by A. M. Howell
Orbit wriggled and squirmed in his bag and nipped at Stanley’s fingers.
Florence’s eyes widened at the letter lying on the sideboard. She ran to it, stared at the foreign-looking postage stamp and picked it up.
The clocks that were still working bonged and chimed the quarter to the hour and Stanley adjusted his grip on Orbit.
Dizziness threatened to swamp Helena. She was supposed to have been at the house all afternoon – mending and winding watches and clocks. And now they had stopped. “My father…is he not back yet from Huntingdon?” she asked desperately.
“His train must have been delayed,” said Stanley, unhappily, wincing as Orbit pecked at his hands.
“But…we must wind the clocks at once! Mr Westcott will be here to inspect them in fifteen minutes!” cried Helena.
“Screech, squawk, screech,” yelled Orbit, wriggling vigorously on Stanley’s lap.
Desperation filled every part of Helena’s being. “No one must know this has happened.”
“But we don’t know which clocks have stopped,” said Florence, slapping the unopened letter back on the sideboard.
“Helena’s right. The clocks must be wound,” said Ralph. He glanced at Orbit. “Or Mr Westcott will…he will…”
Thoughts spun around in Helena’s head like fireflies in a jar. She could not let her father return to find all their possessions had been lost. She could not and would not lose Orbit. She knew she didn’t have time now, but she would find out who had done this.
Florence threw a look filled with longing at her letter, then puffed out a small breath. “Well, we had better hurry then. Stanley, you check this floor. Ralph, you check all the clocks on the first floor. Helena and I will do the second and third floors. Wind any clock which has stopped. Now hurry!”
“Squawk, squawk, screech. Hickory-dickory.” With a lurch, Orbit swooped into the air above their heads.
Helena gasped, stared at the open drawstring bag on Stanley’s lap.
“Ooops,” Stanley said apologetically, his eyes widening as Orbit’s tail skirted over the top of his head.
“No time, Helena. The windows are closed so he can’t escape. Come on!” shouted Florence, grabbing Helena’s hand and yanking her towards the stairs.
Orbit flew up the stairs behind them, swerving into the room of longcase clocks, small squawks of delight filling the air. The parrot landed on Florence’s chair by the door, stretched his wings and preened his feathers. Helena glanced at him. She ought to put him back in his cage, in case he damaged the clocks. But Florence was right, there was no time. Clicks and ticks and tocks, the gentle whooshes of pendulums hurtled into her eardrums. At least not all of the clocks had ceased working.
“Look – my grandmother’s clock has stopped,” Florence said breathlessly from across the room. Helena ran to her side. The moon-faced pendulum bob was lifeless, the creepy cherubic eyes glaring at them. Helena swallowed. Mr Westcott’s favourite clock had stopped.
“Where are the winding keys?” asked Florence.
“Father keeps them on the table over there,” said Helena. Florence’s eyes followed Helena’s pointing finger to the empty table. Helena’s legs wobbled. Stopped clocks and missing winding keys. This made no sense. Someone had moved the keys.
“I’ll search for them. You go to the carriage-clock room,” Florence said. “They are easier to wind.”
Helena ran from the room, Orbit’s feathers rustling as she brushed past him. The ticks and tocks in the carriage-and-table-clock room were lighter than usual. That could not be a good thing. Helena stood in the centre of the room on a Persian rug brought in from the stable, her hands clenched into fists as she spun round and stared at each clock in turn. Her heart was hammering so hard it was consuming the sounds of the clocks. She placed a hand on her chest, tried to slow her breathing. There! A golden clock with a cupid on top. The second hand wasn’t moving.
She strode over to it, her hands shaking as she turned it around and carefully wound the key, once, twice, three times. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. She had done it. One down, but how many more to go?
One, two, three, four, five, six… She wound each clock in turn, three turns each, putting just enough power in the springs to get them ticking in time for Mr Westcott’s inspection. Speaking of which…it was five minutes to six. Five minutes before Mr Westcott would arrive to inspect his clocks. Helena swallowed. She could hear footsteps thundering in the room below and the occasional exclamation from Stanley. “Oh, crikey. Another one which isn’t working.”
Helena closed her eyes as she wound the eighth and final stopped carriage clock. They must not let Mr Westcott into the room of longcase clocks. Not until they were all ticking again.
Running onto the landing, she leaned over the bannister and called downstairs. “Have you got everything started again?” Stanley did not reply. Helena’s nails curled into the wooden bannister until they ached.
The front door banged shut. Mr Westcott.
Voices lifted upstairs like a twist of smoke.
Helena held her breath.
Ralph ran lightly up the stairs. “I think I got them all going. What now?” he whispered to Helena, his chest heaving.
“It’s no use, I can’t find the keys,” said Florence, sticking her head round the door, Orbit perching on her shoulder.
“Do you know what a longcase clock winding key looks like?” Helena whispered to Ralph.
Ralph nodded. “Of course.”
“Go to our rooms on the top floor. See if you can find any keys in my father’s room – it’s the corridor off to the right.”
Ralph nodded again and scampered up the next flight of stairs like a rabbit being chased by a hound.
The sound of heavy feet thumping up the stairs came from below.
Florence gave Helena a desperate look. “My father,” she said under her breath.
Thoughts rumbled around in Helena’s head, like a ball stuck in the wooden maze toy she had received from her parents one Christmas. Each direction her thoughts went resulted in a dead end. Had the clocks been stopped to hurt her father or Mr Westcott? What will Mr Westcott say? Would her father ever forgive her?
“I’ll stay in the longcase-clock room with Orbit,” Florence whispered. “You try and distract my father.”
“But…” said Helena. She heard the door to the longcase-clock room click shut behind her and a muffled squawk. She crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped that Ralph could find the missing winding keys, that Orbit stayed quiet, that she hadn’t forgotten to wind any of the carriage clocks.
“Good evening, Miss Graham. Is your father ready for the clock inspection?” Mr Westcott said in a low voice, his eyes red-rimmed.
“He has been…delayed,” Helena said, her voice wobbling.
Mr Westcott’s eyes were piercing, searching Helena for a truth she was not prepared to tell.
“My father said to…continue without him,” Helena said, her voice shaking even more. She glanced at the stairs. “Is…Katherine…I mean Miss Westcott not joining you this evening?”
Mr Westcott’s lips thinned. “I think my sister has been delayed too.” He rubbed his neck. “Now, shall we check these clocks are all in good working order?” He gestured for Helena to enter the room.
Helena placed a trembling hand on the brass doorknob and it rattled.
“Is everything all right, Miss Graham?” Mr Westcott asked, his eyebrows arching as he stared at the doorknob and Helena’s shaking hand (which was ignoring all of her internal pleadings to keep still).
“Everything is fine, absolutely tremendous,” said Helena gritting her teeth and opening the door, preparing herself for the possibility that her and her father’s future was about to take the most terrible turn for the worse.
Helena stood by the door to the carriage-and-table-clock room, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth, as if all the moisture had been sucked away by a giant paper straw. Where was Katherine? The clock inspections never
took place without her. A small part of her was glad she was not there, for if she had been, Helena felt her lips might have run away with her, giving Katherine a piece of her mind for taking the telegram about Florence’s mother, and for hiding from Florence that Mr Westcott was to be admitted to an asylum.
Mr Westcott’s hands were clasped behind his back as he examined each clock in turn, his head tilted to the whirring mechanisms.
Helena reached up and loosened the top button on her blouse, but it did nothing to stop the increasing squeezing sensation around her neck.
Mr Westcott picked up a small brass carriage clock Helena had recently wound and placed it to his ear. She held her breath. Had she turned the key enough times? She must have done, for he put it down, his eyes quickly moving on to Sir Isaac Newton’s table clock.
Helena could hear Stanley pacing up and down on the landing and the occasional squeak of floorboards. Was that Ralph? Had he found the missing keys? There were no squawks and no singing coming from the longcase-clock room. Florence was somehow keeping Orbit quiet. But for how much longer?
Mr Westcott was two thirds of the way through inspecting the room when he lifted his head and turned. “It is most unusual for your father not to be present for the inspection.”
“He…he took a train to Huntingdon. For some clock parts,” Helena said, pulling at her collar and glancing at the door.
“Is something the matter, Miss Graham?” Mr Westcott’s voice was gentle. His eyes met hers. They were soft, the edges crinkling into a small and encouraging smile. At that moment he did not look ill at all, just incredibly melancholy.
Helena swallowed the dryness in her mouth and shook her head.
Mr Westcott gave a small nod. “I think we are finished in here. Everything is to my satisfaction. Shall we move on to the longcase clocks?”
Helena’s hands curled into tight balls as Mr Westcott opened the door and led the way to the longcase-clock room next door. “Um…I…maybe we should wait for my father after all?” she said in a rush, glancing at Stanley, who was waiting for them on the landing, his eyes wide.
Mr Westcott turned. His eyes were still soft, and Helena was sure she could see kindness in them. “I have complete faith in your father, Miss Graham. He is the best clock conservator I have ever employed. No one else has managed to keep these time-pieces in such good working order.” He strode towards the door of the longcase-clock room, his hand reaching for the handle.
Stanley leaped in front of him like a leopard, blocking his path to the door. “I think…there may be a problem downstairs, Mr Westcott. Something I must speak to you about.”
Mr Westcott stared at Stanley.
Helena sidled up to Stanley until she too was standing with her back to the door of the longcase-clock room.
“What…sort of problem?” Mr Westcott asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Something…rather private,” Stanley said, wiping at the beads of sweat peppering his forehead.
“Very well. After I have inspected the clocks.” Mr Westcott’s hand reached past Helena to the door handle.
“Wait,” Helena said breathlessly.
Mr Westcott’s hand dropped to his side. “Whatever is it now?” His voice was laced with mild irritation.
“I think…maybe…you should go downstairs and talk to Stanley. It really is a very…important matter.”
Mr Westcott’s eyebrows bunched together. “Stanley has told you…his private matter, Miss Graham?”
Helena glanced at Stanley, nodded. “Um…yes. It is really rather…dreadful.”
Mr Westcott rubbed his top lip, his eyes questioning.
“I do need to speak with you very urgently, Mr Westcott,” Stanley said again.
“Is there perhaps…a reason why you do not wish me to visit the room of longcase clocks tonight?” Mr Westcott asked, his brow furrowing into tiny lines.
“Oh, no. Not at all,” said Stanley.
Perhaps a little too earnestly, for Mr Westcott’s slim fingers reached past Helena towards the door handle for the second time and twisted it open.
Florence swung round as the door opened.
“Hickory-dickory,” squawked Orbit, swooping into the air.
Florence clutched a winding key in her right hand. The clock case in front of her was open, the hood at her feet. The winding key fell from her fingers to the floorboards with a bump.
“Oops,” said Ralph in dismay.
Mr Westcott stood mute in the doorway. His eyes flickered to Ralph, to Florence, and finally to Orbit, who was doing great loops around the chandelier swinging from the ceiling. At the sight of Helena, Orbit squawked happily and flew towards her, his wings brushing against Mr Westcott’s wan cheeks.
Helena let Orbit settle on her arm, smoothed his wings with a shaking hand. “I…think I should explain,” she said.
Florence was staring at her father, her eyes wide. “It isn’t Helena’s fault,” she said in a mouse-like voice.
“Definitely not her fault. Or her father’s,” said Ralph in an equally small but determined voice.
The sounds coming from the clocks which were still working seemed soulful, as if they mourned the gaps of the lost ticks and swooshes of missing pendulums.
“Perhaps if we can just go downstairs, Mr Westcott…” Stanley said hopefully.
“Quiet!” Mr Westcott’s voice was low and commanded attention. His eyes were now fixed on his mother’s clock – at the stationary moon-faced pendulum bob. He appeared to be in a trance, his eyes glazed, his face as pale as marble. He walked slowly to the clock and placed his hands on the case, as if willing the pendulum to start again. “This clock has not stopped since…” He paused, his hands dropping from the clock and balling into fists. He pressed his curled fingers into his eyes. “Evangeline…I am so sorry.”
“What has this to do with Mother?” Florence asked. “And Helena’s father did not let this happen,” she said.
“But…Mr Graham is in sole charge of these clocks. He promised to keep them ticking…” said Mr Westcott, dropping his hands and blinking. Colour was flooding back to his face, mottling it pink.
“And he has,” said Helena breathlessly. “He would never have let them stop.”
“Look…look at this pendulum bob.” Mr Westcott’s words were so quiet, they were almost inaudible over the sound of the clocks which had been wound.
Helena’s eyes flitted to the moon-faced pendulum bob. The sneer on its silent painted face seemed mocking and filled Helena with a deep-seated dread.
“Do you not realize what has happened…what the consequences will be?” Mr Westcott’s words were louder this time and his whole body began to tremble, as if he was a rag doll being shaken by a small child.
The room was spinning. Helena’s breathing was too fast, too shallow and a tsunami of dizziness made her suddenly feel like she was swimming underwater. “No,” she breathed. “No. I truly don’t know what the consequences will be…but…”
“You and your father. You are both responsible for this,” Mr Westcott said, interrupting. He walked to a vase Helena had brought in from the stable, filled with globe-like pink peonies from the garden. He caressed a petal with his fingers. “I thought things might be…improving…that there was a chance that…we…” A low moan came from his lips. “Mother. Father. Bertram. Evangeline. No.”
Florence’s face contorted into a mixture of horror and embarrassment. “Father,” she said. Her voice was clear and high, like a leaf blowing on the wind. “Please, Father.” She stood in front of him, her hands clasped. “We have found out things…about Aunt Katherine. She…she says you are…ill…she wants you to be admitted to an asylum. But I don’t think…”
Mr Westcott’s cheeks grew even more mottled, like a fast-spreading nettle rash. “Silence!” he bellowed.
Florence pressed her lips together, shrank back against the wall.
Mr Westcott’s eyes blinked furiously as he stared at his daughter, his gaze then moving to Helen
a and Orbit, who was walking across her shoulders.
“Stop, clock, stop, hickory, dock,” chattered Orbit, suddenly taking flight from Helena and landing on the hood of Mr Westcott’s mother’s clock.
“Oh,” murmured Helena.
Florence clutched at Ralph’s arm.
“That…that…bird,” stuttered Mr Westcott.
“Squawk. Pretty bird. Pretty bird,” said Orbit. “Mother loves Helena.” Helena’s mother’s laugh tinkled from Orbit’s beak sending spears into Helena’s heart.
Mr Westcott lurched forward and grabbed at Orbit’s feet.
With a screech Orbit took off, swooping around the room in a dizzying circle then landing on Helena’s left shoulder.
“Give him to me.” Mr Westcott’s instruction was a whisper.
Helena reached round and gripped Orbit’s feet. He ruffled his feathers and nuzzled her neck.
“Bring the bird to me, now,” Mr Westcott repeated.
“Pretty bird, pretty bird,” Orbit crowed.
Helena shook her head, planted her feet on the floor and prayed that they would take root and she and Orbit would twist together like a vine, joined for ever.
“Oh, but, Sir….” Stanley squeaked.
“Quiet,” Mr Westcott said in a firm voice.
Orbit cowered into Helena’s neck, his beady eyes wide. “Bedtime. Time for bed, sleepy head,” he muttered.
An earthquake-like shudder was making Helena’s legs shake.
“Father…please…no,” Florence said desperately.
Mr Westcott strode to Helena and whisked Orbit from her arm.
Orbit squawked in surprise, tried to flap free from Mr Westcott’s grip.
All the words in Helena’s throat dried up and crumbled into dust, as Mr Westcott turned and strode from the room, Orbit’s cries echoing behind him. The thing she had most feared had happened, her precious bird – the last piece of her mother – had been lost. She had gone against her father’s wishes and left the clocks unattended while he was out, so the dreadful reality was that she had only herself to blame.
