by A. M. Howell
An exotic Persian rug placed in front of the marble fireplace in the parlour.
A bottle-green vase filled with garden blooms, placed on the window ledge in the master bedroom.
Four shelves of books in the library.
Helena felt it in the groans of the water pipes.
The hiss of the electric lamps.
The creak of the stairs.
The ticks of the clocks.
The Westcotts’ house was coming alive again, and it approved.
But Mr Westcott did not approve, which only made Florence and Helena more determined to keep on returning things to the house until he did.
“Father is ill,” Florence said two days later in the skeleton-clock room, rubbing the back of her neck as if it were sore.
Helena was polishing a complicated brass clock, which had been modelled on Brighton Pavilion. She had wound a cloth around the handle of a tiny pair of tweezers to reach the gaps between the turrets and spires. “What do you mean…ill?” she asked, placing the tweezers down.
Florence sat at Helena’s feet, crossed her legs and tapped the mirror on Orbit’s cage glumly. The morning sun coming through the window glinted on her boot buckles.
“One, two, pop my shoe, snicker, squawk, pop goes the weasel,” said Orbit, fluffing his feathers.
“Aunt Katherine says Father’s head is all jumbled up. I asked her about Mother and she said there was still no news of where she is. I think she has left us. Maybe it is just…too painful for her to return. I do miss her so very much.”
Helena’s fingers tingled. It had been her idea for Florence to wear her brother’s clothes in front of her father, and she had helped bring in the furniture from the stable and return the books to the shelves. If anyone was to blame for Mr Westcott’s brain getting more jumbled, she was. “There must be a way we can make things better,” she said.
“Aunt Katherine said…I should concentrate on my studies.”
Helena frowned. “Your aunt is very keen for you to get a good education.”
“She always has been,” Florence said. “Even though it was Bertie who received all the attention from Father, but since he’s not here…” Her shoulders slumped.
Helena walked to one of the shelves, which was gradually being repopulated with books, and ran a finger along the spines until she reached the copy of Five Children and It. She had enjoyed this book. Had poor Bertie enjoyed it too? She opened the first page.
Helena stared at the dedication. She started at the whiplash of a memory.
She passed the book to Florence. “Who is Terence?”
Florence frowned as she read the dedication. “Terence was one of Bertie’s best friends.”
“A few days ago, a boy was throwing pebbles at your front door. I’m sure your father called him Terence,” said Helena, picking up the tweezers again and unwinding the cloth.
“But why would Terence Marchington have been throwing pebbles at our house? He always seemed so quiet, the opposite of his father.”
“Terence Marchington?” said Helena, remembering Mr Fox saying that was the name of Mr Westcott’s solicitor. “He is the solicitor’s son?”
Florence nodded, stood up and returned the book to the shelf, her hand lingering on the spine.
A memory of the telephone conversation she had overheard in Mr Westcott’s study the day after they had arrived swept to the forefront of Helena’s brain. “I heard your father talking to Mr Marchington on the telephone. He seemed rather cross. He said it was Mr Marchington’s final warning and if he failed to follow proper instructions he would dispense with his services.”
“But Father and Mr Marchington have always been good friends,” said Florence.
Helena’s brain whirred as quickly as the tiered clock in the hallway downstairs. “What if…what if Mr Marchington made Terence stop the clocks because he was angry at your father for wanting to part with his services? What if that was why Terence was hanging around the house throwing pebbles too?”
Florence looked doubtful. “But Terence doesn’t know anything about clocks.”
Helena glanced at the skeleton clock she had been working on. “It doesn’t take much to stop a clock – you release the spring and use the winding tool. Terence’s father could have showed him how to do that.”
“But how would Terence have got into the house? I haven’t seen him since Bertie’s funeral. I really don’t think…”
“He must have come round to play with Bertie,” interrupted Helena, pushing away the niggling thought that she could well be grasping at straws. “He must know the house well. Come on, Florence. We should pay Terence Marchington a visit, see what he knows.”
“No, Helena. You may not go out today,” her father said, handing her a spring for inserting into a tiny jewel-encrusted pocket watch.
Helena threw a dispirited look at Florence.
Florence threw her one back which Helena translated as “try again”.
“But I need to go and buy something,” Helena said. “For Orbit.”
Her father turned to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed. A knot of guilt tightened Helena’s stomach. She had been doing her best to help her father with the clocks, but the work was taking a greater toll on him than she ever could have imagined.
“I must take a train to Huntingdon this afternoon to collect some rare clock parts. The one shop that could have supplied them in Cambridge, on Rose Crescent, has unfortunately closed – just this past month. Isn’t that awful bad luck?”
Helena pushed her hands into her dress pockets and balled them into fists. Mr Fox’s shop.
“I need you to stay here and work on these springs while I’m gone. You have good and nimble clockmaker’s fingers, Helena, and today I need you to use them.”
Leaving a list of which clocks she should work on (and a further list of instructions of which clocks to wind should she complete her tasks early), Helena’s father bustled from the house and into the hansom cab Stanley had summoned to take him to the station, saying he would be back late that afternoon.
Helena folded her arms and stood by the window, watching the horse pulling her father’s carriage clatter away.
“Now what?” said Florence. “I could go and find Terence on my own.”
“No,” said Helena firmly, picking up the lists of instructions, folding them and placing them in the pocket-watch cabinet. “I want to talk to Terence myself. And I think Ralph should come too. Maybe if Terence sees the hurt that has been caused, he’ll be more likely to tell us what he knows.”
“But…how can you be certain it was him? And what about the pocket watches?” asked Florence, throwing a nervous glance at Helena’s folded instructions.
“We need answers to so many questions, Florence. And we’re not going to find them by waiting around here. It will be adding to his work, but maybe Stanley can look after the clocks and we’ll make sure we’re back well before my father returns, to work on the watches.”
Florence flashed her a smile. “If you’re sure…”
“Quite sure,” said Helena. She thought of Ralph and his family – how they had been short of food the last time they had visited. “I need to fetch something from the kitchens, then I’ll collect Orbit and we’ll leave at once.”
Helena found Ralph and his sisters at the vacant shop on Rose Crescent with their mother. Helena pulled Ralph to one side and explained why they wished to pay Terence Marchington a visit. Ralph told them that their situation had worsened and that he and his parents were to enter the workhouse on Mill Road the very next day. His sisters were to be sent to stay with some of his ma’s family in Norfolk and at that point he was prepared to do anything that might improve their situation. An ache leaped to Helena’s throat. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out some shortbread biscuits she’d taken from the larder and passed them to Ralph. “For your family,” she said, and a smile erased some of the sorrow on his face.
As they walked to Marchington solicitors’ office
, Helena let Ralph carry Orbit in his cloth bag. The boy’s watchful gaze hovered over every squawk, nursery rhyme and snicker. She hoped it would provide a small distraction from the terrible predicament he and his family were in. They passed an entrance to a cobbled street backing on to a pub. Two ramshackle, smoke-stained cottages with broken roof tiles and wonky chimneys stood behind the pub; multiple washing lines strung between them seemed to be keeping them upright.
“Ma says nineteen families live in those cottages,” said Ralph in a low voice.
Helena’s eyes widened. How was it possible that these two sides of Cambridge existed next door to one another; University May Week balls and all of their finery happened less than a mile from this squalid place. They walked on, eventually crossing a wide expanse of grass surrounded on all four sides by buildings. On one side of the green, in front of an imposing-looking hotel, men were playing cricket while spectators watched from a white marquee erected nearby.
“What is this place?” asked Helena. Cyclists hurried along a diagonal path across the grass, heads down and gowns flying behind them like kites.
“A common – it’s called Parker’s Piece,” said Florence. “Aunt Katherine’s hotel is just there on the corner. And Marchington’s office is to the right of it. Terence and his family live in lodgings above.”
“I used to come to Parker’s Piece with my grandpa,” said Ralph. “He told me of the feast they had here in 1838 to celebrate the coronation of Queen Victoria. Thousands of the poor were invited, even those in workhouses. There was beer and beef and an orchestra. He said it was the best day of his life.”
To Helena it had seemed like a rather ordinary public park, but Ralph’s memories transformed it into something else entirely, making her realize just how many different sides there were to a place if you rubbed a little below the surface.
Florence soon came to a halt in front of thick iron railings. Marchington and Sons, said a polished brass plaque above the green door.
A man with close-set eyes, carrying a briefcase, bustled out of the door muttering to himself. Helena caught the words “debt and property”, as he brushed past them.
Helena curled a hand around the black railing. It was cool against her warm palm. She chewed on her bottom lip. What if Mr Marchington told Mr Westcott they had come to visit? Florence’s father would be furious. And he might take out his fury on Helena and her father. But she could not stop moving forward, not when so much was at stake.
“Come on, Helena,” said Florence, who had already pushed open the heavy door.
Helena followed, her eyes widening. Dark wood. Everywhere. The floors, the walls, the ceiling. The desk (behind which sat a man with half-moon glasses and hair as dark as the chair he was sitting on). Helena imagined it was like being on a galleon at sea. All that was missing was the jerking of the hull and the slapping of the waves.
“Jeepers,” said Ralph, his eyes as wide as saucers.
“Pop goes the weasel,” snickered Orbit.
“Can I help you?” the half-moon-glasses man said, peering at Orbit in an alarmed manner.
“We’ve come to see…Terence Marchington,” Florence said in a voice as big as she could muster. Helena stood next to Florence, shoulder to shoulder.
The man took off his glasses, leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Well no…but…”
“Then I’m afraid you will have to leave. Terence Marchington’s diary is full today.”
Florence glanced at Helena. “Terence Marchington…has a diary? But he is only thirteen.”
The man stared at them. “His diary is full tomorrow as well.”
Florence opened her mouth to speak again. The man held up a hand. “And before you ask, it is full the day after that, and every day that follows.”
Florence’s face fell, and she looked at Helena. What were they to do now?
“Then we’ll wait until Terence can see us,” said Helena firmly, glancing at a wooden bench along the right wall of Mr Marchington’s wood-panelled office. She grabbed Ralph’s arm, steered him to the seat and sat down.
Ralph sighed and slumped down next to her.
“Squawk, snicker, one two buckle my shoe,” chattered Orbit.
“Shush, pretty bird,” said Helena, reaching across Ralph to stroke Orbit’s head. His beak nipped and snapped at her fingers. “Mother, Mother, Mother,” snickered the parrot. Helena’s mother’s laugh echoed from Orbit’s beak around the galleon-like room, ricocheting off the walls and ceiling and sending an odd shudder of pain and pleasure into Helena’s gut. Her mother had been kind, would have done everything in her power to help Ralph and his family. And she would do the same.
Florence continued to stand in front of the desk. She folded her arms.
The man sighed heavily, pushed his chair back. “You cannot march in here…with a parrot…demanding to see people who aren’t available to be seen.”
“It’s jolly important,” said Florence, placing her hands on the desk.
“Three blind mice, three blind mice, pat-a-cake, twinkle, row, row, row your cake.” Orbit wriggled in his bag.
The man’s eyes widened.
The front door to the office opened. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Helena turned. The boy who had been throwing pebbles. He stood next to a narrow-eyed man who was leaning on a walking stick that was as thin as a cane. The stick tapped again on the floor, once, twice, three times, as his beady eyes skittered across each of them in turn, his lip curling a little when he saw Orbit. Helena swallowed. This must be Mr Marchington, and he did not look at all impressed to see them in his office. She suddenly wondered if she had been a little too hasty deciding to come here, whether she had inadvertently led her friends right into the mouth of a lion’s den.
Florence took a step towards Mr Marchington and his son, throwing Helena and Ralph an uncertain glance. “Um…good day, Mr Marchington, Terence. We…we…wanted to know if Terence wanted to come outside and…play for a short while?”
Mr Marchington’s eyes narrowed into even smaller slits. His neck jutted forward like a rooster’s as he looked her up and down and took in her clothes. “Miss…Florence?” He tapped his walking stick on the floor again, four taps this time. He glanced at Ralph. “The Fox boy,” he murmured. He laid his stick across the counter and slowly peeled off his black leather gloves.
“It’s them who took away our things,” Ralph whispered to Helena, his legs jiggling. “They came the night the clocks stopped and filled up a cart with our possessions.”
Helena nodded, placed a steadying hand on his right knee. “And it is the boy who threw pebbles at Florence’s front door,” she whispered back.
“Mr Marchington, Sir…I have told these children that Terence is unavailable for a meeting,” said the half-moon-glasses man.
Marchington nodded. “Quite right. Yes, his diary is terribly full I’m afraid. Very busy afternoon ahead assisting me with the ledgers. Well, good day to you, Miss Florence. Send my best to your…father. I do hope he is keeping well?”
“Um…yes…he is well,” said Florence.
Mr Marchington shook his head with what seemed to be remorse, pressed his lips together and made his way to the double doors.
Terence’s eyes dropped to the floor as he began to follow his father.
“No. Wait.” The words burst from Florence’s mouth like water breaking through the wall of a dam. “Please, Mr Marchington. I just want to talk to Terence for a few minutes about…Bertie.”
Mr Marchington looked to Terence, to Florence and then back again. He rubbed his chin. Rubbed it some more. “I am very sorry for your family’s loss, Miss Florence.” He said this with the utmost sincerity and rubbed his chin so hard Helena wondered if he would rub it right off. “Very well. You may speak with Terence for five minutes,” he said in a silvery tone which goosebumped Helena’s arms. “But make it quick, Terence. We have work to do.”
Florence had already stee
red Terence to the door, had dodged the cyclists and hansom cabs and was leading him across the road to Parker’s Piece. Leaning against a tree trunk, she folded her arms and waited for Helena and Ralph to catch up.
“Where are my pa’s things?” blurted out Ralph, his fists clenched.
A flush rose up Terence’s neck and above his starched shirt collar. “What are you doing here, Florence?” he asked, ignoring Ralph, his brow furrowing. He looked Florence up and down. “Goodness, are those…Bertie’s clothes you’re wearing?”
“You and Bertie were good friends,” said Florence, ignoring his question. “Why throw pebbles at his house – our house?”
Helena thought she detected a wobble in Terence’s bottom lip. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice stiffer than before. He pushed his hands into his pockets, glanced back at his father’s office.
“Where are my pa’s things?” said Ralph again, taking a step towards Terence.
Helena saw Ralph’s anger rising like steam in a kettle and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Terence’s lips thinned.
“Please tell us where Ralph’s things are,” Florence said. “His family have nothing. They will end up in the workhouse eating gruel by the end of tomorrow. Bertie would have wanted you to help us.”
“I told you. I don’t know anything,” Terence said, turning to walk away.
Florence puffed out a breath of air and took a step towards Terence’s retreating back. “Don’t you remember how Bertie helped you with your reading when you were small? You’d sit in the library, and he’d read to you from his botany books. You said if he ever needed a favour in return…”
Helena swallowed. She had never seen Florence look so…alive, so vital. She was burnt red and orange and all shades in between.
