by A. M. Howell
“Hey,” Helena said sharply. “Let go of me this instant.” She twisted her arm, trying to loosen his hold, but the boy’s grip was too firm and he yanked her up two more of the steps.
“Squawk, squawk, squawk,” yelled Orbit in alarm.
Helena clawed at the wall with her free hand to stop herself from spiralling down the stairs and landing in a very inelegant heap at the bottom, injuring herself and Orbit. But the boy kept on pulling her forward until they reached the top of the stairs.
It was there that Helena finally shook herself free and quickly checked on Orbit. His feathers were ruffled and his bead-like eyes regarded her with indignation. Helena knew how he felt. She plonked her hands on her hips and glared at the boy. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just go around grabbing a girl’s hand and…oh…” Her words caught in her mouth. To the left of the stairs was a small room. On the floorboards, under a large Georgian window were huddled two small, hollow-cheeked girls, both with the same straight black hair as the boy. One girl was sucking her thumb, the other sat with her back to the wall, her knees hugged to her chest.
“My sisters,” the boy said limply. Helena glanced at him. His eyes were watery. It was as if the fight and strength he had shown her downstairs had suddenly been sucked away. “I’m Ralph,” he said in a low voice. “Ralph Fox.” He fiddled with his shirt collar. It was missing a button.
Helena looked from him to his sisters and back again, a terrible thought worming its way into her gut. “Your father is Mr Fox?” she said hesitantly.
Ralph nodded.
“He…worked for Mr Westcott?”
Ralph nodded again.
One of the girls began to cry quietly. “Mama!” she said through her tears. “When is she coming back?”
Ralph walked over to her, kneeled down and wiped her face with his shirtsleeve. “When she’s got some food and found us somewhere to live,” Ralph said softly. “Don’t worry, Hettie. She won’t be long.”
Helena’s heart kicked hard in her chest. The room was empty – there was nothing except a metal pail of water in the corner and two tin cups. “Is this your home?” she asked.
“Used to be,” said Ralph, his voice loaded with misery. “Until we lost all of our things.”
“Lost them?” Helena said, thinking of the contract she was not supposed to mention.
“Well…not lost. Mr Westcott took them. The clocks stopped and he took everything from us. All the furniture, our pictures – even the ugly one of our dead aunt who nobody liked. He took all of Pa’s clocks and tools too. Everything is gone, including young Mr Phillips who worked as Pa’s assistant in the shop. Pa can’t even make a living now. He borrowed money to rent this shop. And for his equipment. He borrowed and borrowed and it was going to be all right, because Mr Westcott was going to pay him a small fortune for keeping the clocks ticking and Pa could have paid off his debts. But now it’s all gone wrong and we have nothing.”
“But…but…when did this happen?” asked Helena, fear gripping its icy fingers around her heart.
Ralph’s shoulders sagged. “A few weeks back. You said your pa is working for Mr Westcott now?”
Helena nodded.
“Did Mr Westcott make him sign any papers? Pa is spending all his days at Mr Westcott’s solicitor’s office, trying to get these papers terminated, I think the word was.”
Helena brought her hands to her flaming cheeks. Mr Westcott had made Ralph’s father sign a contract too. And the clocks had stopped and now they had nothing. She clutched Orbit’s bag a little tighter and thought of her father waiting for the clock parts she was to collect, which would allow him to disappear back into his world of mending and maintenance.
Ralph’s face twisted in anger. “You need to leave that house of clocks. Right now. Don’t wait for the clocks to stop, for they will. My pa looked after them proper well. He is…was…the best clockmaker in Cambridge and everyone knows it. He was so good, Ma never needed to work. She says she regrets that now.”
“Clocks-clocks-clocks,” snickered Orbit.
Helena looked at Ralph in horror. She pulled the small card from her coat pocket, held it out to him. “I found this…hidden in a watch.”
Ralph took it from her. “Pa’s writing,” he said, with a sniff. “It was a warning. But looks like it came too late. The clocks will stop for you too. Mr Westcott will take all of your things and you will end up in the workhouse on Mill Road – just like we probably will.”
The chill of the eddying mist. The shouts and cries of market sellers. The chatter of university students. The ring of bicycle bells. Orbit’s gentle snickers and squawks and nibbles on her coat sleeve. Helena noticed none of these things as she left Ralph and his sisters. Her head pulsed in time with her footsteps as she walked. Her father was as good a clockmaker and winder as Mr Fox, she was sure of it. But the clocks had stopped for Mr Fox despite his best efforts. Whatever had Mr Westcott done with the Fox family’s possessions? How could he have left them with nothing? Those hungry little girls sitting on the floorboards. Ralph was right – they would end up in the workhouse if their father and mother had no means of providing food or making a living. If Mr Fox had been in debt, the well-paid clock conservator position at Mr Westcott’s house must have seemed like the answer to all of his problems. But his plan to make money had backfired in the most dreadful way.
Helena and her father occasionally walked past the workhouse close to where they lived in London. Her eyes would be drawn to the red-brick building, which reminded her of newspaper pictures she had seen of industrial mills in the north, tall and forbidding. Helena knew that to end up in a workhouse was something to be avoided at all costs. It was a last resort for the poor and homeless, even though it provided them with a roof to sleep under, regular meals and clothes. But in return people were expected to work long, tedious hours. They would hear the sounds of men in the yard, chopping wood, crushing stone – hard physical labour that would earn them just enough money to stay there. Tendrils of steam would rise from the open windows as women washed and scrubbed in the laundry. “Those people in there have fallen on hard times indeed,” her father would say sadly. “There must be nothing worse for a person’s self-esteem and health than ending up in the workhouse.”
Helena’s heart began to sink into her boots as she finally walked up the steps to Mr Westcott’s town house. The building loomed above her like a grumpy giant, its many windows glaring at her as a sudden burst of raindrops hit the ground. Her hand was reaching up for the brass door knocker, when a flash of pain hit the back of her right calf. “Ouch,” she said, bending to rub her leg. What had just happened? She swivelled, saw a boy of about her age standing by a box hedge near the bottom of the steps, then glanced down at a medium-sized pebble lying beside her right boot.
“Did you throw that at me?” Helena asked incredulously, bending to pick it up. The pebble was warm in her hand, as if it had been held in someone’s fist for a while.
The boy was standing rod straight, but Helena thought she saw his chin wobble. His shoes were polished to a high shine and his shirt collar was starched and white as a snowdrop. He didn’t dress like the type of street boy who hurled pebbles at strangers.
Helena took a step forward. “I said, did you throw that pebble?”
Orbit popped his head out of the cloth bag at the exact same moment the boy whipped another pebble from his pocket and hurled it in Helena’s direction. She ducked, and instead of hitting her or the parrot, the pebble hit Mr Westcott’s grey front door with a dull thud.
Helena’s skin bristled with indignation as the patter of rain intensified.
The boy took another pebble from his pocket and hurled it over Helena’s head. It bounced off the door and down the steps, narrowly missing Orbit.
“Listen here. You stop that right now…” shouted Helena, running down the steps towards the boy.
“Squawk, squawk, squawk,” cawed Orbit. “Pop goes the weasel, Mother, Mother, squaw
k!”
“Miss Graham!”
Helena froze. The boy’s face paled and he turned and began to sprint down the street.
Helena turned. Mr Westcott’s hands were clenched into fists by his sides, his face even greyer than usual. She felt a burst of hot indignation at the terrible way he had treated Ralph and his family. “Master Terence,” she heard him whisper under his breath, peering after the boy.
Orbit snickered. “Hello. Hello. Pretty bird. Clocks-tick-tock.”
Helena gulped, held Orbit closer to her chest. “That boy. He was throwing pebbles at your door.”
“I know,” interrupted Mr Westcott. He bent to gather the pebbles from the ground, curling them into his fist so hard that Helena was amazed they didn’t crumble into dust.
A lady and gentleman taking an afternoon stroll gave them a lingering and curious glance from underneath their umbrella.
Helena followed Mr Westcott’s gaze to the boy’s disappearing head. The words which curled from Mr Westcott’s lips reminded her of petals falling from flowers. “My poor Boy.”
Helena’s brain spun in confusion. What did Mr Westcott’s daughter have to do with this pebble-throwing child?
Mr Westcott turned and walked back into the house. Helena was about to walk up the steps after him when she noticed that the boy had stopped running, was looking up at an enclosed carriage which had stopped at the side of the road, the horse bowing its head and stamping its hooves as the rain teemed down. She saw a gloved hand appear from a window, and drop something glittery into the boy’s open palm. The boy gave a tense and wavering smile to the person in the carriage, balled his hand into a fist and sprinted off, the rain chasing him down the street. What a curious afternoon, thought Helena. The mysteries in this house were increasing by the day and she was more determined than ever to solve them.
After returning Orbit to his cage, and hanging up her wet jacket to dry, Helena sat back on her heels and rubbed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to lie down, pull the bedspread over her head and think over all the strange things that had happened that day. For some reason, the clocks had stopped when Mr Fox worked here. Her father thought the clock-winding contracts he and Mr Fox had both signed would be null and void if checked over by a solicitor. But, that seemed to be wrong. From what Ralph had told her, Mr Westcott’s solicitor had in fact enforced that contract and taken away the Fox family’s possessions.
There was a rap on her door. “Helena?” Her father poked his head into the room. “I was beginning to worry you had got lost in the rain! I must have the clock parts you went to collect. One of the table clocks is behaving in a peculiar fashion. Please bring them downstairs at once.”
Helena’s normally whirring brain was as blank as a wiped-clean school slate as she followed her father. The clock parts! She had forgotten to go to Regent Street to collect them. She had been so distracted by her walk into town and from her encounter with Ralph. How to explain she did not have the parts? She did not want to speak of the Fox family to her father – for she knew it would divert him from his job. And it suddenly dawned on her with the clarity of a sunrise what an important job it was. Their whole livelihood depended on it.
Helena started at the sight of Boy sitting silently on a chair near the door as she walked into a room lined with tables bearing the weight of carriage and table clocks. She gave Helena a tiny smile. Boy’s blonde hair was cut neatly, suggesting the hands of an experienced hairdresser. It made Helena reach up to run her fingers down the length of her own loosely curled ponytail. What must it feel like to have such short hair? It would be cool in the heat of summer, but chilly in the winter. Did people stop and stare at her on the street, treat her as a curiosity? A thought occurred to her. Perhaps that was why the horrid boy outside had been throwing pebbles at the front door and why Mr Westcott had felt sorry for Boy. Everyone knew that looking different singled a person out from the rest, drew attention when it might not be wanted. Which must mean there was a strong and important reason for Boy to dress differently – a reason she believed in.
“The package please, Helena,” her father said, turning to face her.
Helena’s mouth felt dry as sand. “Um…I…don’t have it,” she said, her arms limp by her sides.
Boy’s eyes flickered to Helena and stayed there. Helena’s father straightened his back, let out a mountainous sigh. “Why ever not?”
“I…got lost…I mean…I lost the map Stanley drew me…and I couldn’t find the clockmaker’s shop,” Helena added, heat rising up her back.
“How could you possibly get lost? Regent Street is but less than a mile from here. Did you not think to ask a passer-by for directions?” A sudden tightness stretched her father’s face into a shape she didn’t quite recognize. Helena knew he wanted to throw a few sharp words in her direction, but did not dare because Boy was there observing. She felt Boy’s eyes settle on her now. The bud of friendship blooming between them was new and delicate. In Helena’s eyes, reliability was an important character trait to seek in a friend and she had just proved herself to be the opposite. A flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks and she looked at her boots. “I’m sorry, Father. I…I will go tomorrow and collect them.”
“That may be too late. It is half an hour until the clock inspection. I just hope Mr Westcott doesn’t look too closely at this particular clock. I am disappointed in you, Helena,” her father said with a heavy sigh.
Boy stood up abruptly, clattered from the room and went upstairs.
Helena looked after her, wished herself so small she could disappear under the floorboards and away from her father’s terrible disappointment.
At ten minutes to six precisely, Mr Westcott stood at the door to the carriage and table-clock room with his sister. Katherine was holding a black umbrella, which was dripping rivulets of water onto the floorboards in the hall. Her jasmine scent wafted into the room ahead of her. “What an unseasonable summer we are having. Now…where is that darling niece of mine?” she said.
“I’m here,” said Boy, looking at her father. Helena’s eyes widened. Boy’s shirt, trousers and boots had been replaced with a cloud-white lacy dress and stockings. A red, satin Alice band pulled her short hair back from her face. Her white leather shoes had been buffed to a high shine.
Mr Westcott glanced at his daughter, his eyes blinking furiously. Then he looked away.
Boy’s lips thinned as she continued to stare at her father, her eyes seeking something from him that Helena did not understand.
“Look at your daughter, Edgar. Doesn’t she seem well?” Katherine glanced at her brother, who had walked over to the wooden table clock, which Helena’s father had said needed a new part. The part she had forgotten to pick up. She bit her bottom lip hard.
Mr Westcott bent his ear to the clock and frowned. “The tick of this clock…it sounds…lighter than normal. It…it…won’t stop, will it?” Mr Westcott’s cheeks looked as grey as steel.
Katherine sighed loudly, fiddled with the clasp on her umbrella.
“Mr Westcott let me assure you…no clock in this house is in danger of stopping,” Helena’s father said, the wobble of his chin betraying the confidence in his voice.
Helena swallowed.
“You are certain of this?” Mr Westcott asked, turning his gaze to Helena’s father.
Helena’s father clasped his hands together and nodded vigorously.
Mr Westcott’s eyes had a faraway look in them as he stared at the table clock’s unusual face, the series of rings showing the phases of the moon and signs of the zodiac. “It is said that this clock once belonged to Sir Isaac Newton,” he murmured.
A gasp of surprise flew from Helena’s father’s mouth.
“Newton formulated the law of gravity. He was a man of science and logic…attributes to be greatly admired,” Mr Westcott whispered. He stood up, turned to face them. His face was bleached of colour. “Please hear me when I say none of the clocks or watches in this house can stop. Ever. If they d
o…” He paused, rubbed at his neck.
Helena silently willed him to continue. Why must the clocks not stop? She just did not understand it. What was Mr Westcott scared of?
“Oh, Edgar…really. Why must we endlessly talk about these clocks of yours?” said Katherine. With a flick of the wrist she opened her umbrella and shook it out, droplets of water scattering like liquid diamonds.
“Katherine!” The shout from Mr Westcott’s lips boomed around the room.
Boy leaped backwards.
Helena’s father stumbled into a table, shaking the clocks that stood on it.
Helena grabbed her father’s arm.
Katherine dropped her umbrella on the floor with a thump.
Mr Westcott strode to his sister and picked up the fallen umbrella, his fingers fumbling to close it.
“I’m…sorry…I didn’t…” His sister’s cheeks flushed a rosy pink as she struggled to find words to explain herself.
Mr Westcott’s eyes were glowering. His grey cheeks had taken on a slightly green hue, as if overcome with seasickness. “Never do that in my house again,” he said through gritted teeth, striding from the room, water droplets dripping in his wake from the umbrella.
Boy and Helena exchanged worried glances.
Katherine pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the corners of her watery eyes.
Helena’s father took a step towards her. “Do not worry, Miss Westcott. A few water droplets will not damage the clocks.”
Katherine pushed her handkerchief up her sleeve, sniffed an elegant sniff and gave Helena’s father a thin smile. “It is not the clocks I am worried about,” she said tightly, glancing after her brother.
Helena picked up a cloth from her father’s toolbox, bent to wipe up the drops of water from the floorboards.
Katherine’s forehead crinkled. “No, no, no. Please stop.” She beckoned for Helena to stand up. She tipped Helena’s chin upwards with a gloved hand. The leather was so soft, Katherine’s fingers felt lighter than a whisper on her skin. “Your role in life is not to clean up after others. Do you understand?” Katherine’s voice and face were suddenly quite fierce, like a lioness protecting her cubs.
