by A. M. Howell
With the front door firmly shut and Katherine gone, a stocky young man – perhaps no more than eighteen years old – in a tweed suit came thundering down the hallway. His smile caused his cheeks to firm into round apples. His eyes widened at the sight of Orbit in his cage next to Helena’s feet. “What a fine parrot. Male or female?”
“Male,” Helena replied in a small voice. “At least we think so. It’s often difficult to tell with parrots.”
“Does he speak?” said the young man.
“Yes, he does rather,” Helena said, her shoulders relaxing a little.
“Hickory-dickory…” Orbit croaked.
“How wonderful!” the young man said in delight. “Oh, I should introduce myself. I’m Stanley Richards, but please do call me Stanley. I work for the Westcott family.” He stuck out his hand.
Helena stared at it. Was he expecting her to shake his hand? He wasn’t wearing gloves and his fingertips were stained with ink and something that looked a little like chalk. Occasionally Helena had accompanied her father on house visits while he conserved expensive clocks in the smarter parts of London, like Chelsea and Kensington. There, the servants were black-suited and white-gloved, and you placed your calling card on a silver tray to announce your arrival. There was never any question of shaking hands with the staff and calling them by their first name. Stanley looked at her expectantly, gave her a bright smile, which brought a smile to Helena’s lips in return. Maybe things were done differently here in Cambridge. She held out her hand and Stanley shook it firmly, leaving a white powdery residue on her palm.
“And you must be Mr Graham,” Stanley said, turning to Helena’s father. “Welcome to Mr Westcott’s home.”
Helena glanced around the large hallway and wiped her chalky palm on her jacket. It did not seem like a home. Where were the fancy silk-covered chairs, the tall vases filled with sweet-scented flowers, the rugs? Where was the cosy fire crackling in the grate, to take the edge off the early evening coolness? There was nothing here that made the building into a home.
Six dark-wood longcase clocks lined each wall of the wide hallway. They were tall, the ornament-like finials on their hoods almost touching the ceiling. Their pendulums swung rhythmically through small, round lenticular viewing windows like waving hands. At the end of the hall, in front of the cold and yawning fireplace, was a table bearing the weight of a large fourtier, gold pagoda clock, which reminded Helena of a wedding cake. It was emitting a fast tick-tick-tick that made her feel quite breathless. To the right and left were two smaller tables on top of which huddled a few smaller silver and gold carriage clocks. Helena stared at the ghostly imprints on the walls where paintings had once hung, as ticks and tocks and clicks echoed around them. Her father hadn’t brought her to stay in a grand house, he had brought her to a museum crammed to the rafters with clocks.
Helena picked up Orbit’s cage and held it close to her chest as Stanley led them to the stairs, their travelling trunk in his arms. She clenched her jaw and focused on the heels of Stanley’s black shoes. Her eyes smarted. How could her father have promised to come and work here with no end date for their return to London? The way Mr Westcott’s snaky eyes had looked at Orbit sent a shiver down the back of her legs. And the contract he had signed! His sister did not seem too impressed with the arrangement, but there was probably little she could do to persuade him to behave differently.
“What a fine collection of clocks,” Helena’s father murmured as they traipsed upstairs.
Stanley paused on the first-floor landing, wincing as he shifted their heavy trunk. “Yes, Mr Graham. I think there are about one hundred of them. Longcase clocks, carriage clocks, skeleton clocks and that’s not counting the pocket watches.”
“Clocks, clocks, clocks,” piped up Orbit.
“Why did the last clock conservator leave?” asked her father. “I posed the question to Mr Westcott in my correspondence, but did not receive a reply.”
“I’m afraid Mr Westcott doesn’t include me in such discussions,” Stanley replied with a small shrug.
Helena’s father gave Stanley a firm smile. “Well then. You had better show us to our rooms, so I can make a start.”
“What, tonight?” exclaimed Helena. It was almost six o’clock and she was hoping for nothing more than a light supper (and some fruit for Orbit) and a comfortable bed after their journey.
“But of course, Helena. There is no time to waste. I need to make an inventory of the clocks, check their condition, see which ones need winding,” said her father.
“Of course, Mr Graham,” said Stanley continuing up the grand-looking staircase, where ornately carved vines entwined the wooden bannister. He paused, flashed them both a bright smile. “I must say, it’s jolly nice to have you both staying here.”
Stanley’s friendly welcome caused Helena to stifle a small smile of her own, annoyed that her lips could think that smiling at a time like this was a good idea at all. It wasn’t nice at all. It was actually the very worst of days and she could not wait until she was alone with her father so she could make her opinions better known.
Stanley looked up at a large longcase clock, which was emitting a low-level tock. “Oh dear,” he said with a sigh, placing the trunk on the floor with a thump. “Please get ready. The clocks are about to strike the hour.”
Helena and her father exchanged a glance.
They watched as Stanley gave them both an apologetic grimace and clamped his hands to his ears.
Helena glanced again at her father, whose wrinkled forehead indicated he felt as perplexed as she did. Things in this house were just becoming odder and odder by the minute.
The first loud dong came from the clock they were standing next to. Orbit squawked and flapped his wings against the cage bars.
The second, third and fourth dongs drifted up the stairs from behind like smoke.
The fifth and sixth were urgent and high-pitched and came from the floor above.
Then there were too many to count.
Deep dongs and high, flighty chimes.
Cuckoo clocks chirping.
Tinny, plinky-plonk music like the wind-up musical box her father had made for Helena one Christmas.
Stanley had his hands clamped over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut as if the noise pained him.
Helena’s father’s jaw dropped open, his head tilted to the cacophony of sounds as if he was examining each in turn. “They are not all striking in time with one another,” he said above the noise. “That must be rectified at once.”
Orbit lurched from side to side in his cage. “Ding-dong-tick-tock-clocks,” he yelled, his beady eyes wide and scared. “Mother, Mother, Mother!”
“Shush. It’s okay, Orbit,” Helena soothed, even though she felt far from okay.
The last loud “dong” came from the floor above, deeper and grander than all the rest, as if saying “enough”.
Stanley opened his eyes and sighed. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he hoisted their trunk into his arms once more and made his way up the second and third flights of stairs, gesturing for Helena and her father to follow.
“Well,” said Helena’s father. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed as he clutched his toolbox.
Helena was familiar with this particular look. It was often etched on his face when she arrived after school at the clockmaker’s workshop he shared with two other men. His head would be bent over a gold pocket watch, or an elegant brass carriage clock. “You see this, Helena?” he would say. “This is one of the finest timepieces a person could own. Do you see the springs? The porcelain face? The way it keeps the time? Isn’t it wonderful that such an object was imagined and invented!” Helena would smile and wait for her father to finish his latest task, all the while trying to remember the last time he had spoken about her in such an affectionate way.
At the very top of the house a small landing opened onto corridors to the left and right. It was gloomier up here, the windows smaller, the walls
painted rather than papered, the wooden skirting boards scuffed.
“Mr Westcott’s rooms are along the corridor to the left,” Stanley said. “Your rooms are to the right.”
“Mr Westcott sleeps in the…servants’ quarters?” Helena’s father said in surprise.
Stanley shrugged. “The clocks occupy all of the other rooms.”
“All of them?” Helena said, her eyes widening.
“Every. Single. One,” Stanley said with a heavy sigh.
A window on the landing was open and a breath of air curled around Helena’s neck. A noise, like paper fluttering in a breeze, tickled her ears. Stanley and her father appeared not to have heard it, so busy were they talking about mealtimes and the running of the house as they made their way down the corridor to the right. Helena glanced in the direction of the sound. There – pinned to the wall just above head height at the entrance to the other corridor.
It was a drawing, but she was too far away to see what it was. Placing Orbit’s cage down, she darted across the landing and stood on tiptoes to look at the picture. Lines and angles and wings. It was a detailed pencil drawing of a flying machine. She traced a finger along the line of a wing, thought about the photographs she had seen in the London Herald newspaper of the Wright brothers’ machine. This drawing was almost identical.
A slim hand reached above Helena’s head and pulled the paper from the wall. The pin fell to the floor. Stanley’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the drawing, then he carefully folded it three times and pushed it into his jacket pocket.
“I’m sorry,” Helena said, her face feeling warm. “It was on the wall and I wondered…”
“Wondering is good,” Stanley said softly.
Helena looked at him blankly. Whatever did he mean?
Stanley pulled out an ink-stained handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I really am pleased you and your father have come to stay.” As he turned to walk away, he paused, looked back. “If you happen to see other drawings pinned to the walls, please let me know and I’ll remove them.”
Helena remembered Katherine’s instructions not to speak of anything they heard or saw in the house. Should she do as Stanley asked? She blinked, her head spinning a little. The multitude of striking clocks. The new house. Drawings pinned to walls. She suddenly felt untethered, as if she herself was in one of the Wright brothers’ great flying machines, taking off on a journey somewhere unknown, and she didn’t like it one little bit.
Helena’s thoughts rolled around in her head like marbles as she and her father explored their new accommodation in the servants’ quarters of the town house. “Why did you agree to Mr Westcott’s demands?” she asked her father hotly, now that they were alone. Her room was sparsely furnished – a single bed with a pink bedspread, a chest of drawers beside it and a window overlooking Trumpington Street. There was an even more impressive view of the university college from up here, the assortment of buff stone and red-brick buildings giving off an air of quiet importance.
Father unpacked their leather trunk, passing Helena a bundle of summer day dresses, skirts and blouses (badly folded and creased) and two well-worn knitted cardigans with patches on the elbows.
“I just don’t understand,” Helena persisted, depositing the clothes unceremoniously on the bed. “Why would you promise that horrid man all of our things? Why must the clocks not stop?”
Helena’s father lifted his head. “It is not for us to question the decisions of others,” he said firmly.
“It is when we could lose everything,” Helena said, anger wobbling her voice. “Did you see the way Mr Westcott looked at Orbit? He was like…a lion about to pounce on a zebra! If the clocks stop, he will take him from us.”
Helena’s father sat back on his heels and barked out a laugh. “My dear, do not worry. Orbit is safe, as are all of our things. Mr Westcott is one of the wealthiest men in the region, if not the country. He could afford to buy one thousand parrots if he so wished. This is an opportunity for us, Helena. It is a chance for us to try and move forward with our lives.”
Helena’s eyes dropped to the floor. She knew they had to move forward. But the very act of moving away from the past seemed to mean it was closer to being forgotten.
“This clock contract is rather unusual, but I am almost certain it would be null and void if looked over by a solicitor. But there is no need for us to waste precious expense having it examined, for I shall work on the clocks and they will not stop. You have nothing to worry about,” her father said, taking out the last of her clothes from the trunk and closing it.
Helena sat on the edge of the bed and picked at a loose thread on the bedspread.
“Jack and Jill. Pail of water. Squawk!” said Orbit, pecking at the cage bars.
Helena’s father perched on the bed beside her. “I know Mr Westcott appears slightly…eccentric. And that some of his ideas are a little peculiar. But there really is no need to worry. We will keep the clocks ticking and make a small fortune during the time we are here. This will change our lives, Helena…imagine, one day, a clockmaker’s workshop of our own,” he said, his lips tilting into a smile. “My good friend Mr Smith, who owns a clock factory in Clerkenwell, says he will help me locate a suitable property in the city. It will be a fresh start for us all when we return to London.”
“But why does Mr Westcott collect all of these clocks? And he lives in the servants’ quarters – isn’t that a little unusual?”
Her father sighed. “That is enough now, Helena. No more questions please – it is important we are not intrusive and impolite while we are here. Tomorrow morning I will need you to assist me. There are more clocks in Mr Westcott’s collection than I thought – and I fear I shall need some help. The longcase clocks will need winding every eight days. The smaller clocks and watches will need attention every day or so. We need a comprehensive list of what needs doing and when.” And just like a pail of water being poured over a flickering flame, their conversation was extinguished.
Helena’s father stored the empty trunk under her bed and returned to his own room for his notebook and tools. “I must go and examine at least one room of clocks before we have supper, discover what our work will entail,” he said, so distracted that he closed the door behind him without even saying goodbye.
“Hickory-dickory clocks,” Orbit snickered, bending to pull a sunflower seed from his brass pot and nibbling on it.
Helena poked a finger through the cage bars and stroked his blue-green tail feathers.
“Mother-Mother-Mother,” Orbit cawed (somewhat hopefully Helena thought).
Helena bit down on her bottom lip, glanced at the door. She heard the sound of her father’s footsteps thudding down the landing towards the stairs. “Mother loves Helena. Mother loves Helena,” she whispered to the parrot. Orbit regarded her for a second and ruffled his neck feathers. “Mother loves Helena. Mother loves Helena,” she repeated softly.
“Mother-loves-Helena-Mother-loves-Helena, hickory-dickory squawk!” Orbit replied, swaying from side to side in time to the words he had been taught.
His voice and words sent an arrow into Helena’s chest and tears smarted her eyes. She knew she was foolish. Coaxing Orbit to repeat phrases that her mother had lovingly spent hours teaching him was like prodding an open wound. But she must not let Orbit forget. When he spoke, it brought back clear-as-day memories of the parrot standing proudly on the arm of the easy chair in the parlour, while her mother smiled and cajoled and taught her bird to talk and sing nursery rhymes. “I sometimes feel like this beautiful parrot is part of my own being,” her mother would say softly, feeding Orbit slices of apple as he nuzzled her palm.
Helena sat back on her heels and rubbed her weary eyes. She was trying her best to move on, as Father was so clearly managing to do. But how could she fully do that when she was terrified of Orbit forgetting everything Mother had taught him? It would be like losing Mother all over again and that would be just too hard to bear.
Just after six-thi
rty that evening, Helena covered Orbit’s cage with his brown and green patchwork night cloth (To remind him of the treetops, Mother had said as she’d stitched it together) and re-traced her steps downstairs. A smell wound its way upwards that made her stomach growl. She paused and sniffed. Something fresh and light. At least Mr Westcott employed a decent cook – that would make their stay a little more bearable. She paused on the second floor and peered round each half-opened door. Stanley had not been exaggerating when he said clocks occupied every room in the house. Her eyes widened at rooms that had been stripped of their furnishings and the sounds of the ticks and tocks and clicks and clunks of the clocks, which had replaced them. Lantern clocks (which looked like their name); tables loaded with carriage clocks (small and box-like with a carrying handle on top); skeleton clocks (with a glass dome cover so their cogs and springs and working mechanisms were visible to all) and table clocks (which had short pendulums, allowing them to stand on a surface). And overshadowing them all was the enormous collection of longcases, which, judging by their number, seemed to be Mr Westcott’s favourite type of clock. They were like free-standing towers, long pendulums swinging in the main bodies of the cases, their hoods enclosing the clock faces.
Helena walked into a room of eight longcase clocks. Purple wisteria-patterned wallpaper peeked out between them. She supposed the room had once been a bedroom, a very fine one by the looks of things. Helena paused in front of each clock. Their dark wooden cases were polished to a high shine. The outsides of the clocks were well cared for, that much was apparent. The pendulums were all swinging in different rhythms, the tick-tocks spilling over each other into a muddle of noise. The largest in the room was a clock with an ordinary brass face, but above it was an arched dial, which rotated to show the phases of the moon. Except the two painted moons were not like the one in the sky, they were grotesque childish faces with too-close-together piggy eyes, rouged cheeks and pursed, rosebud lips. The same face had been painted onto the pendulum bob, which swung back and forth through the lenticular window, as if it was playing an eerie game of peek-a-boo. It was hypnotic and horrible at the same time. Helena shivered. Why had Mr Westcott filled a bedroom full to bursting with mechanical things? She was no stranger to the idea of obsession. Her father loved his work with a passion that had only increased since her mother died. This did not anger Helena, more caused a ball of disbelief to sit heavy in her stomach. It was plain to her that he loved things made out of wood and metal more than his own flesh and blood family. Maybe that was why her father seemed so sympathetic to Mr Westcott’s demands?
