by A. M. Howell
Boy stared at Helena for a second, as if thinking about what Helena had just said.
“I think it’s jolly sad your mother is not around. You must miss her,” said Helena.
“I do, very much,” said Boy. Her hand smoothed down Orbit’s tail feathers. “Where is your mother?”
“Oh…she…um…she…died,” said Helena.
Boy’s eyes widened.
“It’s all right…really. It was almost a year ago and I am just about growing used to it.”
Boy threw Helena a disbelieving look and pressed her lips together.
Helena sighed. “Well actually, it’s not all right at all. I miss her…every day. Sometimes it’s hard to think of anything else.” Helena swallowed. “But I have Orbit to remind me of her. And I still have Father, even though he spends more time in his clock workshop than at home.”
“Our fathers are similar then,” said Boy glumly.
“Mmm. Maybe,” said Helena, thinking that actually their fathers were quite different, and she would not want to exchange Boy’s icicle-eyed father for her own in a million or more years.
“My father spends most of his time at his printing firm. And when he’s at home he’s…distracted by the clocks,” said Boy, pulling her knees up inside her nightdress and looping her arms around them.
Helena thought of her own father’s lengthy evenings at work back in London, sometimes returning long after she had settled Orbit and gone to bed. Perhaps their fathers were more similar than she had thought.
Boy suddenly sprang to her feet and flung out her arms, whirled around on the spot. “This skeleton-clock room used to be the library. We would all play board games in the evenings in front of the roaring fire. Father and Mother would laugh then.”
“Will you be in the clock rooms tomorrow?” asked Helena, thinking that Boy was rather intriguing, and she would like to get to know her better.
Boy nodded. “Will you?” she asked, giving Helena a shy smile.
“Yes,” replied Helena, giving a warm smile in return. “Well, I suppose I had better get Orbit back to his cage before he causes any further trouble.” As they left the room, Helena stared at the yawning fireplace, the bare walls and floors, the relentlessly ticking clocks. It was hard to imagine this had once been a room filled with laughter and happiness. She was certain something rather terrible had happened to Mr Westcott and his family to make things the way they were now.
Helena glanced again at the chair by the door of the pocket-watch room. Boy had not come to any of the clock rooms that morning. She had said a quiet goodnight to Helena at the top of the stairs the night before and padded back to her room, Helena making a mental note of the door she disappeared behind. What a peculiar name Boy had. It was strange that her mother was in France. Did his wife’s absence explain why Mr Westcott seemed so sad and unbalanced, like he was a pair of scales and too many weights had been placed on one side of his brain? Boy had the same small, sad sapphire-blue eyes as her father. But Helena thought that perhaps they hadn’t always been that way. She could imagine the skin at the edges creasing with laughter quite frequently. Perhaps she could help make Boy smile. It would be nice to have a friend to talk to in this strange house.
“Helena…come quickly,” said her father rather breathlessly from across the room, his clock pliers dropping from his hand to the floor with a thud.
Helena pushed all thoughts of Boy away and turned in a dizzying rush to see her father standing hunched over a table. Perhaps he had found another message from Mr Fox.
“Look at this most marvellous marine chronometer,” he said, beckoning her forward.
“A chronometer,” Helena repeated, her heart slowing to a steadier beat.
“It was hidden in the bottom of the cabinet, an original, made by John Harrison himself. I knew this particular one had been auctioned off by Harrison’s family, but to see it here…in this house…well,” her father said, his eyes hazy.
Helena crinkled her nose. Her father’s voice was charged with emotion. She looked at the object that had captured his attention. Resting in a plain wooden box, it looked like a silver pocket watch that could have belonged to a giant. It was certainly unremarkable compared to some of Mr Westcott’s other fancy clocks. “It’s…nice,” said Helena with a shrug.
“Nice?” Her father’s voice was incredulous. “Don’t you remember me telling you how Harrison solved the mystery of discovering a ship’s longitude at sea – its position to the east or west?”
Helena shook her head. Her father had told her many stories about clocks and watches over the years and they all tended to fade, like rain falling on cobbles on a hot day.
“Thousands of sailors perished before the invention of this device,” her father continued excitedly. “Ships would be dashed to pieces on the rocks or be raided by pirates because they could not chart their position accurately.” He pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and held the clock as if it were fragile and liable to disintegrate in his hands at any moment. “Listen,” he said, holding it to Helena’s ear. “What do you hear?”
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.
“It’s got a fast mechanism,” Helena said, looking at the clock in surprise. “Faster than the other clocks.”
“Yes. Five ticks per second, to be precise,” said her father with a smile. “That is what makes it able to keep accurate time at sea. The mechanism inside this chronometer changed the world. And made John Harrison a wealthy man – he claimed much of the large prize offered by Parliament in 1714 for the first person to solve the longitude problem. Not without a little fuss mind you, but that is a story for another time.”
How surprising, thought Helena, making a mental note to perhaps listen a little more carefully to Father’s stories in the future. It was rather interesting how a clock could change the world so. She glanced at the cabinet of pocket watches and thought again about Mr Fox’s hidden message. It seemed a few of the clocks in this house had interesting stories to tell.
Her father placed the chronometer back in the cabinet and opened a long drawer. He picked up one of the pocket watches lying inside. “Can you reach in and reattach the spring in this watch?” asked her father. “Your fingers are smaller than mine.”
Helena bent over the cogs and wheels. Squinting, she reached inside and slowly refixed the chain.
Her father examined it closely, gave her a nod of approval. “Well done. You are picking things up quickly. It pleases me that you are showing an interest, Helena.”
Despite Helena’s still-rumbling anger at her father, a small glow of satisfaction rolled through her.
“I need to go out for a short while. I must pick up some mechanical parts and pig’s gut from a shop on Regent Street,” her father said, closing the back of the watch.
“I could go,” said Helena eagerly.
“Hmm, I am uncertain as to whether going into Cambridge on your own is a good idea,” her father replied.
“Please, Father. I will be back before you know it and I do so want to see the town.”
Helena’s father stroked his beard, glanced at the window and the weak sun struggling to break through the low cloud.
“We have been here for three days, and it would be nice to take some fresh air. I could complete some of the observation work Miss Jacobs asked me to do while I am away from school.” Helena very much hoped this would do the trick. Father was always so particular about her keeping up with her studies, even though much of the time Helena did not quite see how the lessons would provide her with the skills she required to be a grown-up. Lessons in observation took place at the end of each school day and consisted of writing down the things they could see outside the school window. It was dull work and the observations did not vary much unless there was a change in the weather.
Her father looked a little more convinced. “Well, perhaps Stanley can give you directions…”
“Yes! I shall go and ask him at once,” said Helena, picking up Orbit’
s cage.
Her father smiled wearily, and Helena noticed with dismay the dark smudges under his eyes. “Thank you. It will give me more time to work on these watches,” he said.
Helena returned his smile, swallowing the small burn of guilt. For as much as she enjoyed her father’s praise, she had only one thing on her mind that morning – the message on Mr Fox’s card. An opportunity had presented itself and she needed to pay his Rose Crescent shop a visit to understand exactly what the message hidden in the pocket watch meant.
Helena dragged in a deep breath of air as she walked along Trumpington Street towards Mr Fox’s shop on Rose Crescent. The card she had discovered hidden inside the watch, with its strange message, felt like a hot stone in her skirt pocket. The drawstring cloth bag she carried on her shoulder jiggled. “Shush, Orbit,” she murmured. Mother had made the bag especially for her parrot, lining it with soft midnight-blue velvet and making regular cuts in the fabric for ventilation (and so Orbit could stick out his head and watch the world go by – something he loved to do on the streets of London). He had become a familiar sight at their local parade of shops, people stopping to enquire after his health and encouraging him to talk and sing. Since reading Mr Fox’s warning message, Helena had decided she could not leave Orbit alone in Mr Westcott’s house – even if Father had promised to supervise him. Perhaps the fresh air would be a welcome change for her parrot, stop him from chewing on his feathers, which had been landing on the bottom of his cage with alarming regularity over the past day.
“Hickory-dickory,” Orbit squawked. Two men on bicycles in candy-cane-striped jackets looked and laughed, tipped their straw boater hats to Helena and cycled on.
The hems of Helena’s skirts dipped into the fast-flowing water of an open drain as she crossed the street. The day was dull, drifts of mist obscuring the sun and bringing a chill to the air. But despite this, Helena’s shoulders straightened with relief at being outdoors, after being stuck inside Mr Westcott’s oppressive house.
She glanced at Stanley’s hastily drawn map. She needed to continue down the street past Peterhouse College and King’s College Chapel until she reached the market square. When Helena had asked how she would know when that would be, Stanley had simply said, “King’s College Chapel needs no description, Helena. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“I say, did you know that my rooms at Christ’s College are next to old Charles Darwin’s?” said a young man leaning against the Peterhouse College railings (who sounded like he’d swallowed a plum). “Saw some of his beetle collections – rather extraordinary it was.”
“I heard his son, George, giving an astronomical lecture last term – fascinating chap,” replied his friend, as Helena walked past. Astronomy. Botany. There was so much to know in the world – and it seemed here was the place to learn it. A grand stone-pillared archway guarded the entrance to Peterhouse, and she paused to peer through to a small chapel and a courtyard beyond. The place had a hushed air of tranquillity and privacy about it. It was so different from the London suburbs, where children played out on the street with skipping ropes, and mothers chatted over garden fences while pegging out the washing.
Helena eagerly drank in her surroundings as she walked, the smart tailor’s shop displaying the black gowns and mortar-board caps she had seen students wearing as they hurried between buildings. She watched a horse-drawn tram rumble past, the boards around the top deck advertising soap and coal and carriages for hire for weddings and funerals. A man on the top deck of the carriage stood up and pointed down the street. He was wearing a smart hat. Helena followed his gaze. He could only be pointing at one thing – the enormous buff-coloured, stone building with stained-glass windows. Helena hurried onwards, until she reached a small parade of shops. She stopped under one of the awnings and stared up at King’s College Chapel. London had some magnificent structures – St Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament – but this was a different kind of building altogether. The spires, turrets and glinting windows reaching into the mist made her feel a little dizzy and ant-like. A group of chatting young women carrying bundles of books bumped into her back, nudging her from her daydream.
Orbit squawked. “All fall down. All fall down.”
“Oh, a parrot,” said a tall woman with wayward hair and very straight teeth. “How glorious.”
“Come on, Esther. We need to return these books to the library,” one of the other women said.
Esther gave Helena a quick wave and ran after her friend.
Helena stared after them, remembering the article from the newspaper Mother had read aloud last year. While women could study at Cambridge University and learn about things like natural science and geology, just as Charles Darwin had, they were still not allowed to gain a degree at the end of their studies. How terrible, Helena had thought glumly, while she sucked on a pear drop and played with Orbit.
“It is such a pity that men and women cannot be equals,” her mother had said. “Helena is bright and intelligent and interested in all things. Look at how the world is changing, Isaac. We have electricity and automobiles and people are taking to the skies in these tremendous flying machines. Why should she be denied the same choices as men when deciding what to make of her life?”
“I agree with you, my dear,” her father had answered. “But, sadly, not all people are as forward-thinking as the Clockmakers’ Company. It was only ten years after the Great Fire of London that they took on their first female apprentice.”
Helena’s mother had smiled, glanced at Helena, who was stacking wooden blocks on the floor for Orbit to knock over. “Helena will have more opportunities in her lifetime. I am sure of it.”
Helena knew she wanted more. She felt it deep in her bones and in her whole being. But more of what was the question. She had so many questions that required answers. She certainly did not want to spend the rest of her life wearing pretty dresses and sitting in a dimly lit parlour darning or knitting or painting or doing observational studies – all the things she was hopeless at. But while she did not know what she wanted to do when she was grown up, she felt the sting of this inequality keenly. She knew she could do the same as any boy, and one day she would.
She turned away from the students and pulled out her pocket watch. She needed to hurry; she must not keep Father waiting. She would visit Mr Fox, find out exactly why he had placed that message in a pocket watch of Mr Westcott’s, then collect the clock parts. She was acutely aware that she could not be the cause of the clocks stopping and them losing all of their things. An image sprang into her head of Orbit’s cage swinging in Mr Westcott’s hand, the portrait of her family jammed under his other arm, as he strode off into the setting sun with all of their worldly goods.
With a quick glance at the map, she jammed her hands into her pockets and headed towards Fox’s clockmaker’s shop, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest.
Fox’s Watch & Clockmaker’s shop was built into the curve of Rose Crescent, a half-moon shaped and almost hidden street, which joined the bustling market square. Helena swallowed the onion-sized lump that sprang into her throat as she looked in the shop window. The shop looked deserted. There was no gleaming display of watches and clocks, just a long maroon cloth bearing the imprints of objects that were no longer there.
Since Helena’s mother had died, one of her father’s favourite weekend pastimes was finding new clock shops to visit in London, where he would spend an age examining the contents of the radiant window displays, while Helena fidgeted and yawned.
What had happened to all of Mr Fox’s clocks and watches?
Helena pushed open the shop door and the bell jangled.
Orbit shifted in his bag and his beady eyes blinked. “Three blind mice, three blind mice, snicker.”
“How curious, Orbit,” Helena whispered, stroking his head. The glass display cabinets inside the shop were also empty. The wooden countertop was bare. The door behind the counter was shut. Perhaps she should knock, see if Mr Fox
was out the back? Glancing at the shop door, she noticed something she had not seen when she came in. The door sign looking back at her said “Open”. Which meant the sign on the outside of the door must have said “Closed”. Helena felt a sudden heaviness in her legs. Fox’s Watch & Clockmaker’s was no longer in business.
Making a quick decision, she dipped underneath the counter and rapped lightly on the door behind it. A creaking noise above her head – someone was on the floor above. She knocked again, harder this time. A cough. Not a man’s cough, though, more like a child’s.
Opening the door, she peered up the dark stairs. “Hello. I am looking for Mr Fox. Is he about?” No reply. Another creak of the floorboards. Someone was definitely up there. Why were they not coming down? “Hello,” she called again. “I’ve come from Mr Westcott’s house. I would very much like…to speak to Mr Fox.”
Creak-creak-creak-creak.
Footsteps hurtling down the stairs towards her. A boy of no more than ten stood before her, a wiry figure with a shock of dark hair, clenched fists and nostrils flared as a pony’s. “Go away. We don’t have anything else for you to take,” he said, his voice wavering.
The bag on Helena’s shoulders wobbled and Orbit snickered quietly.
Helena stared at him. “I…just want to speak to Mr Fox.”
“You said you’ve come from Mr Westcott’s,” the boy said, his wide eyes fixed on Orbit’s bag, which was rocking and swaying.
Helena nodded. “Yes…that’s where my father is employed. Like I said…”
“Your father. Is he a clock winder and conservator for Mr Westcott, like my pa was?” the boy asked, taking a step closer. Helena caught a whiff of unwashed clothes and skin and swallowed the urge to pinch her nose.
“Um…yes. He started work there a few days ago. We’re from London and…”
Without warning the boy grabbed her hand, turned and began to pull her up the stairs.
