Nearly a full year passed from his arrival before one of them visited the shop, and he came only to amuse
himself at the clockmaker’s expense.
His name was Monson, and he was given to this kind of amusement. He was a portly, florid-faced man with handsome features and a confident manner, well-dressed and well-spoken. He belonged to a prominent and prosperous family, though he himself showed no signs of industry or concern for good repute. He came to the shop one morning, spent a quarter hour examining the clocks on display, and then introduced himself to Bell. “People say you repair damaged clocks and watches,” he went on.
“I do,” said Bell.
“I’ve heard that you can repair any watch, no matter how badly it’s been damaged.”
“People have been satisfied by my work. Perhaps they exaggerate.”
“Well, if you’re as good as they say, I have a little job for you. It should be no trouble at all for a man of your abilities.” Monson drew a dirty rolled-up handkerchief from his pocket, laid it on the countertop, and unfolded it to reveal a jumble of wheels, springs, and tiny bits of metal, a cracked dial; and a bent and battered watch case. All were encrusted with dried mud, and the case was scored and scratched. When Bell remained silent, Monson said, “Too much for you?”, and favored him with a bland smile.
“Perhaps not, Mr. Monson,” said Bell.
Monson’s smile wavered in the face of this calm response, but he quickly recovered. “It slipped from my fingers and rolled into the roadway. A horse trod it into the dirt, and the wagon wheels rolled right over it. I thought it was beyond fixing, but this watch has sentimental value to me, and so I kept the pieces. Then, when I heard everyone in town singing your praises, I told them I’d bring the watch to you and let you show how good you really are.” His smile was a mocking challenge.
“Come back tomorrow at four,” Bell said, taking up the handkerchief full of fragments.
“So soon, Mr. Bell? You work fast.”
“I do not waste time, Mr. Monson, neither mine nor other people’s,” Bell replied.
Monson left, and when he joined the friends who had waited for him outside, their laughter could be heard inside the shop. The next day all three came at the appointed hour. Three other men, all well-dressed and in very high spirits, were also present, having entered only a few minutes earlier. They joined the others around Monson when he greeted the clockmaker, placed his palms on the top of the display case, and said boldly, “My watch, if you please, Mr. Bell.”
