by Peter Bunzl
“Change is always monstrous at first,” Mr Roach replied, “but people soon get used to it. You know I’ve the strongest feeling, Madame Hortense, there will be a lot of changes in your life these coming months, for better or worse, depending how you play your hand. I’ll be watching closely to see how you handle things.”
Lily tried to fathom the meaning of his words, but found them slippery and ungraspable, and they swam away from her like a shoal of silver fish, pulling her along into a fog of sleep.
When she came to, the zep was approaching a local airstation and Mr Roach was gone. She suddenly remembered he’d been far too familiar with Madame, his last words tinged with a threat of some kind.
“What happened to the fellow sitting opposite?” Lily asked, stifling a yawn.
“He left a few minutes ago to prepare for landing,” Madame said. “He had an urgent appointment and wanted to disembark first.”
“But how did he know your first name?”
“Pardon?” Madame seemed somewhat flustered. She tucked her needle into the edge of her embroidery and Lily noticed she’d filled in the cherub’s eyes with silver circles of thread.
“I heard him use your first name,” Lily repeated. “And he knew you were called Madame before you even gave your title.”
“What an odd thing to say.” The housekeeper let out a peal of laughter. “You must have dreamed it.” She gathered her spools of threads and tucked them into her bag next to her needlework. “You were asleep for so long, Lily. In fact, you’ve tousled your hair. Perhaps you’d better tidy yourself before we arrive?”
Lily was tempted to pursue the subject further, but the airship had begun its descent towards the landing site, and soon the familiar shabby sign of Brackenbridge Airstation appeared, lighting up the cabin.
She struggled into her coat and scarf, and a few minutes later they disembarked onto the tiny local platform. A cold wind buffeted them as they descended the gangplank and took the wooden steps towards ground level.
Papa’s mechanical driver, Captain Springer, was waiting to collect them at the entrance to the station, standing beside their steam-wagon. Lily recognized him at once from his bow legs and bent stance. As soon as Madame Verdigris had wound him up, he hobbled over and gave Lily a big creaky hug.
“By all that ticks,” he cried, “it’s good to see you, Lily!” Then he huffed and puffed on his wooden legs, his cogs clicking as he loaded her case into the cab and helped Madame to her seat.
Climbing in after them, Lily glanced back at the other departing passengers, all wrapped up against the cold. She searched among the faces for Mr Roach, but couldn’t find him anywhere. He seemed to have melted into the night.
The journey to the house took less than half an hour, but Lily stayed awake the whole time, thinking about the silver-eyed man and how he connected to Madame.
Captain Springer pulled the steam-wagon onto the drive of Brackenbridge Manor and Lily and Madame stepped down onto the frosty path. As they walked towards the door, Lily glanced through the black skeletal trees of the garden, their branches like cracks in the sky, up to Papa’s study window, where his lamp once burned late into the night while he worked on his projects.
She half expected to see the flicker of it now. But there was nothing. The window stayed dark.
An icy draught whisked across the grounds, throwing up the last few fallen leaves, and a flood of grief made Lily swallow hard. Batting away the dust and the cold sting, she followed Madame and Captain Springer towards the lowlit porch.
Madame took out a ring of keys, unlocked the front door, and ushered Lily inside. She nodded at Captain Springer to indicate he should stow the case in the vestibule beside the rack of Papa’s old walking shoes. To see them made Lily’s heart leap for a second. Their folded leather shapes and straggly laces, laid out beneath his everyday coat on its hook – it was almost as if he had just come in and left them there. But no, he would’ve taken his flying jacket and boots if he and Malkin had gone off in Dragonfly. These were just the things he left behind. The remnants of him.
Her heart cracked some more as she realized he was truly gone, and the thought cut deep. She took a breath and stepped through the glass door from the vestibule into the grand hall. She was still half-expecting the old cosy warmth of the house to greet her, but if anything it felt colder and darker in here than outside.
At the foot of the stairs Mrs Rust, the mechanical cook, awaited them. She must have stood there for the whole day for she’d wound down and was now frozen in an expectant pose, one hand resting on the curved bannister.
Lily walked towards her. Apart from Malkin, Mrs Rust had always been her favourite among Papa’s mechanicals. But since Lily had seen her last, her old metal face had become more worn. Scores of worry lines crossed her rusty forehead and her nose bloomed with new chips of paint.
Madame Verdigris sent Captain Springer jittering across the tiled hall and off along the darkened servants’ corridor, then she examined Mrs Rust. “Mon Dieu,” she tutted. “These old models. It’s stopped again.” She strode around behind the mechanical woman. Pulling out her ring of keys once more, she searched through for Mrs Rust’s unique winder and inserted it into the mechanical’s neck, turning it viciously, until Lily heard the springs inside the iron lady begin to creak and groan.
When Madame finished the winding she stepped back and waited.
Mrs Rust’s eyes sprung open. Her expression looked glazed for a moment, the way mechanicals’ faces always did when you woke them, but then she blinked, caught sight of Lily, and let out a joyful cry.
“Cogs and chronometers! My tiger-Lil’s back!” Mrs Rust scooped Lily into her arms, sweeping her feet off the floor. “How I’ve missed you, dear-heart.”
“I’ve missed you too, Rusty.” Lily kissed the mechanical’s dented metal cheek, which was rouged with paint, and smelled slightly of lavender oil.
Mrs Rust put her down and took a good look at her, then her face became serious and she let out a long wheezing sigh. “Oh, Lily,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your father. Poor John. By all that ticks, I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”
Hearing Mrs Rust say Papa’s name like that made Lily’s heart flutter. “Me neither,” she said wearily, and she leaned up to kiss her on the nose.
Madame Verdigris gave a discreet cough. “How have things been getting on here today, Mrs Rust? I trust you took care of everything before you wound down for the night.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t realize I’d run out of clicks a’fore you arrived, but you took so long.”
“Malheureusement, the zeppelin was delayed,” Madame said. “Foul weather. Storm clouds on the line.”
“Shame.” Mrs Rust ruffled Lily’s hair with a soft leathery hand. “I’ve made up the young lady’s room, like you asked. Though I could’ve done with a little help.” The mechanical cook gave the housekeeper a dark stare, but Madame didn’t notice because she’d turned to Lily.
“Mrs Rust will help you settle in,” she said. “Mais, quietly. You’ll find things run differently round here with me at the helm. I’ll accept none of the tearaway behaviour your father saw fit to tolerate, especially not in a jeune fille rangée.” Madame tipped her head back to stare down her nose at Lily. “I shall want to see you in the drawing room straight after breakfast, when we shall discuss matters further.”
Lily nodded meekly. She was too wrung out by the emotion of the day to find a suitable response.
“Bon,” the housekeeper said. “Then I shall retire to bed. It’s been a long trip.”
She took the oil lamp from the hall table and swept off up the stairs, leaving Lily and Mrs Rust alone in the glow of a single candle.
Mrs Rust picked it up and ushered Lily upstairs too. As they reached the first-floor landing, Lily heard Madame shut the door of the master bedroom, and saw the glint of her lantern through the gap beneath it.
“But that’s Papa’s room,” she cried out
.
“Smokestacks and sprockets!” Mrs Rust whispered. “Not any more. Soon as she heard he was gone this morning, Madame moved his things into the servant’s box room at the back, and installed herself there before she came to get you. She even had Mr Wingnut set up your mama’s old dressing table for her.”
Lily felt ill all over again. Mama had been gone seven years, and Papa only a day, but already, Madame was acting like lady of the manor.
Mrs Rust opened the door to Lily’s own room. At least in here, she was relieved to find everything was just as she’d left it. Her books still piled on their shelves and her notes and drawings pinned to the walls in fat bunches, hiding the yellow wallpaper.
She emptied her suitcase into the wardrobe, not bothering to unfold anything, while Mrs Rust busied herself filling the grate with kindling, her arms rattling like bicycle chains. “Madame’s stopped me setting the fires this week while your papa’s been away,” she said, “but now you’re home we’ll soon have things running the way they’re meant to. I’ll make it cosy in no time, don’t you worry.” The old mechanical laid the last of the logs atop the kindling. “Oh, and you might be needing an extra layer. It’s got pretty cold here these winter nights.”
“Good idea.” Lily took a blanket from the cupboard and shook it out over the bed, filling the room with a blizzard of dust.
“Clockwork and…” Mrs Rust let out a foghorn sneeze, “…cam-wheels!”
“Bless you,” Lily said.
“Thank you, my tiger.” The mechanical took an old scrap of sacking from her pocket and blew her nose into it. “A touch of pneumatic pneumonia. Can I give you a piece of advice? Don’t tell Madame anything you don’t have to. This past week while your father’s been on his trip, she’s been through his office with a fine-tooth comb.”
“How dare she! What on earth is she looking for?”
Mrs Rust threw her arms in the air. “Crankshafts and carburettors, I wish I knew! Could be anything. She’s a devious one, her. Got all kinds of wheels turning in her head and she was lording it up when we heard the news this morning. Put herself in charge, naturally!” Mrs Rust held the candle to the kindling and fanned the flames with her apron. Lily sat on the bed, watching her.
“Widgets and windscreen wipers,” the old mechanical muttered at last, when the fire had caught. “You mustn’t mind my blather. It’s only the wittering of an old fussbudget. When you come down in the morning I shall make you a nice teacake with jam, just as you like it, and we can have a proper gossip.”
“Thank you, Rusty, sorry we woke you so late. I hope you sleep well.”
“You too, my tiger-Lil. You too.” Mrs Rust placed the candle by her bedside and crept out. Lily pulled the blanket over her knees and sat listening to the old mechanical’s creaking joints as she walked away along the passage.
Later, changing into her nightdress, Lily touched the long white scar on her chest. A cut made by a shard of windscreen glass during the accident. The mark had faded over the years, like the memory of Mama, but she still felt its sharp throb sometimes and now, with Papa gone too, those memories she’d tried so hard to forget were once again welling up inside – gnawing at her empty belly.
She brushed them away and pondered Mrs Rust’s parting words. What was Madame after in Papa’s things? And what could she do about it? These new thoughts were not at all pleasant, and she was too hungry and exhausted to consider them. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Strange to think that afternoon she’d still been at school.
She glanced at her bedside clock. One thirty. Beneath the hands, tiny ivory-inlaid sheep jumped over a stile. Papa had designed it for her and she found herself counting the creatures now, trying to ignore the whirr of her mind as she closed her eyes and drifted off into an uneasy sleep full of silver-eyed men and skull-topped canes.
Robert pushed open the door to his da’s workshop and laid the broken fox down on the workbench in the centre of the room. Rows of brass tools and clock faces glinted in the gaslight, throwing twitching shadows across the walls.
Robert examined the mechanimal’s injury. Under the sackcloth outer covering, where the top of the fox’s leg joined the metallic shoulder blade, the bulbs and hexagons of the connecting bolts were all broken, and the rest of the parts had fused together in a lump. He was about to get to work when he sensed someone in the room, and glanced round.
His da was standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, a quizzical look on his face. “What’ve you got there, son?” Thaddeus asked.
“A mech-fox.” Robert stood aside so his da could get a better view. “I found it hiding down the lane. Men chased it across the village. I think they shot it.” He stopped there because he didn’t know what else to say. None of it made sense. Why would anyone shoot a mechanimal?
“Let’s have a look.” Thaddeus stepped over and examined the mechanimal. He put on his glasses and peered closely at the shattered cogs visible under the torn sackcloth fur. “I’ve only ever seen such workings once before,” he muttered. “From these tiny delicate parts, I’d say the master mechanist who put this creature together was Professor Hartman of Brackenbridge Manor.”
“You mean that secretive fellow?” Robert asked, astounded. “The one who calls himself Grantham?”
“The very same,” Thaddeus said. “Hartman’s his real name – but I’m the only one in the village who knows that.” He glanced at the fox. “Where did you say it was headed?”
“East,” Robert said.
“Then that’ll be it.” Thaddeus massaged his temples. “What’s this?” He had found something: a small leather pouch under the matted fur ruff of the mechanimal’s neck.
Thaddeus opened the pouch and pulled out a bullet-singed envelope. On the front, in faded oil-spattered letters, was written one word: Lily. “Yes, of course,” he said. “It must belong to the professor’s daughter.”
“He has a daughter?” Robert said.
Thaddeus nodded. “I think she’s at boarding school now. And I’ve certainly never met her. When she’s around, he likes to keep her shut away.”
“Why?”
Thaddeus put the letter and pouch to one side on the bench. “Oh, I don’t know, overprotective, I suppose. She lost her mother when she was quite young – before they moved to Brackenbridge, and then for a long time she was very ill. Maybe that’s why he made her this pet?”
Robert could sympathize. He knew what it was like to grow up without a ma. Although he had a feeling Thaddeus meant Lily’s mother was dead, not off somewhere else, like his own. He couldn’t remember when he’d first decided to stop asking about his ma – probably when Da had refused to give a straight answer. Seemed every family had secrets of some kind, good or bad.
He glanced from the fox, to Lily’s letter in his da’s hand. “Should we open it, d’you think?”
Thaddeus shook his head. “One never opens other people’s mail, Robert. But perhaps we can take it to her?”
“And we’ll help the fox, won’t we?” Robert said. “I’m afraid if we don’t it might wind down for ever.”
Thaddeus thought about this. “Men were chasing it you say? And John’s airship is missing. It…crashed? I wonder if this is something we should get involved with…? It sounds dangerous.”
Robert sat down on the stool beside his da. “It’s something that needs fixing, and you always say, ‘If something needs fixing…’”
“‘…we should try our best to fix it, no matter the cost.’ You’re right, of course.” Thaddeus gave his son a weary look. “Such terrible things happen in the world, don’t they? Violence against mechs and humans. And sometimes it feels easier to give in, or not to get involved. But, I suppose without those evils there’d be no chance for us to do good, and doing good is what matters. Though it can sometimes be very frightening…” Thaddeus paused and tapped the workbench thoughtfully with his screwdriver. “No one conquers fear easily, Robert. It takes a brave heart to win great battles.”
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br /> He peered at the fox. “Now, can we repair this, d’you think? Or has it ticked its last tock? Let’s have a look…” He opened a drawer in the workbench and took out a roll of leather, which he unfurled to reveal neat lines of tools – rows of watchmakers’ screwdrivers, needles and tweezers, each in their own individual leather pocket. From another drawer he produced various glass jars of tiny screws and cogs, which he arranged in a row behind the leather scroll of tools. At last he took his magnifying glasses from a hook on the wall and put them on, blinking his big blue eyes. With a pair of tweezers, he opened the bullet hole in the mechanimal’s leg, prising apart the oil-encrusted sackcloth fur to examine its internal workings.
Robert stood on tiptoes and peered over his da’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse at the damage. Behind the shoulder blade, the bullet had smashed and distorted the animal’s tight-knit internal clockwork. It had cut a path through splintered cams and springs, before embedding itself deep in a dented metal plate.
“This is a serious repair job,” Thaddeus said.
“But you can fix it?” Robert asked.
The clockmaker nodded. “Yes, it’ll take time, though. And I’ll need your help. Go and get all the jars containing the copper cams and the watch springs; if there aren’t enough, bring a few of the old clocks over, we can filch parts from them.”
“Right you are.” Robert set off to collect the bits and pieces they would need from around the workshop, while Thaddeus picked up his screwdrivers and set to work on the mech-fox.
It took them many hours to repair the damage the bullet had done to the mechanimal’s shoulder. Robert helped remove the mangled cogs and logged them in the workbook, and when Thaddeus called for replacement parts, if they weren’t in the selections he’d already brought, Robert would run and get them from the various jars and tins stacked on the shelves in the storeroom.
