by A. M. Howell
“Oh, here you are,” her father said, his footsteps echoing over the bare wooden boards. “Outstanding! Look at this clock, Helena,” he said gazing at the one nearest the door. “It is very rare – from Germany. It would have cost a small fortune. And this next to it – see how the wooden casing at the sides has been replaced with glass so it displays the workings? Look at the cogs and gears. See how the pendulum regulates the force of the weight?”
Helena shook her head and sighed, a familiar feeling of boredom at hearing such details settling over her. She looked at the chair by the door, which faced into the room. Perhaps this was where Mr Westcott sat to admire his clock collection.
Helena wandered to one of the two large windows and noticed a group of young women in beautiful gauzy white dresses who were arriving at the university college in hansom cabs, their hair pulled into elaborate and sophisticated twists and topknots.
“Look, Father,” she said.
Her father joined her at the window. “Ah-ha,” he said with a smile, as they watched the women laughing and adjusting their shawls. “I have a clock-making acquaintance whose father attended Cambridge University. He told me great tales of their escapades in May Week.”
“May Week? But it’s June,” said Helena wrinkling her nose.
“May Week marks the end of the students’ exams; it’s a time for celebration. The university colleges – like the one across the street, which I believe is called Peterhouse – hold balls, extravagant parties, that continue until dawn,” said her father. “It’s odd that May Week takes place in June, I have no idea why.”
“Good evening, Helena, Mr Graham,” interrupted a voice. Stanley was standing in the doorway. “Supper is ready.”
Helena smiled. “Thank you,” she said, glancing at her father, who had become distracted by a clock with gleaming golden finials on its hood.
“Where is your parrot?” Stanley asked.
“In…my room,” Helena replied.
“He must be lonely. Bring him downstairs and he can join us for supper,” said Stanley.
Helena’s cheeks stretched into a smile. “Are you certain? Mr Westcott said he must stay in the cage.”
“Your parrot can’t do any harm in the kitchen,” Stanley said with a grin.
Helena’s smile broadened. Racing back upstairs, she pulled open her bedroom door. She paused, blinked. The night cloth covering Orbit’s cage had been removed and was neatly folded on her pillow. She slowly walked to it and picked it up, her eyes warily scanning the room. Nothing else had changed. Her small silver pocket watch was ticking on the chest of drawers. The clothes she had flung on the bed earlier still lay in a messy jumble.
A tapping sound was coming from inside the cage. Helena kneeled, her heart thumping a little harder than usual. Orbit was contentedly pecking at something that had been tied to the bars. Something that had most certainly not been there when she had left him.
An icy-breathed shiver goosebumped the skin on Helena’s arms. She grasped the bars of Orbit’s cage and stared at the small oval mirror, which had been attached to it with a buttery yellow ribbon. She pulled on the ribbon. It was silky and expensive looking. The mirror was gilt-edged and perfectly rounded in her palm, as if it had been designed for a bird’s cage. She held it up to her face, the puzzlement in her hazel eyes reflecting back at her. Who had put it there? Reattaching the mirror (to Orbit’s delight), she leaped to her feet, strode to the door and peered down the corridor. The electric wall lights flickered and hissed, throwing wobbly shadows onto the floorboards. They did not have electric lamps at home, still relying on the gas lamps that Mother had hated with a passion, due to the frequent black deposits they left on the furnishings and walls. Perhaps electricity was not the advance into modernity that people claimed it to be, for she had heard a terrible tale of a family who threw a cushion at their new spark-spitting electric lamp, only for the fabric to catch alight and the entire room go up in flames.
“Hello?” Helena called, giving the hissing lights an anxious glance and stepping away from them. “Is anyone there?”
A floorboard creaked at the end of the corridor near the stairs, just out of sight. Her skin prickled and her feet seemed to weld themselves to the floor. The clocks began to strike and chime and clamour on the floors below. It was seven o’clock already. Time had slipped by unnoticed.
“Hello, Mother. Hello, Mother. Hello, Mother,” Orbit squawked, his voice making Helena’s insides dissolve into jelly. That was how Orbit used to greet Mother when she entered the room.
Ding-ding-ding-ding.
Bong-bong-bong-bong-bong.
Ting-ting-ting-ting.
She was being watched, she was certain of it. “Hello?” she called again, but her voice was swallowed up by the strikes of the clocks. The shadows at the end of the hallway began to move, turn and evolve into a person-like shape. Helena curled her fingers into her sweaty palms, her heart ricocheting around her chest. A final loud “dong” from the floor below marked the end of the clocks striking. There was another creak and flicker of the wall lights.
“Helena, whatever is keeping you? Stanley is waiting.” Her father. Standing with his hands on his hips at the top of the stairs, a frown knitting his bushy eyebrows together.
Helena let out a long, slow breath. The house’s clocks and shadows were seeping under her skin, causing her to imagine people who weren’t there. She glanced back into her room. But she had not imagined the mysterious new addition to Orbit’s cage. She wondered if she should tell her father of the discovery, but he had already gone, his footsteps retreating hurriedly down the stairs.
The scent Helena had smelled earlier grew stronger as she followed her father down the final set of stairs to the basement kitchen. It was a large room, mirroring the entire footprint of the house above.
“Welcome,” said Stanley, gesturing for them to take a seat at the table.
Helena blinked. Over his shirt (with its sleeves rolled up) and trousers, Stanley was wearing an apron.
“Um…thank you,” her father said, giving Helena a worried glance.
Helena looked around for the cook, for surely Mr Westcott should have an army of servants to help in his grand house with its electric lights, telephone and myriad of clocks? She wondered if the cook had stepped outside, as she watched tendrils of steam rising from a copper pot gently bubbling on the range. Cooking was not a strong point for either Helena or her father. While Father said they could not afford regular help in the home, he did pay Mrs Partridge next door to provide them with one hot meal a day. But the meat stews were often gristly (and not very meaty) and rice puddings lumpy and needing to be forced down with lashings of milk. Helena supposed in a way she was lucky that her father did not expect her to take on the role of woman of the house – for that is what had happened to her friend Jane when her mother had died. She sometimes saw Jane at the school gates with her younger brothers, a shopping basket swinging from an arm and a resigned look on her face, at the way her life had upended and jolted her into a position of responsibility she was not ready for.
Four places were laid at the farmhouse table, which could easily have seated ten people. Helena frowned. Where were the place settings for the chambermaids, the housekeeper and the cook?
“You can put your parrot’s cage on that chair if you like. I take it he likes fruit?” said Stanley, gesturing to a chair. On the table in front of the chair sat a plate of apple slices arranged in a wheel shape. Stanley was a very thoughtful man indeed.
“I’ve made some asparagus soup.” Stanley paused, swallowed. “And fried eels. I must admit, it is the first time I’ve made this dish, but Mrs Beeton says…”
“Oh…Mrs Beeton –” said Helena’s father, looking around the kitchen – “is she Mr Westcott’s cook?”
Stanley grinned and shook his head. He grabbed a thick book lying open on the table and waved it in the air. In his haste, a book lying beneath it fell to the tiled floor with a thump. “Have you not hea
rd of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management? My mother told me about it. The book’s been a big help since Mr Westcott’s cook left to take up a new position. I actually quite like cooking. I find recipes are a little like sums, as long you use the right proportions it mostly works out all right.”
“Oh, I see,” said Helena’s father weakly. “Yes, I do believe my…wife owned a copy of that book.”
Helena walked over and picked up the book which had fallen to the floor. The Principles of Mathematics. She frowned, placed it back on the table. What was this textbook doing in the kitchen? Her thought was pushed away by the sight of a plate of thin, black eels blanketed in white flour. She had never eaten eels before. Her mother had always bypassed them at the fishmonger’s, favouring salted cod fillets instead. Helena swallowed, telling herself firmly it was good to try new things.
“I should probably explain,” said Stanley. “I’ve found myself covering several jobs: butler, cook, gardener, and often housekeeper and, well, everything in addition to my role as a tutor.” Stanley clamped his mouth shut as if he had perhaps said too much.
“But Father said Mr Westcott is very wealthy, so why doesn’t he employ servants?” asked Helena.
“Helena,” whispered her father, his eyes narrowing.
“No, no. It’s a good question,” Stanley said, gesturing again for them to sit. He opened a cupboard and took out a wooden tray. On it he placed a starched-white linen cloth and a single gold-rimmed bowl. He poured some milk from a jug into a glass and placed it next to the bowl. “Things have been difficult here.” He chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully, as if trying to work out how much to tell them. “The staff have all left, you see. Miss Katherine Westcott employed me some months ago, and now I’m the only person left, so I’m trying to keep the house running the best I can, because if I don’t, who will?”
Helena opened her mouth to ask the obvious questions. Why have things been difficult? Why did Mr Westcott’s servants leave? Mr Westcott has no children, so why does he need a tutor?
But before the first letter of the first word could leave her lips, she saw her father was holding up a hand. It meant “stop at once”, and she saw his eyes had the beginnings of a small fire behind them.
Helena closed her mouth and slumped back in her chair. She picked up a slice of apple and fed it to Orbit through the cage bars. It annoyed her greatly that her father thought asking questions in this house was not the done thing.
Stanley bustled around the kitchen, casting frequent glances at his cookery book as he coated the eels in egg and breadcrumbs and began to fry them on the range. While they sizzled and spat, he took the lid off a pot, ladled soup into two bowls and placed them in front of Helena and her father. Helena stared into the bowl. The soup was green and reminded her of an algae-filled pond.
Stanley frowned. “I hope the soup is all right. Mrs Beeton’s recipe said to colour it with spinach juice, and I think I may have added a little too much.”
“It is absolutely…delicious,” said Helena’s father firmly, taking a spoonful and swallowing. “Isn’t it, Helena?”
Helena spooned the watery soup into her own mouth, the taste of spinach somewhat drowning out the asparagus. “Yes, it’s lovely,” she murmured.
Stanley prepared Mr Westcott’s tray of food carefully, arranging a small bunch of rosy red grapes on a side plate. “You might think it a bit strange to see a man doing the cooking; my father certainly isn’t too impressed I’ve taken on this role. But needs must, as they say,” he said.
Helena wondered if perhaps Stanley was content to look after the eccentric Mr Westcott, and live in this bizarre house jammed to the rafters with clocks. But even if this was true, it really was quite bewildering to discover a grand household such as this having no cook or servants.
“I just need to take this upstairs,” Stanley said, picking up the tray, his expression gloomier than before, as if talking about the changes in the house reminded him of things he preferred not to be reminded of.
There was a sudden scuffling noise in the hallway – like something had been dropped and was being retrieved. Stanley’s eyes flickered towards the sound.
Helena saw him swallow, give a shake of his head (a movement so tiny she would have missed it if she had not been watching him). Who was out there? She glanced at her father, but he was busy scraping his bowl clean.
The tray in Stanley’s hands wobbled as he hurriedly left the room.
Helena spooned another mouthful of soup to her lips. It was a little salty, but it was not the worst soup she had ever tasted (that award went to the meat broth dished up at school in winter). She sat back in her chair and wiped her lips on her napkin.
Her father looked up, smiled. “Aside from the unusual colour, this soup is rather good.”
Another sound from the hallway. Urgent whispers.
Helena placed her napkin next to her bowl. “Actually, I don’t think I’m very hungry. May I be excused?” she asked, straining to see round the door.
“Of course,” her father said. “You do look a little pale. You must be weary after the journey. You go to bed. I will feed Orbit his apple and bring him up later.”
Helena gave him a quick smile, pushed back her chair and darted from the room. She could hear Stanley’s feet thumping up the stairs above her head. She was sure she could hear another lighter set of footsteps too. She was about to follow them when something caught her attention, in between an empty coat stand and a cupboard door. A piece of paper about as big as her palm was pinned to the wall. It was another pencil drawing of a flying machine. Even more detailed than the first, the wings and frame of the machine were ruler-straight, the rudder perfectly proportioned. She pulled it off the wall, traced a thumb over the tiny dent in the top of the paper left by a pin. Folding it in two, she slipped it into her pocket, listening to the two sets of footsteps carry on up the stairs to the floors above.
Helena’s father rapped on her bedroom door loudly. “I will see you on the ground floor in twenty minutes. We need to make a start on the clocks before breakfast.” His voice was tinged with excitement.
Helena yawned and sat up in bed.
He knocked for a second time. “Did you hear me, Helena?”
“Yes, Father,” Helena called, rubbing her eyes. It had been a disturbed night, what with the regular chiming of the clocks and the shouts and laughs from students enjoying their post-examination celebrations. She had imagined Cambridge to be a quiet and rather unassuming town and was beginning to realize she may have been mistaken. The clocks downstairs bonged and dinged and tinkled that it was seven o’clock. Reaching under her pillow, Helena pulled out and unfolded the drawing she had found pinned to the basement wall the night before. She traced a thumb over a wing of the flying machine and the rudder. Who had drawn it? Was it the same person who had left the mirror on Orbit’s cage? Stanley had asked her to tell him about any more drawings found pinned to the walls, but she didn’t want to, partly because of Katherine’s instructions, but also because she wanted to discover who was drawing them and why.
Helena glanced at Orbit’s cage, still covered with the night cloth. Climbing out of bed, she tentatively pulled it off, half expecting to see another piece of yellow ribbon – another gift. Orbit regarded her sleepily, but there were no new additions. Her bedroom door did not have a lock. Had she been foolish not to tell her father about the intruder to her room? He would not be pleased to learn someone had been meddling with their possessions. What if the intruder went into her father’s room and broke some of his expensive clock tools? She quickly pulled on a light-blue cotton day dress, her stockings and boots. She could not abide by Katherine’s rule to not speak about something that could put her father’s livelihood in danger.
Helena remembered the way Mr Westcott had looked at Orbit when they had arrived. It had been an odd combination of dislike and something else. Could he have attached the mirror? Could he be doing the drawings? But then again, she had not seen or h
eard him since they had left him in his study the previous afternoon. Even so, there was something eerie about his eyes that she couldn’t put her finger on – like a slow-to-clear mist on a winter’s morning. With a sickening lurch she remembered the contract her father had signed the day before. He had told her not to worry, but how could she not when all of their possessions would be lost if the clocks stopped?
By the time Helena had run downstairs to the ground floor, she was out of breath and agitated by her thoughts. The gold wedding-cake clock on the table in the hall emitted a fast tick-tick-tick in time with her heart that made her feel even more flustered. She stood and stared at it for a second or two. Small gold pots containing glinting jewelled flowers stood in the centre of each tier. It was an exotic and curious clock and looked very expensive.
She heard the creak of a floorboard, a low mutter from the room opposite Mr Westcott’s study. Father? As she approached the door to the study, she slowed. Mr Westcott was inside speaking to someone in a low voice. He began to sound quite agitated. “It’s your final warning, Marchington…no…I will not be commanded to listen. If you do not follow my precise instructions, you will be dismissed,” she heard him say. It was a stilted one-sided conversation, which meant he must be using his telephone. Helena shrank away from the door, the floorboards groaning under her feet. Mr Westcott was clearly not someone to be crossed.
