by A. M. Howell
“You’ll have to go along Silver Street, cross the bridge and go along The Backs if you want to get into town,” called a man in blackened overalls who was directing the traffic, while another shovelled the coal back into the cart.
“The Backs?” Helena called.
“Along the river,” said Boy in a low voice.
“Oh, how lovely,” said Helena brightly. “I haven’t seen the river yet. I should like to see the boats.”
Helena hurried down Silver Street, with Boy trailing behind a little, until the buildings on each side fell away to reveal a bridge. Groups of men and women were sitting in long and narrow square-ended, flat-bottomed boats – which she soon learned were called punts. The men standing at the back of each punt forced long wooden poles against the riverbed to propel the boats forwards. Along the riverbank, willow trees dipped their lacy fingers into the sparkling water, while the ladies in the punts rested blankets over their knees and wicker picnic baskets at their feet, brimming with clear glass bottles of pop, bottles of champagne and cake tins. Their laughs and shouts carried across the water and Helena leaned over the bridge, drinking in the scene with greedy eyes. She was suddenly aware of the quietness behind her. The lack of footsteps, squawks and singing from Orbit.
She turned. Boy was standing stock still on the other side of the bridge. Orbit was pulled close to her chest, as if she were trying to protect him from something. Her eyes were wide, but not with wonder. With fear.
Helena swung the basket onto her arm and ran back across the bridge. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs. She glanced behind her, half expecting to see an axe-wielding man running towards them, but instead saw other hurrying pedestrians, a man pushing a handcart, cycling students and hansom cabs pulled by clattering horses.
Boy’s eyes were still fixed straight ahead. Her hands shook as she held Orbit.
“Hickory-dickory,” squawked the bird, his eyes blinking.
Helena swallowed, reached forward and gently prised Orbit from Boy’s trembling hands.
Boy clearly could not tell Helena what was wrong, and Helena sensed that now was not the time to question why Boy was afraid. She was beginning to realize that asking the first questions that popped into her head may not always be the best approach. Stanley was right that there was always a reason behind a person’s behaviour. Perhaps it was better to let people speak in their own time. But they did need to cross the bridge over the river to get to Rose Crescent to deliver the food to the Fox family and collect the clock parts for her father.
“Come,” Helena said, holding out her hand.
Boy looked at her, a muscle in her jaw twitching.
“There’s really nothing to be afraid of. Orbit and I are here,” said Helena.
Boy blinked and blinked, as if she was washing away the fears which had frozen her to the wrong side of the bridge.
“We will find another way back to the house if the coal is still blocking the road. It will be all right, Boy. I promise.”
With an almost imperceptible nod, Boy slipped her hand into Helena’s and allowed herself to be led over the river. The trust Boy was placing in her made Helena push her shoulders back and resolve to do her utmost to somehow put right the things that had gone so very wrong for the Westcott family.
The bell jangled as Helena opened the door to Mr Fox’s shop. A man with extraordinarily bushy sideburns was sweeping the floor. Ralph and his two sisters were sitting on the shop counter, bumping their feet against the wood.
“Pa,” exclaimed Ralph. “This is the girl I was telling you about. The one with the parrot. From Mr Westcott’s house.” He jumped down from the counter and ran across to them, eyeing the basket Helena was carrying with interest.
Mr Fox leaned the brush against the counter and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You,” he said, pointing at Boy. “You would sit in the clock rooms while I worked sometimes.”
Boy gave him a cautious nod.
“This is…Mr Westcott’s daughter,” Helena said.
Mr Fox’s eyes narrowed and he sucked in a sharp breath. “You have some nerve coming to visit us here after what your father has done to my family…”
Helena sensed Boy stiffen beside her.
“Oh no, Mr Fox,” Helena said, grabbing Boy’s hand before she could run out of the shop. “She knew nothing of what her father did.”
“Is that true?” Mr Fox said gruffly.
Boy bravely looked him in the eye and nodded. She pulled away from Helena’s grasp. Her eyes were fierce and brimming with fire. “Tell me everything my father has done. Don’t spare me the terrible parts. If his character is truly not what I thought it to be, then I need to know. And I promise I will do everything I can to help you.”
Helena was prepared for the bare floorboards, walls and the absence of furniture in the rooms above the shop. Boy wasn’t. Helena watched the girl’s gaze settle on spots on the walls where pictures would have hung, the space in front of the fireplace where a rug would have covered the floorboards, the window seat missing a cushion.
“My father…did this?” Boy said in a small voice.
Mr Fox gave her a curt nod. “I know he is your father, but that man has a lot to answer for.”
Boy’s face crumpled like a handkerchief clutched into a fist, as she slowly walked around the room taking in the absence of everything one would expect to find in a home.
Orbit wriggled and squawked, his bag swinging from Helena’s shoulder.
“You found my card inside the pocket watch,” Mr Fox said, looking at Helena. “I hoped that the new clockmaker might examine that watch, as it is a rare one. I wanted to warn whoever was appointed to the position after me. I am sorry it was too late.”
“But it’s not too late,” said Helena. “The clocks have not stopped for my father.”
“Yet,” said Mr Fox grimly.
Helena’s stomach turned. “We really cannot lose our things…if I lose my parrot…”
Mr Fox gently stroked Orbit’s head. The parrot snickered and bobbed and swayed his head from side to side. Ralph’s sisters giggled.
“You can let your parrot out of his bag, if you like?” Mr Fox said. “The windows are shut. My sister had a parakeet. Great escape artist it was, could even unlock his own cage.”
“Orbit is the same,” Helena said, loosening the strings of the bag and letting him flap free. “One time, he flew out of the kitchen window, over the garden wall and onto the neighbours’ washing line. You can imagine what happened next.”
Mr Fox wrinkled his nose.
“Exactly. I had to re-wash Mrs Berkeley’s bloomers. It was horrid. Father bought a lock and key for the cage after that. Orbit hasn’t escaped since.”
Orbit stretched his wings wide, bowed his head as if in thanks and walked round in a circle, his feet clicking on the wooden boards. Helena’s mother’s laugh tinkled from his beak.
“Why, what a perfectly wonderful laugh,” said Mr Fox, rubbing his sideburns. “Your bird mimics you well.”
Helena felt as if a kaleidoscope of butterflies had flown into her stomach. Mr Fox did not need to know that the laugh which came from Orbit’s beak did not belong to her.
Ralph’s youngest sister giggled again and came to stand next to Helena.
“Here, I’ve brought you some food from Stanley,” Helena said, passing Mr Fox the basket. “He sends his regards.”
Nibbling on a thumbnail, Boy walked over. She had been looking at the faded outline on the wall where a picture had once hung.
“Stanley has provided us with a feast,” said Mr Fox, peering inside the picnic basket. “Take it to your ma,” he said gently to his eldest daughter. “Tell her there are two more for an early lunch. We shall eat at once.”
“Oh no,” Boy said. “That food is for you.”
“I am not so bitter at my misfortune that I am unable to share the little I have,” Mr Fox said firmly. “You are our guests and I shall hear no more of
it. We shall eat here. Fetch the blanket, will you, Ralph?”
A blue and yellow checked blanket was laid in front of the fireplace (Ralph had borrowed it from the publican next door). An assortment of chipped plates and knives and forks (which Mr Fox said had been loaned by the owners of the cobblers across the crescent) were used to dish up slices of ham, crumbly cheese, a crusty loaf of bread and an assortment of apples.
“You have good neighbours,” said Boy, glancing at Ralph and his sisters as they sat cross-legged on the rug, their eyes bright as they chewed.
Mrs Fox entered the room quietly and joined them on the blanket, where she sat dull-eyed, throwing Boy and Helena suspicious glances. “They won’t be our neighbours for much longer,” she said under her breath.
“I am…truly sorry for your troubles,” said Boy, her voice cracking a little. She passed Ralph’s mother a plate of food.
Mrs Fox looked at her for a few seconds. Her steely eyes softened a little. “Thank you,” she muttered.
“The clocks, then,” Helena said, pushing away the heaviness in her chest and feeding Orbit a handful of seeds. “Why do you think they stopped, Mr Fox?”
Mr Fox forked a slice of ham into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I know my trade. Every cog and wheel and spring in Mr Westcott’s clocks was in perfect working order.”
“So how could they have stopped?” asked Boy, her nose wrinkling.
“Human interference,” said Mr Fox firmly.
“But…who would do that?” asked Helena. “Does that mean it will happen again, to my father?”
Boy glanced at Helena, then looked down at the bread and cheese on her plate.
“I don’t know. But the person responsible is someone who knows about clocks,” Mr Fox said, shooting Boy a quick look. “Mr Westcott was quite bright the morning the clocks stopped, his cheeks less grey than usual. He spoke to me about the clocks, praised me for my work before he left the house. I was there all day – working on the second floor. When Mr Westcott returned to the house that evening, he was like a changed man. His eyes were wild – like a storm over the Fens. It was during the clock inspection that I noticed some of the longcase clocks on the ground floor had stopped. I had not been in that room all day. Mr Westcott’s face when he found out…well…” Mr Fox paused, rubbed his nose as if trying to erase the memory. “Later that evening, a man and a young boy arrived at my shop with a cart and took away our possessions. Every day since I’ve been at Marchington’s – Mr Westcott’s solicitors – begging them to return our belongings. I sense some sympathy from them, but anyone would think their lips had been sealed with glue. We need to get them unsealed quickly, or I’m afraid it will be the workhouse for us.”
Boy stood up, brushed the crumbs from her trousers. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I will help you get your things back, Mr Fox. I promise. And I will find out why my father is behaving so terribly. You are right, something must be done, and Helena and I will be the ones to do it.”
Helena stared at Boy. Her eyes were even more fiery now than when they had first arrived. She swallowed hard at a piece of bread that seemed to be wedged in her throat, and a thought suddenly occurred to her. Was Boy upset because of what her father had done – or was there another reason? Mr Fox said the clocks had been stopped by human hands. Boy had pinned drawings to the walls, desperate for her father to notice her. Had she done something else to get her father’s attention that she now regretted? She was always in the clock rooms. Helena took a sip of water, swallowed again, her appetite suddenly lost. The thought was almost too awful to acknowledge, but maybe the quiet desperation she sensed in Boy had pushed her into doing something dreadful, and the answer to the stopped clocks had been right under her nose all along.
Helena bit her lip in concentration as she used a miniature brush to clean the sails of a windmill, which, when the hour chimed, rocked a ship on small wooden waves and rolled a figure out of the doors of a church. Her mind kept wandering to Boy and the Fox family and she realized with a start that in her distraction she had cleaned the windmill sails twice over. When she had finished, she carefully replaced the glass dome on the automaton clock, giving it a final polish with her dress sleeve.
Boy sat in her usual position by the door. Her face was set into a shape Helena had not seen in all the five days she had been in Cambridge. It was as if her features were paint colours and had been swirled around in a glass of water. The tips of her ears were pink. Her blue eyes were brighter than ever and glassy. Her cheeks were as flushed as the tips of her ears. Boy had been talkative as they walked from Mr Fox’s shop to Regent’s Street to pick up the forgotten clock parts from the previous day. Where could my father have taken the Foxes’s things? What would he want with them? Why hasn’t my mother come home? Do you think my father is ill?
Helena had not had any answers to Boy’s questions and so stayed silent, scuffing her boots along the pavement, as the sunny start to the day was shrouded with cloud and a light drizzle. Had Boy stopped the clocks? She had not known about the clock contracts, so would not have realized the implications her actions would have. Was that why her eyes had been so full of fire after leaving the Fox family, why she was so determined to help?
“My dear girls,” said Katherine, sweeping into the room in a cornflower-blue coat a little before six o’clock that evening. In her arms she held a green box about the size of Boy’s chair seat. It was tied up with a red ribbon. She placed it on Boy’s lap. “For you,” she said, bending to drop a light kiss on the top of Boy’s head. As usual, Boy had changed before the clock inspection, discarding her boy’s outfit for a midnight-blue pleated skirt and cream blouse with a lace collar. Helena thought that Boy seemed more at ease with herself when she dressed like this, as if this was her true self. But if that was the case, who was she trying to please when she dressed in boys’ clothes? Her eyes were locked to the gift. Oh, to have a beautiful aunt who bought presents and dispensed kisses like sweets. She had an uncle on her mother’s side, who did not visit often, and her father was an only child just as she was. Helena squashed the jolt of envy under the heels of her boots.
A flush stole onto Boy’s cheeks. She slowly pulled at the ribbon around the box, letting it drift to the floor near the heels of her aunt’s shoes. Miss Westcott’s heels were thick with mud. The hems of her long coat had a slightly dark tinge to them too. Helena frowned, remembering Katherine’s curious visit to the stables the night before, when she was not even a guest in the house.
Peeling back layers of wafer-thin tissue paper, Boy pulled out two hardback books. Helena’s fingers tingled with disappointment. She had been expecting a pretty dress, or maybe a pair of beaded slippers. She peered at the titles.
A History of Architecture
The Problem of Manflight
Boy smiled broadly, stood up and gave her aunt a quick hug.
Katherine’s eyes sparkled. “Make sure you read every word, darling niece. You never know where they may lead you.” She turned and Helena gulped at the sight of her hat. She had thought it to be a quite plain sky-blue felted hat, but now saw one side was decorated with peacock-feather eyes, which stared back at Helena in a disconcerting way. “There will be no clock inspection this evening. My brother…decided he felt unwell when I arrived,” she said, a frown straining her features which made her look rather weary.
“Well…if you’re quite sure…” said Helena’s father.
“Yes, quite sure,” Katherine said, bending over Orbit’s cage. “Hello birdy, birdy, birdy,” she said, tapping on the bars.
“Squawk-squawk-squawk,” screeched Orbit, crouching and swaying from side to side.
“Oh.” Katherine gave a tinkling laugh. “I do declare this bird is rather fond of me.”
Fluffing his back feathers, Orbit launched forward, the nip of his beak narrowly missing Katherine’s gloved finger.
With another laugh and a small shake of her head, Katherine threw Helena and Boy one last dazzling smile, tu
rned and swept from the room.
Helena’s father was already packing his tools away. “An early night will be most welcome,” he said. “I am quite exhausted. Looking after all these clocks is rather more work than I had anticipated, and that’s with your assistance, my dear Helena. Thank you for collecting the clock parts – I am sorry I was so hard on you yesterday…”
But Helena wasn’t listening. She was looking at the mysterious swooping wet stains on the wooden floor left by Katherine’s damp coat, and the chunks of mud from her shoes. And why did Orbit screech and become so aggressive whenever she approached him?
A low murmur of voices was coming from the hall. Helena glanced at Boy, but she was engrossed in one of her new books, her eyes eagerly scanning the pages.
Helena sidled to the door, peered around the frame.
“You must take your hat from this house, Katherine. I cannot bear it,” said Mr Westcott in a low voice. His face was a pallid smoky-grey.
“But…that is quite irrational of you, Edgar,” Katherine said, adjusting the brim of her hat.
Mr Westcott flinched, grabbed on to the bannister to steady himself. “I fear…I fear…I cannot take much more of this.”
“I know, my dear. And that is why you have an appointment to see Dr Barrington tomorrow.”
“Dr Barrington?” Mr Westcott said, his eyes widening. “But he is…”
“Yes. I know quite well who he is. But it is imperative you see him at once, Edgar. I am most concerned about your health.”
“But…I don’t think…”
“Stop,” Katherine said, placing a gloved hand on her brother’s arm. “That is enough.”
Helena held her breath. It was unsettling to see the normally lightly voiced Katherine speak with such firm authority.
The clocks in the house began to chime and strike. The little gold flowerpots on the gold pagoda clock began to spin and swirl hypnotically, the jewelled petals opening in time to the musical chimes emitting from its base.
