“Ah, I see.”
“Are you ready to get to it?” Sam asked.
“I am, indeed.”
“Wonderful. C’mon over here, my boy. Let me introduce you to Links.”
“Links?” Joaquin inquired, following the clockmaker to the odd, bulky machine.
“We call her ‘Links’ ’cause that’s what she does—makes chain links.” Sam chuckled.
Joaquin failed to see the humor in that.
“Uh.” Joaquin turned to Tilly, who smiled and returned to her own workstation.
Sam sat down at the machine and pulled a thread of brass wire from a turning drum bolted in the wall next to the legs of the chair. Below the workbench was a pedal connected to Links.
“You take the wire and place it in,” Sam explained, slipping the wire through a marble-sized hole in the table beneath the machine. “The jaws do most of the work. Watch.”
Sam pressed down on the pedal, let it up, and pushed it down again in an unbroken rhythm. As he did, the belts on either side of the machine rolled over the wheels and the entire thing was set into motion.
“It’s best if you keep a steady pace,” Sam explained over the machine’s loud clatter. “You don’t want to go too fast. It could mess up the links.”
As the machine moved, the wire was brought up into the jaws, where it was clamped and bent into chain links that connected. It happened so fast it was difficult to see the process happening. The finished chain slithered out from the other end and gradually descended through another hole where the chain coiled around inside a box on the floor.
Sam eased up off the pedal, wheezing.
“Oh, my,” he huffed, taking out a hanky from his vest pocket and wiping the sweat from his brow and pate. “I can’t keep that up like I used to. Now, each chain should be no longer than six feet.” Sam tapped on a ruler glued to the edge of a long, skinny table beside the machine. “When the box fills up, you use this measuring stick to determine where to sever the chain with the pliers. You got it, Mr. Ash?”
“Call me Jake, please,” he insisted with a grin. “We’re family, eh?”
The clockmaker’s wrinkles deepened when he smiled. “That we are, lad.”
As the duffer rubbed his shaky hands and returned to his work desk, Joaquin shucked off his coat and hung it on a wall hook next to Tilly and Sam’s. He sat at the machine and began pedaling. It took a little getting used to, yet, once he fell into the rhythm, he got the gist of it.
At the end of the day, his leg was sore from pedaling, but he’d made his quota of six dozen chains. He also assisted Sam in threading a few through the clocks and connecting the weights to their ends.
Not bad, he thought proudly.
The group closed up shop and headed out the door.
“Are we taking our newest member to the boozer?” Daniel asked Tilly.
She looked over to Joaquin. “Would you care for a drink? We usually visit the pub after our shift.”
After locking the front door, Sam put on his cap and headed down the sidewalk. “Goodnight to you all.”
“Goodnight, Sammy,” Tilly called.
Daniel waved to the clockmaker. “Night, Sam.” To Joaquin, he said, “Ol’ Sam doesn’t go out and get bollixed anymore.”
“Ah, well, I’m afraid I can’t, either. I have no money for it.”
“We’ll pay for you,” Daniel offered. “Seein’ how it’s your first day and all.”
Joaquin was taken aback by his generosity.
“I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering,” Tilly corrected. “You can buy us a round when you have it to give if it makes you feel any better.”
Joaquin wouldn’t mind a pint in the least, although he needed food more. He had eaten only a cheese sandwich and an apple earlier. Regardless, the little gathering would be the perfect opportunity to gain the trust he needed to learn whether the safe was still kept upstairs.
“All right, lead the way.”
They brought him to an underground pub designed to resemble an industrial seabed. Greeting people at the door was a metal diving suit with many portholes pocketed over the helmet. The clunky body had disproportionately oversized metal arms and legs. A wooden submarine was displayed in the center of the pub, surrounded by steel drinking tables cut to look like gears. Iron pipes converted into gas-powered lamps, hung overhead. Near the bar, which was made of more piping and shiny brass, was a large replica of a submarine porthole window where live fish swam inside a tank within the wall itself. Framed paintings of sea turtles, seahorses, and ships being attacked by a kraken were mounted on the black brick walls.
“Over here” Daniel said, going over to a vacant booth. “I found a snug.”
They took a seat while Daniel went to the bar. He soon carried over the drinks he had ordered.
“Ale for you, my good man,” he announced, giving Joaquin a pint. “Whiskey for the lady, and the black stuff for the Irishman.”
They made a toast to Joaquin.
Tilly sipped her whiskey and set the glass down. “Tell us a little about yourself, Jake.”
Joaquin already had a cover story.
“Nothing much to tell. My mother passed away when I was young, and my father raised me on his own. He worked as a store clerk in a pharmacy. We lived a fair enough life. I was never without the basic needs. He wanted me to attend university and become a physician, but, instead, I left to find my own way.”
“What have you done?” Daniel asked.
“I’ve worked odd jobs across England. None exciting in the least, but working in different occupations does offer teachings in various trades.” His empty stomach twisted when he took another drink. “What about you two?”
“I’m from Belfast,” Daniel explained. “Me da was a carpenter who taught me the trade. I started out carving wooden sculptures. A few years ago, I decided to travel to England to obtain an occupation as a woodcarver. So here I am.”
Joaquin turned to Tilly. “What about you?”
“I haven’t much to tell, either. I came from London. Most of my parent’s earnings went toward the bottle. To earn my keep, they put me in a sewing factory when I was six.”
Her story was a sad reminder of when he and Pierce were separated from their parents and forced to work in the cotton mill.
“Sorry to hear that,” Joaquin said earnestly.
“Don’t be. It opened my eyes to a grander world. I learned to sew and how to work with clothing patterns.”
“Aye,” Daniel chimed in. “Tilly here aims to design her own line of clothing someday.”
Joaquin’s eyebrows arched up. “A fashion designer, eh? Impressive. Why aren’t you still working as a seamstress?”
“The factory life isn’t for me. The years I spent in there taught me everything I could learn. Besides, I enjoy working with clocks. There’s something about them that I find artfully fascinating.”
“You ought to break down and buy a used sewing machine down at the antique store.”
“I don’t want one of those hunks of junk. I want a top-of-the-line machine. If I keep saving, I’ll have me one someday.”
“And it’ll take you ages what with the wages we’re gettin’ paid. Considering the quality of work we put in, we ought to be paid loads more.”
Tilly lifted her glass. “Aye. I’ll drink to that!”
They all clinked glasses and drank.
“Things were much better when Mr. Clacher was alive,” Daniel admitted dolefully.
“Really?” Joaquin asked. “How’s that?”
“We had the pleasure of working for him during his final years. Mr. Clacher paid his employees what they deserved,” Daniel explained. “Paid holliers and all that. He even sent hams to us every Christmas. He was a good feller, unlike his ninny boozy son, Artair, who inherited the business after his father’s death. I swear, if Mr. Clacher could see how he treats Sam, he’d box his ears, he would.”
“What do you mean?”
/> “Sammy and Mr. Clacher were childhood friends,” Tilly explained. “They grew up in the same poverty-stricken neighborhood here in Birmingham. When Mr. Clacher opened his initial workshop, he offered Sam a job. Sammy had lost his wife, and his grief had turned him into an alcoholic. Mr. Clacher sobered him up and hired a clockmaker to teach him the skill.”
“Aye, a generous mate, indeed,” Daniel interjected. “Mr. Clacher even forgave Sam when he fell back into the juice a couple of times.”
“Is that the cause of his shakes?”
“That and age,” the Irishman replied grimly. “Artair keeps him around not out of the goodness of his heart, but because Sam hasn’t been able to retire. He needs the job so badly he is willing to do so even after having his pay cut in half.”
“Where is Artair now?”
“He’s supposed to be returning from London tomorrow,” Tilly answered. “He travels there a lot.”
“Aye, it’s nice when the maggot is away. He leaves Sam in charge. Not that the eejit does much managing when he’s around. Won’t be long before Artair runs the whole damn place into the ground.”
“Enough of this bleak talk,” Tilly spouted while standing. “I’ll fetch us another round, and when I come back, we’re going to discuss lighter things.”
As she left for the bar, Daniel nudged Joaquin with his elbow. “She’s a mighty fine woman, that one. Too bad she ain’t gonna save up to get that bloody sewing machine before Clacher Cuckoo Clocks goes to pot.”
* * *
The following morning, Joaquin made it in on time, though it proved very difficult.
“Hair of the dog, eh?” Daniel remarked when Joaquin came in looking out of sorts. “Didn’t think you drank that much.”
“I hadn’t. It’s just that I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”
“You haven’t?” Tilly said as she punched her timesheet into the timeclock on the wall. “You really are hard up for money, aren’t you?”
“What’s this now?” Sam intervened, coming from the assembly area. “Who’s hard up for money?”
“Jake,” she said. “He hasn’t got a pot to piss in, poor thing. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
Joaquin wished he’d kept his trap shut.
Sam looked at him. “Is that true, my boy?”
My boy. Indigo Peachtree used to call him that. In a way, Sam reminded him of the kindly old toymaker.
“I don’t mean to start a ruckus,” he said. “It is not the first time I’ve gone without eating. I’ll work, all the same.”
“Not on an empty stomach, you won’t,” Sam declared, reaching into his pocket.
Tilly went into her pocketbook while Daniel rifled through his own pocket of his slacks.
“There’s no need for charity,” Joaquin argued.
They paid him no mind. Instead, the men set a few silver coins in Tilly’s hand, and she approached him with it. “Here.”
“I can’t take your money.”
As a thief, it felt strange to say such a thing and actually mean it.
“You can, and you will,” she demanded, taking his hand and slapping the loot into his palm. “Buy yourself some fried eggs and corn-beef stew. Maybe a slice of pie after.”
Her words made his stomach rumble loud enough for the entire workshop to hear. For the first time in ages, he blushed. Tilly only smiled her drop-dead gorgeous smile. “We’re family here, Jake. We look after each other. Go eat, please.”
He couldn’t refuse. He thanked them and left. Not since he lived with Indigo had he found such kindness in people. He almost felt bad he was there to rob the company they worked for.
After he ate, he returned with a full belly. Everything carried on as normal until Artair came in.
“This place is absolutely shabby” Artair stated while standing inside the assembly room.
Right away, he came off as a prick dressed in a high-class suit. Someone who had accomplished nothing on his own other than to reap the benefits of his father’s hard work and innovation. Joaquin thought of him as a git, for, though he appeared older, he exuded a strong stench of immaturity.
Standing outside in the woodcarving area was a pair of constables, one holding a fairly large leather satchel.
“Your father loved this workshop, Artair,” Sam argued. “It’s where he started his enterprise.”
“I know that, Samuel. I used to live here, remember?” the git stated matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t change the fact that this place is still rubbish”
The expression on Sam’s face was a hurtful one, as if the git had insulted his own home. Perhaps, in a way, he had. Sam had worked more than twenty years inside the little workshop, creating beautiful cuckoo clocks and building a legacy that Artair has destroyed.
“Even the old apartment upstairs is a mess,” Artair put in.
Joaquin’s ears perked up. He eyed the leather satchel the officer carried. It must be a deposit in progress, which meant the safe was still up there! He did his best not to eyeball the bag for too long.
“And who is this now?” Artair demanded, referring to Joaquin, sitting at the chain-making machine.
“This is Mr. Jake Ash,” Sam introduced. “He was hired on yesterday.”
Joaquin stood with a fixed smile and held out his hand. Artair snarled as if to say, What gall!
“I did not hire this man,” he retorted sharply to Sam.
“No, Daniel did. You said we could bring someone else in to make the chains, since I can no longer do so and Tilly is already doing two jobs, as it is.”
The git appeared to recall the conversation.
“Ah, yes, I suppose I did. In order for me to pay him, however, I’ll have to dock each of your wages.”
Joaquin couldn’t believe what just had heard. The green frock coat with checkered trousers and silk vest that the git wore had to have cost a fortune. Clearly, the tosspot was brimming at the seams with loot.
Tilly stood with a shocked expression. “You can’t, Mr. Clacher.”
“Sorry, Miss Lincoln,” Artair said in a snippy tone, cupping a leather-gloved hand behind his ear. “What was that now?”
She kept her words sealed behind her lips. The concern in her eyes spoke of the fear of what could happen if she protested further.
The git smirked at her apprehensiveness to speak up. “I thought so. You need to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, especially since I provide the wages to pay for your meals, and I daresay, many meals.”
The sickening twist in Joaquin’s gut that usually occurred when he grew angry began forming. His beast wanted to surface and tear into the git and his expensive suit. It took tremendous willpower to calm the beast down.
“Artair!” Sam retorted. “That was uncalled for.”
“I don’t want to hear it from you, old man. You’re fortunate I keep you around at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to hand over my keys. I must go upstairs.”
Sam reached into a desk drawer, his face red with anger. His hands shook horribly as he handed the keys over.
“Your shakes are getting worse, Samuel. If I were you, I would think about taking up the bottle again to steady those nerves.” He turned on his heel. “Be back momentarily.”
He left for the closed door at the end of the woodcarving area, leaving somber and irate employees behind.
Joaquin didn’t want to pry, mainly because he was upset with the insult against Tilly, but he had his own job to do. “Doesn’t he have his own keys?”
Sam sat down at his workstation and slowly swiveled around to continue his task. “The fool has bad luck with them. He loses them constantly, so he entrusts me with the keys to the workshop and to the upstairs apartment.”
Joaquin found that interesting.
That night, he rode out with Luca and Giles and robbed a few stagecoaches. They made enough to share a low-rent room, food, stable lodgings for their horses, and even a few pints at a nearby tavern.
“Is the safe up there?” Giles
asked Joaquin.
“I am fairly certain of it.”
“We ought to get at it tonight, then,” Luca suggested. “We can pick through the locks and be out lickety-split.”
“Do you know the combination to the safe?” Joaquin snapped.
Clearly, Luca had not thought so far ahead. “Erm, no.”
“What a coincidence,” Joaquin said, lifting his pint. “Neither do I.”
“Christ, Landcross,” Giles chuckled. “You are as much of a smartass as your brother.”
“Don’t bring him up,” Joaquin warned hotly. “Ever.”
Giles cringed. “All right. Sorry, mate.”
Joaquin reached into his pocket where he kept the stolen coin purse.
“I need a little more time, eh?” Joaquin uttered lowly.
* * *
The following morning, as Joaquin was heading for work, he spotted Tilly on the other side of the road, staring at something through a store display window. He crossed the road, careful not to step in the horse dung that nearly covered the entire street. “Morning.”
She turned her gaze to him.
“Jake,” she said with a start. “Good morning.”
She turned away quickly, but he saw the tears anyway.
“Are you all right?” he asked just before he noticed the shiny iron sewing machine with decorative flowers painted on it.
“Aye,” she said, bringing out her hanky. “I decided to depress myself before going in today.”
She dabbed her tears away and set her somber sights back on the sewing machine. “Why couldn’t Artair be like his father? Mr. Clacher was a kind man who gave to his community. If I ever make a success out of myself, I will follow his example.”
It sounded like a promise, a plea to the outer cosmos.
“Perhaps I should quit,” Joaquin offered. “Then he’ll raise your wages back.”
She shook her head. “Artair won’t do that. Most likely, he’s been looking for an excuse to dock our pay and found it when Sam requested he hire someone else.”
“I see,” Joaquin grunted. “Here.”
He brought out a few guineas, gently took her by the hand, and placed them in it.
“Where did you get this?”
The Reunion Page 22
