‘Which church?’
‘How the hell would I know? I’m not the Archbishop of Canterbury – I just look like him. Must’ve been a few years ago though, mustn’t it?’
I stuffed the paper in my top pocket and forgot it.
Later that day I got the clock set up and going, in exactly the same place, then went to bed early, trembling with excitement. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life; but I suppose getting rid of it so easily to Floradora had given me a false sense of security. What I’d failed to notice was how quickly I’d grabbed it back off her again. That’s always the same when you start an addiction, whether it’s drink or drugs. You always think you can kick the habit any time.
I lay reading Miller’s Guide. The massed photographs of clocks, chairs, figurines, swam before my face pointlessly. I wasn’t really reading at all; I was waiting. But the clock struck ten, without anything happening but the rumble of a passing train. And at eleven, there was only a distant dog barking.
I suppose I must’ve dozed off; those sleepless nights had taken more out of me than I’d thought. Because I never heard the clock chime midnight at all.
But in my sleep I became aware of someone getting into bed with me. Only she did it in such a matter-of-fact way that I didn’t really waken up. I’d had a skinful of whisky again, to calm my nerves. And I always drink whisky when I have a woman up to my bedroom, and I suppose I thought it was one of those.
‘Maggie,’ I murmured drowsily, groping for the warmth. When she spends the night, Maggie’s always tripping out to the loo.
But it wasn’t Maggie; Maggie’s a real big armful, and her skin’s slightly rough. This skin was too smooth and young.
‘Clare?’ I asked, querulously, thinking I’d dropped a clanger, calling Clare ‘Maggie’.
The body shook, as if giggling. So I knew it wasn’t Clare. For Clare, bed is always very serious, earth-shattering. Besides, she’s thin, and her shoulder-blades stick out. This person snuggling under my armpit was just right . . . smooth, well padded. Fuddled with drink, I couldn’t think who it was at all. Oh, well, said my whisky-sodden brain, what the hell? Whoever it was certainly knew how to make love . . .
And then the clock began to strike. It more than struck. The sound marched up and down the corridors of my house like great boots, getting nearer and nearer. No mortal clock could strike so loud. It was a noise that would shatter windows. I tried to struggle upright, full of rage that anything should so disturb my house. But sleep and whisky held me down; and the warm twining form that burrowed deeper into the angle of my shoulder and neck, almost totally enfolding me.
Then the sound of real boots in the hall, crunching on loose broken stone. Doors were being thrown open, banging against my plastered walls with a force that made me break out in a cold sweat. Again I tried to struggle upright, reach the pistol under my pillow. But my companion weighed me down.
Shouts; great jagged angry shouts, so full of rage I couldn’t understand what they were saying. And a terror filled me, far greater than my own fuddled outrage. It oozed from the shape wrapped round me, that was now shaking from head to foot, and exuding a cold sweat that made it feel like a corpse.
There was banging and shouting right next door now. The terror coming from the thing wrapped round me filled my whole body, so that I went down into the black pit with it . . .
Then came a new noise, drilling through the rest like a workman with a road-drill; off, on, off, on. A cool, hard, sane modern noise that drilled deeper and deeper into my mind, forcing me to open my clenched-shut eyes.
My own bedroom ceiling, with its familiar pattern of cracks, looking deeper in the glow of the bedside light. My closed bedroom door, with my dressing-gown hanging from it. Whisky bottle, full ashtray . . .
And the bedside telephone ringing.
It was Floradora. I managed to gasp out ‘Hello’.
‘You OK?’ she said in her old nicotine croak. ‘You sound funny.’
‘I was asleep.’
‘Bet you weren’t having a very nice dream.’
‘Had some whisky.’
‘You’ll ruin your bloody liver.’
‘Man’s got to have some consolation.’
‘You’d do better coming over here.’ It was good to hear her voice, normal as catching a bus or buying a packet of cigarettes. ‘Hey – I forgot to tell you. There was something engraved on the back of your clock movement.’
‘You ring me up in the middle of the night to tell me that?’
‘S’only half past eleven. Some people don’t get to sleep as easy as you. Now when my old man was alive . . .’
‘What was engraved on the clock?’
‘Fay suh ki voudra.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s spelt . . . you gotta pencil handy? . . . F-A-Y C-E Q-U-I V-O-U-D-R-A. It’s French . . . but not spelt quite right . . . not unless my girlish schooldays have let me down.’ She gave a sexy giggle; I reckon she’d been at the whisky as well.
‘How girlish were your schooldays? No – don’t tell me.’
‘All right, Simon Pure. Sounds like a family motto though, doesn’t it? Of the guy who had the clock made?’
‘Something like that.’ Now I felt sane again, I wanted to get off the phone and see what had been happening in my house. Though I could’ve done with her there, to hold my hand.
‘See you,’ she said abruptly, and hung up. She’s like that; very brazen up to a point, then she gets hurt and goes like a streak of lightning. I’ll never understand women.
I went through what was by now a weary routine. Put on my dressing-gown, tie the cord with trembling hands. Search the bed, under the bed, find nothing. But as I searched my long, empty, undamaged corridors, full of closed doors and ticking clocks, I seemed to hear echoes, of footsteps and whispers and giggles. Fading, fading.
I made up my mind; I would not give that clock house-room a moment longer. I packed it again in its wooden box, stuffing crumpled newspapers all round it. Then I carried it out to the garage and locked it in my car, then locked the garage and went back and sat in my bedroom wicker chair.
I dozed a bit, towards dawn.
Next morning, I drove into Muncaster. I knew I had to get rid of the clock. But I was Clocky Watson, and I was determined to make a profit on it. I went round every dealer I knew. And I swear they’d all heard of that clock. They’d be all interest as I walked in with the box, because although I’ve got a bad name, they know I get some good stuff. But the moment I took off the wrappings . . . Not only did they not want to know, but they took a grim enjoyment in my frustration. By the end, I knew they were phoning ahead of me. I didn’t even bother to start taking off the wrappings. I kept a civil tongue in my head, till the last shop, because I knew my raging would only have added to their pleasure. In the last shop, which belongs to an old Jew I know, I really blew my top.
‘But Marcus, it’s bloody Georgian!’
‘Is Georgian,’ he agreed with a shrug.
‘Look at the craftsmanship!’
‘Superb craftsmanship,’ he agreed.
‘Worth thousands!’
‘Worth what you can get for it . . .’ He smiled tinily. ‘I am sorry for you. But I am also glad you bought it from my nephew. Perhaps now Moshe will get his business back in order. Perhaps now he will save his marriage. He was stubborn, like you. He insisted on making a profit . . . nobody profits from the Dean’s clock. Leave it up some nice quiet little back alley – it will come to no harm. Only, please, do not try to sell it back to Moshe for a pound. Three years he has suffered, and if it got hold of him again . . .’ He drew the edge of his hand across his throat.
‘What did you call it?’
‘The Dean’s clock. In Muncaster, in the trade, it has always been known as the Dean’s clock.’
‘Which Dean?’
‘A Dean who has been gone for many years. I first heard of the Dean’s clock as a young boy. Which Dean?’ He shrugged. ‘Colle
ges have Deans, cathedrals have Deans. The telephone directory has two whole pages of men called Dean . . . Leave it up some back alley, Clocky. When no one is looking. As far from here as possible – I have to live with my neighbours . . . I don’t want them hammering on my door.’
‘Be damned to you,’ I shouted. ‘I will make a profit!’ I shouted because tears of frustration were growing in my eyes.
‘Shalom,’ he said, softly, as I staggered out with the clock, kicking his door open in front of me.
After that, I drove aimlessly, trying to think of some other place to take it. But the evening rush-hour had started, driving me round in frantic, hooting, exhausted circles. It was getting dusk, a pale-green dusk, with clouds of windblown starlings hovering over the black spires and chimneys of Muncaster. And the cars and the scurrying people seemed to be fading, growing distant with the day, leaving me alone with the night, and the clock sitting in the middle of the back seat behind me.
I kept on coming back to the traffic-lights by the cathedral. That’s a trick of the one-way system. If you’re lost in Muncaster, or drifting, you always come back to the traffic-lights by the cathedral. Each time I came round, the cathedral windows were lit up, golden, inviting. There was one empty place in the car park outside; a place to stop and rest my brake-foot. I pulled in, stopped the engine.
And behind me (it might only have been the jar as I jammed the brakes on) the clock boomed once, a jangling, angry, discordant boom. I thought . . . full of imprisoned anger.
I was out of that car like a shot; didn’t even bother to lock it. I ran for the big, lit, open door of the cathedral.
A handful of people streamed down the steps past me; women with umbrellas and solitary well-dressed old men. Beyond, the organ was playing a voluntary. I had come in at the end of a service. I stood there, as the last worshippers slipped past me. It seemed to my desperate mind that they too knew about the clock, and were leaving because I’d come. I’d often felt lonely in my life; but never as lonely as then.
The organ music was soaring, soothing. For a second, I closed my eyes, and let myself get lost in it. But I knew it was already ending, like a dying wave that would recede and leave me stranded. Alone.
The music stopped; the organist closed his keyboard and put his light out with a click of a switch that echoed up and down that nave like a full-stop. I watched him too walk away, with a rolled newspaper and a bagful of groceries with a celery-head sticking out of the top. He looked at his watch as he passed. Lucky man, he was going somewhere.
I just stood, waiting for someone to come and throw me out. Then I saw the man who was going to do it. He came down the centre aisle, a tall thin negro in a long black cassock. But he wasn’t a forbidding figure. He walked, smiling and staring about him with pride, like a child left in charge of a sweet-shop. He had the most marvellous teeth I ever saw in a man.
‘Hello,’ he said with a beaming grin, taking my hand between both of his. ‘Welcome to our great cathedral.’ I suppose it was a very Christian thing to do, but I wondered how many staid Englishmen it had frightened away. ‘Can I help you in any way?’ His eyes were brown, a bit moist with emotion, but very kind. It was like having a warm bath. ‘I am Father Eagle St John Smith. My father named me after the eagle of St John, in the Gospels. But just call me Eagle.’
I was speechless. I’d never seen anyone less like an eagle in my life; a dove would have looked more ferocious. I warmed to him. I wanted to say something, but didn’t know what to say. So I finally said, ‘You’re new here?’ That from me, who’d never been to church in my life. But he seemed new; he had a glossiness that doesn’t last long in Muncaster.
‘Yes, I am new. I was ordained in our great cathedral at Barbados six months ago today, and now I am assistant priest in this great cathedral. I am going to write a book about it. There is so much to write; I learn some new things every day. Let me show you round some of these marvellous things.’
I let him lead me round; not really listening, just saying ‘Yes’ and ‘How curious’ and ‘I see’, stupidly. At last he ran down to a stop. Concern crossed his face. ‘But I’ve done all the talking. I think you wanted to ask me something.’ And he really wanted to know. Suddenly, his face was serious.
I couldn’t start telling him all about my life; he was too happy. But I didn’t want to disappoint him; he so much wanted to help. Then I saw, on one of the pillars, a hymn-board with numerals. Just like the piece of paper in my top pocket. So I got it out.
‘I’m an antique-dealer. I found this in a clock I bought. I’ve been wondering what it is? It’s pretty old.’
He took it, then produced a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from a hidden pocket. Suddenly, he was all scholar.
‘Oh yes. An order of service, written out for the organist. I write them out every day myself. But this is old, as you say. And written by a Dean – look – ‘P. S. Melmerby – Dean’. Why, it is from this very cathedral. Mr Melmerby was Dean from 1817 till 1864. He is featuring largely in the book I am writing! How exciting!’
A sudden hope squeezed my heart. A way out; with profit.
‘The clock I found it in – it’s called the Dean’s clock. Must have come from this cathedral. Would you like to see it? I’ve got it in the car.’
Again, that smile of pure delight. I felt – I swear – a pang of conscience. He was so happy.
‘I would certainly love to see your clock. What an exciting place this cathedral is to work in. Someone shows me a new thing every day! Where is your car, Mr . . .’
‘Watson. Clocky Watson. They call me that because I sell clocks for a living.’
‘Let us go and see your clock then. It must be a fascinating job, selling clocks. I expect you find you always have plenty of time.’ He laughed uproariously at his own feeble joke and, putting his arm around me, led me from the cathedral.
We opened the two rear doors of my car, one from each side. It was full night, now. And although I switched the courtesy-light on, it was very dim inside. I don’t think I’d have dared to strip off the wrappings if he hadn’t been there. The clock glimmered, black and gold, the Devil’s colours, in the semi-darkness. As I pulled off the last wrapping, I joggled it and again it chimed, faintly, janglingly, angrily.
‘That’s one magnificent clock. And I think I’ve seen it before. In one of the old photographs in the Deanery. To think of it coming home like this! Let me just lock up the cathedral, then come to the Deanery and see the photograph.’ He clasped me and hugged me in a transport of excitement.
I drove round to the Deanery; a tall, classical terrace-house behind the cathedral. There was an entrance portico with blackened stone Doric columns, six ill-washed milk-bottles, and a notice pinned to the door saying: ‘Dean at Diocesan Board of Social Responsibility – back at seven’.
‘Would you mind?’ said Eagle. ‘Can we give the Dean a pleasant surprise? On the photograph we have, your clock is standing on the mantelpiece in this very hall. Can we return it there, for half an hour, in all its glory?’
I got the clock from the car gladly, if shakily. His idea went along beautifully with what I had in mind.
‘That looks just magnificent,’ said Eagle, standing back with his hands on his hips and head on one side. ‘Just like the old photograph. Even the chairs are still here. Most of those old Deans were bachelors, and when they died they just left their furniture behind. You’ll like this place, Mr Watson. I’ll bet we’ve got more old things than your shop!’
‘I’d like you to have this clock,’ I said softly, hardly daring to breathe. ‘It seems right it should come home. Of course, I couldn’t just give it to you – I’ve got a living to make. But I got it cheap, and I could pass the benefit on to you. I could let you have it for fifty quid.’
His face was a study. ‘That’s generous. Such a beautiful old clock. But there are so many good causes to give to.’ He looked doubtful. ‘But maybe the Lord will provide.’ The brilliant grin came back on his face. ‘The
Lord will provide for all our rightful needs, Mr Watson. And maybe the Dean’s got something in a fund . . . I’ll go and get that old photograph.’ He streaked upstairs and was back in a second, on his long jubilant legs. And there was the clock in an old sepia photograph, rather blurred and out of focus, but as much its diabolical self as ever. Leaning on the same mantelpiece, head on hand and looking like a repressed Victorian volcano, was the Very Reverend P. S. Melmerby, with that slightly manic look that so many Victorian portraits have: Wagner looking like a madman . . . Gladstone looking damned . . . Freud looking like a demented Jehovah. They say it’s only caused by having to stand perfectly still for twenty minutes while the photograph’s taken, but I’ve always had my doubts. We were still looking at the photo and giggling when the front door opened again, and a squat figure stepped in and wiped his feet very firmly on the doormat.
Most of Eagle’s exuberance dropped away. He said, ‘Good evening, Mike,’ in a subdued tone. Then his high spirits broke through again.
‘Don’t you notice something different, Mike? About the hall?’
The Very Reverend Michael Wilbraham, Dean of Muncaster, took off his threadbare naval duffel-coat, hung it on the back of an Adam chair, and wound his long maroon scarf on top. He gave a sense of weary and disabled power. The lines on his balding face said he’d seen too much, thought too much, been disappointed too often. I just knew that I’d never sell him anything.
‘What’s that thing doing here?’ he asked in an awful voice.
The smile faded from Eagle’s face; he looked like a hurt child. ‘It used to belong here, Mike. It’s in this old photo.’ He held out the photograph hopefully. Wilbraham dismissed it with a curt wave of the hand. ‘I suppose that thing had to turn up again sometime. I just hoped we’d seen the last of it – in my time, at least.’
‘What you mean, Mike?’ Eagle’s voice was querulous.
‘Have you really looked at it, Eagle?’ Wilbraham’s voice was savage with disgust. ‘Have you seen the decoration on it?’ His pale, plump fingers flicked the cloven hoofs and the goat’s head; the obscene frieze of genitals.
Antique Dust Page 4
