by A. M. Howell
“Um…I’m sorry…yes,” Helena said, bunching the cloth into her fist. Whatever did Katherine mean? At home she might not have to do the cooking, but she had taken on her mother’s role of washing, changing the sheets and cleaning the floors. How else were things to get done?
“The same applies to you,” Katherine said, glancing at Boy, who had scrunched her nose and was looking rather puzzled. Katherine let her fingertips fall from Helena’s chin, took the cloth from her hand and bent to wipe up the water herself. She straightened her back and passed the wet cloth to Helena’s father, who was clearly unnerved by Katherine’s actions. She peeled off her damp gloves and smoothed her skirts. “Right. As my brother is clearly feeling unwell this evening, perhaps you will be so good as to show me the rest of the clocks, Mr Graham?”
Helena’s father placed the cloth in his toolbox, clasped his hands together. “Yes…yes of course, Miss Westcott. It would be my pleasure.”
“Perhaps we could start…in the longcase-clock room? I would very much like to see the mechanisms, check all is well. I do find it quite fascinating…seeing how they are wound.”
Helena’s father nodded vigorously and gestured for Katherine to lead the way as the chimes, strikes, bongs and clangs of the clocks marking the hour echoed through the house.
Katherine flashed Helena and Boy a dazzling smile, her skirts swishing like leaves in an autumn wood as she left the room.
What an odd evening, Helena thought. Mr Westcott seemed even more erratic in his behaviour. And poor Katherine, how perfectly horrid to have a brother who shouted like that – just because of a little water. Poor Boy too. Could that be why her mother was taking an extended holiday abroad? Perhaps she could help Boy send a message to her mother, tell her she should return home at once. Boy should not be living in this house alone with her father. Helena was beginning to think Mr Westcott was going quite mad.
Helena heard the slam of the front door echoing from beneath her window as she got ready for bed. Peeping between her curtains, she watched Mr Westcott step into a carriage, just as he had done a few nights before. She watched the horse clip-clop off into the gloom. Why did he feel the need to go on these night-time trips? Perhaps, if he spent less time going out and more time with Boy, they would both be happier.
Helena kneeled down and unfolded the night cover for Orbit’s cage. She stroked her parrot’s neck through the bars. “This is rather an unhappy home, Orbit. I fear it is pulling Father away from us…and I don’t like it one bit.” Orbit snickered gently. “Mother would not have let this happen,” whispered Helena.
“Mother loves Helena. Mother loves Helena,” said Orbit arching his neck into Helena’s fingers. Her mother’s bright and breathy laugh filled the small room, squeezing the air from Helena’s lungs. She closed her eyes and sat back on her heels, her throat aching. She and Mother skipping along the pavements to meet Father at his workshop.
“People are looking at us,” Helena had said breathlessly.
“Let them look,” her mother had said, her laugh as bright as the sun. “What is the point in being alive if we can’t do joyful things like skipping?”
Helena had laughed with her, grasped her mother’s hand tighter and ignored the tuts and stares from the other pedestrians as they careered along the city streets.
Helena wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her nightdress, said goodnight to Orbit and gently covered his cage. She placed her arms around it, lay a cheek on the cloth and felt the gentle vibrations of Orbit settling for the night. She had a sudden fierce wish for her father’s arms to pull her into an all-encompassing hug and to breathe in the smell of clock oil, which followed him around like a faithful dog. But she did not dare ask him. He would not appreciate such a frivolous request while lost in his mechanical world. It suddenly seemed more urgent than ever to find out where Boy’s mother was. She might just hold the key to mending the things that had gone wrong in this strange house. When Boy and her father were in the same room, her father behaved as if she wasn’t there. Why was that? She wondered whether Boy knew her father had taken away the Fox family’s worldly possessions. She somehow thought that if Boy did know the Fox family were heading for the workhouse, she would be as keen to help them as Helena was.
After her father had extinguished his light, Helena crept down the corridor to Boy’s bedroom. She paused halfway down, noticing that another flying machine picture had been pinned to the wall beneath a flickering electric light. Although this one was more of a diagram, with all the parts of the machine labelled. Wings. Propellers. Rudders. Motor. Who was it intended for? Boy’s door was slightly ajar, the light off, but the sound of soft voices spilled from beneath the closed door at the very end of the corridor. Helena crept forward, this time placing her ear against the wooden door, which gave a gentle creak as she leaned against it. There seemed little point in pretending to loiter, catching a word here and there. There were things happening in this house that demanded answers and perhaps being bolder was the only way to find them out.
The door opened with a jolt and she fell into the room, landing on her knees with a thump.
“Oh,” she said, heat rising up her back.
Stanley looked down at her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his face was bright and excited.
“Helena,” he said in a hushed voice. “How nice of you to join us.” He said it as if she had been invited to a tea party, seemingly unaware of the exceedingly late hour. Except Helena had not received an invitation and there was no tray of cups and slices of cake to be seen.
Helena stood up in a rush, blood pulsing through her head. She was in a room full of books. Books placed on top of books lined all four walls, almost to the ceiling. But they weren’t only stacked along the walls, they were also placed in shoulder-height rows that marked out the room like a giant chessboard. Helena stood on tiptoes and saw that in the centre there was a space large enough for a small, free-standing blackboard, two chairs and a wooden school desk. Boy was sitting at the desk, her eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Please could you close the door, we don’t want to disturb the rest of the house. Come on, mind the books as you walk,” said Stanley, gesturing for her to follow him.
Helena quietly clicked the door shut and wound her way through the maze of books to the centre of the room, accidentally nudging a volume or two with her elbow (and desperately yanking them back into place, afraid that if she didn’t the whole room would collapse around her, like an over-sized game of dominoes).
Boy was looking up at Stanley expectantly. He had hurried back to the blackboard and now stood in front of it. Written on the board were what looked like rows of mathematical equations in neat cursive handwriting. Scattered on the floor around it were reams of screwed-up balls of paper.
Helena frowned, thinking that the instructions to not speak of unexpected things seen in the house should now be disregarded entirely. “Why…are you giving Boy lessons so late at night?”
Stanley picked up a cloth and wiped the right side of the blackboard until the equations had vanished. He flapped the cloth, filling the air with clouds of chalk dust.
Helena coughed.
Stanley ignored Helena’s question and asked one of his own. “Can you keep a secret? I think you might be able to, or Boy wouldn’t trust you quite so much.”
Helena glanced at Boy, a small knot of pleasure winding into her. Boy’s trust sounded like something valuable and worth having. “Yes…I can keep a secret,” she said. Though the only secrets she had been asked to keep before were for things like birthday surprises or Christmas presents. She had a strong sense that the secrets in this house would be quite different. Her palms were slick with perspiration and she wiped them on her nightdress.
Stanley cleared his throat, glanced at Boy.
Boy gave him a small nod.
“As you know, I was employed some months ago by Miss Westcott as a tutor. Teaching Boy is a delight. She displays ability for a wide range of s
ubjects. She’s particularly good at the subject of engineering – especially the aeronautical variety which is one of my special interests.” Stanley gave Boy a proud glance, like a parent would to a child.
Boy smiled a wide-mouthed smile that Helena had not seen before. It changed the shape of her face into something bright and star-like.
Stanley’s voice hardened. “Times are difficult in the Westcott household following the departure of the remaining members of staff.”
Helena thought of Stanley’s well-thumbed copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. She realized at that moment what an enormous role he had taken on in this house, tutoring Boy and trying to fill in for the staff who had left.
“But I’m determined that despite my other rather unexpected but necessary household duties and the need to keep up with my own studies, Boy shall still receive the education that I was appointed to deliver. She’ll achieve wonderful things – just as her aunt wishes.” Stanley pointed to the blackboard. “We’ve been working together in the evenings on the principles of flight. You’ve heard of the Wright brothers and their flying machines?”
Helena nodded, thinking of the pictures she had found pinned to the walls.
“Just like my father’s work with automobiles, this subject, the designing of flying machines, is new and bold. Imagine the wings of a bird. The power and the potential. One day we may all be flying in the air to new places, like your beautiful parrot,” said Stanley wistfully.
“But…that…sounds impossible,” Helena said. “The Wright brothers have not flown more than two minutes in the air.”
“Impossible? Helena, nothing in this world is impossible!” said Stanley. “Imagine if all of the world’s greatest inventors had taken that view. Mr Austin and my father believe that one day the automobile will be commonplace and available to everyone. Why not flying machines too? It’s well known that small ideas turn impossibilities into possibilities.”
Helena stared at him, letting the words sink into her brain. She turned to Boy, walked over to her desk. “The drawings of the Wright brothers’ flying machines I keep finding. You drew them, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Boy said, chewing on the end of her pencil.
“They are truly very good. But why pin them to the walls?” asked Helena.
Boy glanced at Stanley.
“Boy’s drawings show a lot of potential. But Mr Westcott’s not open to potential at the moment. In fact, he’s not open to many things at all,” Stanley said, his voice tight with disapproval.
Helena remembered how Boy had looked up at her father expectantly during the clock inspections, and how he always gravitated towards the clocks rather than his daughter. Boy is putting the drawings on the wall to get her father’s attention, thought Helena. How very sad.
Boy bent her head and began shading the wing of a flying machine. “We have written a letter to the Wright brothers,” she said. “We think we’ve engineered a way to make their machines stay in the air for longer.”
“But…how?” asked Helena. It did sound impossible. How could a young tutor and a twelve-year-old girl know more than two of the world’s most famous inventors?
“I’ll be studying mechanical sciences at Cambridge University from September,” said Stanley, a flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll be the first in my family to go to university, something my parents are still a little flummoxed about and don’t entirely agree with. My father learned his trade while working, but I want to learn about the theory of things, properly understand how machines work. Flight is one of my many areas of interest and it seems I’ve passed this interest on to Boy. Miss Westcott is impressed with our discoveries and she’s fully supportive of our efforts.” His voice swelled with pride.
Helena’s eyes widened. She remembered Stanley telling her that he had taken the position in this house because of the books that could help him with his own studies. He was not only a tutor; he was about to attend one of the most famous universities in the world, which also meant he was extraordinarily clever. Her admiration for him grew even stronger.
But while Stanley and Boy worked on their ambitious plans, all Helena could think of was the plight of the Fox family because of Mr Westcott’s actions, and the threat Helena and her father had hanging over their heads. Helena felt a muscle twitch in her left eye. She needed to find out if Boy knew the reasons behind her father’s unjustified behaviour. But to tell Boy the whole truth about the signed contract would mean that she was breaking Mr Westcott’s rule. If he found out she had told Stanley and Boy about the contract, she could say goodbye to Orbit and the remainder of their possessions. Stanley said that Boy trusted her. But could she trust Boy?
“No, my father would not have done that,” Boy said, pushing her chair back so it toppled into a pile of books. Books pushed over books, pushing over more books that landed on the floor in a heap.
“Oh, watch it,” said Stanley, stumbling forward to rescue them. “Stop. You’ll wake the house!”
“My father would not have taken another family’s possessions. He would not make Mr Fox or your father sign such a contract,” said Boy, ignoring Stanley’s plea for quiet.
Stanley’s attempts to prevent more books from falling were only increasing the domino effect as they cascaded onto the floor one after another.
“But he has,” Helena said simply.
Boy folded her arms. “You don’t know my father. He is a good person.”
Helena’s skin bristled. But he isn’t. Not really, thought Helena. Why can’t Boy see that? “Your mother is in France. Your father is horrid to your aunt. He ignores you – and your drawings. What’s going on, Boy?”
Boy pressed her lips together and did not argue back, which made Helena certain she was keeping more secrets.
Helena gestured around the room, at the stacks of books. “These books should be on shelves in the library, not stacked in here to make space for the clocks. Why is your father so obsessed with keeping the clocks ticking?”
Stanley was still picking up the books, muttering under his breath.
Boy bent to pick up a couple of books, while chewing on her bottom lip.
Heat bloomed in Helena’s chest, and she turned and clambered and slipped and slid over the books to the door. She had been wrong to think that Boy could be an ally. She just hoped that Boy would not run to her father or aunt and repeat what Helena had told her about the clock-winding contracts. If she did, she and her father would be in the most tremendous trouble.
Helena paced up and down in her room. Boy did not believe that her father had drawn up the contracts or taken the Foxes’s things. She could not let that poor family end up in the workhouse as a result of Mr Westcott’s terrible actions. And she had to make sure her father did not allow the very same thing to happen to them, which meant she needed to find some answers.
Pulling on her cardigan, Helena opened her bedroom door. She tiptoed down the moonlit stairs, the ticks and tocks of the clocks smothering the occasional creaks of the floorboards.
She began her search in the pocket-watch room, opening each and every watch in case secret compartments were concealing more hidden messages.
She crept into the room of longcase clocks, stood in front of the moon-faced pendulum bob clock, which Mr Westcott had seemed particularly taken with. The room was as cold as a tomb and just about as welcoming. She rubbed her nose. The clock seemed vaguely familiar, but the thought zipped away from her like trying to catch a fish. The pendulum bob swung creepily in the darkness, the cherubic moon-face returning her stare. The clocks began to strike the half hour, making Helena jump. She did not think she would ever grow used to the chimes and strikes. They echoed uncomfortably in her head long after finishing, like an unwelcome conversation that had lasted too long. She pressed a hand to her fast-beating heart as the noise faded. She needed to hurry. It would not do to be caught by Mr Westcott after he returned from his mysterious nighttime wanderings. On the ground floor she paused outside Mr Wes
tcott’s study door. There was no blade of light coming from beneath it and she had not heard him return from wherever he had been. Where did he go to at night? She placed a hand on the doorknob and gave it a tentative turn. It was locked of course.
“Helena?”
Helena whirled round, her hand flying to her mouth. Stanley. “I was just…I was just…” she gasped, her heart thumping hard against her ribs.
Stanley held a pencil in his hand. “I was studying in the kitchen and I heard a noise. Can’t you sleep?” he said.
Helena shook her head as her heart slowed to a steady beat.
“Come on, I’ll warm us some milk. That’s what my mother used to do on the nights I couldn’t settle.” Stanley flashed Helena a quick smile, turned and disappeared down the basement stairs.
Helena glanced at one of the longcase clocks. Stanley was studying at eleven o’clock in the evening, when most people were in bed sound asleep. A short while ago he had been teaching Boy equations and talking about flying machines in a book-filled room. A dark cloud of weariness suddenly bowed Helena’s shoulders at all the odd goings-on in the house. With a small sigh she followed him.
Stanley stood at the range warming milk in a copper pan. He stirred the milk with a wooden spoon, swirling it in hypnotic circles.
Helena leaned against the wall. The kitchen table was piled high with leather-bound books and sheets of paper filled with neat handwriting. She thought of Stanley’s hard-earned place at Cambridge University and his role tutoring Boy so he could earn enough money to support himself. “Why do you do all of the cooking and look after the house, Stanley? Why try so hard to please Mr Westcott, especially as he is so…unappreciative of your efforts?”
