The Timekeeper

by Emily Rodda

  There was a crack, like lightning. Danny jumped. The crowd shouted with one voice, and began pushing forward. Trapped in the mass of people, Danny was pushed forward too. For a minute he thought he was going to be squashed. He could hardly breathe! And then, with a clang and a thump, something in front of them broke, shrill whistles sounded, and the crowd surged ahead.

  Danny was swept along with them down the hill, stumbling over the grass, only just keeping his feet. He nearly tripped over the wire fence lying twisted and flattened on the ground, but saved himself just in time. It flashed across his mind that the fence must have been what had broken so that the crowd could get through. But there was no time to think about why the fence was there, or where he was now being driven. All he could do was concentrate on staying upright. On not being trampled by the yelling, excited grown-ups behind him.

  Then, suddenly, the movement stopped. The crowd scattered and people began bending down, picking things up from the ground and stuffing them in shoulder bags and pockets. Danny stood still, bewildered. Wind roared around him, tearing at his clothes and hair. Ahead of him, very close, was a shimmering wall that seemed to be covered in metal bars. A huge black crack showed in the wall, and things were falling out of the crack, and scattering all over the grass below. Was this Finders Keepers? Was this the game? Not a quiz show, but a sort of treasure hunt?

  Danny looked at the ground. By his feet he saw a leather glove. And a pink hair clip in the shape of a bow. He picked them up and put them in his pocket. Claire might like the hair clip, he thought. And maybe he could find the other glove, for Mum. For a minute he felt quite pleased. He started searching for more things to collect.

  And then he saw the soldiers. Soldiers in red uniforms, and in black uniforms too. Suddenly they were everywhere, closing in on the crowd. They were rushing at people, pushing at them roughly, trying to drive them back. The black-uniformed soldiers had big sticks.

  The back of Danny’s neck prickled. Still the people bent to the ground, gathering things as fast as they could, backing away from the soldiers but never looking up. Danny stood frozen, clutching at his pocket. A group of people staggered backwards towards him, a huge soldier in black yelling and waving his stick close behind them. They were going to run into him. He’d be crushed. Or, even worse, the soldier would get him. Danny stared, horrified, at the shining black stick as it thrashed the air. He had to move. He had to.

  He tore his feet from the ground, tripped, and scrambled away on all fours. The hard earth and clumps of grass hurt his hands, but he kept going, scuttling like a mouse, panting and shaking, head tucked down, eyes shut, expecting every moment to feel a hard hand on his neck, the thump of a stick on his legs.

  But it was his shoulder that was thumped as he cannoned straight into something hard. He gasped and opened his eyes. And then he saw that he had bumped into the corner of a house he hadn’t known was there. A little red house, sitting by itself in the field. He looked back over his shoulder. The fight was still going on behind him. He crawled around to the back of the little house and curled himself into a ball against the wall. It was shadowy here, and he could stay out of the way. Be hidden. Be safe, maybe. He lay as still as he could, shaking with fright.

  In the grass in front of him a splash of colour caught his eye. He stared at it for a moment and then cautiously reached out a hand. His fingers grasped something cool, hard and round. Curious despite his fear, he pulled the object towards him. It was a bird. A small, blue-and-yellow china bird with a round body and tiny tail and wings. Its little beak was open, as if it was singing, and its painted eyes were perky and bright.

  Danny gently touched the bird’s beak with his cheek. His fingers curled protectively around its smooth, round chest. It felt friendly and familiar to him. It fitted into his hand just like his golf ball had, and it weighed about the same. It was very comforting.

  “Stop!” shouted an angry voice close by. Danny’s head jerked up and to his horror he saw a group of people with bulging pockets and bags running straight for his shelter, pursued by a huge, black-uniformed figure waving a stick. He got to his feet, his find clutched in his hand.

  The running people reached the hut and began weaving around it, jeering and laughing at the furious soldier.

  “Hey, Wendy! You in there, Wendy?” shouted one, a white-haired old woman in a green cardigan, purple dress and football socks. She rapped on the wall of the hut as she scooted around the corner. “Hey, Wendy! Don’t think much of the help you’ve got in. Can’t run for nuts! You ought to give him the sack!”

  “Get back where you belong or you’ll be sorry, you miserable lot,” roared the soldier, spitting with fury. He banged on the wall of the hut himself. “Minelli!” he shouted. “Get out here. Now!”

  Danny decided it was time to leave. He bent his head against the wind and began trotting up the hill towards the trodden-down fence. Behind him, above the sound of the wind and the rumbles of the sky, he could hear shouts and thuds. He lowered his head even further, and pushed on.

  Back at the sentry box, Wendy Minelli had come outside and taken charge. “You’ve got what you came for, you lot,” she was calling good-naturedly to the rebel group. “Fun’s over. Just do what you’re told now, will you? Do me a favour!” She singled out the ring-leader – the old woman in the green cardigan. “Come on, now, Ruby. Do the right thing.”

  “Aw – OK.” The old woman grinned delightedly. “But just for you, Wendy. Not for this git in the fancy hat.” She dodged nimbly as the Agent swung at her with his stick. “Come on, you lot. Back to camp!” Waving and giggling, the ragged group turned and trailed back up the hill.

  The black-uniformed Agent bared his teeth in rage and pulled at his peaked cap with its silver badge and shining brim. “Think they’re so smart, don’t they,” he snarled. He rounded on Wendy. “And I suppose you think you are too, Minelli! Well, just let me tell you this! The kid gloves are off after today. That’s the word. Tomorrow we’ll be wiping the smiles off their cheeky faces. And about time!” He looked over Wendy’s shoulder and he frowned. “Hey, you!” he barked. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Wendy spun round to see Claire peeping from the door of the hut with startled eyes. “My partner,” she said, as casually as she could. “We were on our tea-break.”

  “Oh, how nice,” sneered the Agent. “Well, tea-break’s over! Get back to the Barrier and do what you’re paid for. Go on!”

  Wendy hurried to Claire’s side. “Come on,” she muttered between clenched teeth. She half-led, half-pulled Claire out of the hut. Claire looked nervously over her shoulder. The Agent was still watching them suspiciously, tapping his stick against his boot. Beyond him, trudging up the hill, were the people Wendy had sent away. And wandering beyond them, higher up, she saw, with a shock, a small, very familiar figure.

  “Danny!” she screamed. “Danny!” She struggled to break free of Wendy’s firm grip. “Wendy, let go,” she pleaded. “Let go. It’s Danny! I’ve got to get to him!”

  The watching Agent stiffened. “What are you playing at?” he roared. “Get a move on!”

  “Keep walking,” hissed Wendy, pulling Claire along. “Keep walking! You’ll never make it past the Agent, Claire. If he takes you in for questioning we’re in deep trouble. We’ll have to work till he loses interest in us. It’s our only chance.”

  Tears streaming down her face, Claire stumbled on, away from Danny, towards the Barrier.

  13

  A Meeting

  Patrick was prowling around the hospital building, looking for another way in. He knew there must be one. No building he’d ever seen had just one entrance. For a start, there’d be a fire escape, wouldn’t there? He kept close to the shrubs that lined the path beside the building. Big old hydrangeas nodded their heavy blue heads as he brushed past them. They smelt of leaves and damp earth.

  “Visiting hours start at two-thirty on this floor,” the nurse had said. “Come back this afternoon.” As he had
sat on the grass, wondering what to do, he’d suddenly realised that without meaning to she’d given him an important piece of information. Anna Varga must be here – not upstairs, or in one of the back wings of the hospital, but somewhere here, in this old part. Or the nurse’s order wouldn’t have made sense.

  Patrick stopped short. He could hear voices in front of him, around a bend in the path. He lowered his head and moved on as quietly as he could, sheltering against the hydrangeas. At the bend he stopped, edged forward and peered out.

  Two women in pink stood chatting on some narrow concrete steps that led from the path into the building. As Patrick watched, one of them flapped a duster on the stair rail. “Well, Elise, better get on with it, I suppose,” she said. “I’m all behind this morning.”

  The other woman nodded. “I know,” she agreed. “Honestly, I thought the clock was wrong when I looked earlier. Couldn’t believe how the time had flown. Funny how some days are like that, isn’t it?”

  “Clocks!” laughed her friend, flapping her duster. “Don’t talk to me about clocks, Elise. I heard enough about clocks in Number 12 this morning to last me all week. Clocks, clocks, clocks. And none of it making sense. And then she had the hide to call me a fool. Then she worked herself up till I thought she was having another heart attack. Gave me a terrible turn. You can do Number 12’s lunch today.”

  The woman called Elise grinned. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Poor old duck. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” The woman with the duster looked vacantly into the distance. “Sad.” Then she roused herself and turned to go inside. “Still, it comes to us all, Elise, doesn’t it?”

  “S’pose it does,” Elise agreed, and followed her inside.

  Patrick crept along the steps and listened. The women’s voices echoed faintly through the door. They were moving away. He climbed the steps, his hand wet and slippery on the smooth metal rail. He peeped inside. A long corridor lined with doors stretched away from him. Each door was numbered. At the far end he could see the two women, wheeling trolleys. They turned a corner and disappeared from view. Number 12, the first woman had said. In Room 12 there was someone who talked about clocks. Stuff that didn’t make sense. He was sure he knew just who that was.

  He began walking down the corridor. His shoes squeaked on the shining vinyl floor, and he tried to tiptoe. Rooms 6, 7, 8 … He resisted the impulse to check his watch. Just keep going, he told himself. Just keep going. Rooms 10, 11 … Room 12.

  Patrick took a deep breath, opened the door, and slipped inside.

  The room was dim. In a high bed by the window, propped up on three pillows, lay a tiny old woman with long white hair. She was so small and thin that her body hardly made a bump in the white bedclothes. Her eyes were closed, and her fragile, blue-veined hands rested on her chest.

  Patrick tiptoed to the bed. “Miss Varga,” he whispered.

  The eyelids snapped open, and dark eyes met his. Patrick jumped. The eyes seemed to see straight through him. “Miss Varga, I’m Patrick Minter. I’ve come about the clock,” he said.

  She struggled to raise herself from the pillows. Her mouth opened. “My clock!” came the faint, cracked voice. “I’ve been telling them. No one listens. I have to get back to my clock. Tell them!” The black eyes were filled with fear.

  “It’s running fast, Miss Varga.” Patrick forced himself to go on.

  “No!” Anna Varga’s head tossed on the white pillow. “No, it must not run fast,” she groaned. “It must be accurate, to the second, do you hear me? I must go to it. Now!”

  “Miss Varga, you’re sick, and you can’t go,” said Patrick, looking back at the door. Her voice had risen. What if someone heard her and came in? “Tell me what to do.”

  But the old eyes had closed. When they opened again they were blank and dull. They focused on Patrick in puzzlement. “Who are you? What do you want?” droned the voice.

  Patrick swallowed. “I … I’m Patrick. I’ve come about the clock, Miss Varga. Don’t you remember? Your clock. In Chestnut Tree Village.”

  “Ah – yes – Chestnut Tree Village.” Anna Varga’s fingers plucked vaguely at the sheet covering her. “The shopping centre. The big new road. Once there was a house there, before the road went through. A house and a farm and gardens. Once. And my clock. The Timekeeper.” Her eyelids fluttered. Her voice droned on.

  “Before, in the garden, there was a sundial. Before that, a rock. They were enough. The shadows marked the hours. The sun, and the shadow.” Her voice dropped to a low murmur. Patrick had to strain to hear. “The old ways were best,” said Anna Varga. “The sun never failed. But I was young. I didn’t understand that then. I heard what others had done, in London, in Switzerland, in France, in China, and I wanted to be like them. I wanted to make what they made, have what they had. So I made the clock. My wonderful clock. So long ago. So long …” Her hand moved to her throat. “So tired,” she whispered. “So tired. Can’t understand …” She closed her eyes.

  Patrick chewed at his thumbnail. What should he do? He looked at his watch. It was ten to eleven! His stomach jumped sickeningly. He had to do something. He had to reach her, get her out of the dream world in which she was wandering. Now!

  “The Timekeeper is running five minutes fast, Miss Varga,” he said loudly and clearly.

  “NO!” The old woman’s scream sounded incredibly loud in the small room. Her eyes, wide open now, fixed on Patrick, piercing him through.

  “Tell me what to do, Miss Varga,” Patrick pleaded. “Tell me!”

  With an enormous effort the thin old hand moved to point at the bedside cupboard. “In there. My bag,” said Anna Varga.

  Patrick opened the cupboard door and pulled out an old black leather handbag. He held it up for her to see.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” For a moment her eyes closed, then they opened again. “The plans. Inside. Get them.” She wet her lips with her tongue, and again struggled to sit up higher on her pillows.

  Patrick opened the bag. It was almost filled by a bulky folded paper. He lifted it out carefully and opened it out flat on the cotton blanket. The paper was soft, thick, and yellowed with age. Its edges were furred and torn, and deep creases furrowed its surface, which was covered with a faint, spidery diagram.

  Patrick squinted at the diagram in dismay. In the dim light he could make out little of it, and it was so complicated! Anna Varga’s bony finger stabbed at the paper. “It must be the regulators,” she muttered rapidly. “It can only be the regulators. All else is well, I know that. But to gain so much! I cannot understand it. Unless …” Her eyes widened.

  She struggled on her pillows, pressed her hand to her heart and fell back. The plans slipped to the floor. Patrick exclaimed in horror and backed away from the bed.

  “No!” gasped the old woman, as if reading his thoughts. “Get no one. They will not understand. They are fools here. They will delay you. And I will survive if the clock survives. Do you see? What you do for the clock you do for me. But you must hurry. Be strong! Take the plans. Go to the clock. You will find that one of the regulators has broken loose somehow. Replace it, and everything will be as it was. Do you understand?”

  Patrick nodded. He picked up the plans.

  “Go!” panted Anna Varga, clutching at her chest. “Go now, boy! Go!”

  Patrick turned, and ran.

  Down the corridor, out the door, down the stairs into the heat he pelted, the plans clutched in his hand. He rounded the corner of the building and pounded past the front entrance where the unfriendly nurse in the blue uniform stood talking to a woman in a straw hat. The nurse looked shocked, then angry, and called out after him as he raced on up the tree-lined drive. Patrick didn’t look back.

  He checked his watch as he ran to the pedestrian crossing. Seven minutes till eleven o’clock. “Hold on, Max,” he whispered. “Wait for me!”

  At the crossing he had to stop. The lights were red, and several people were waiting to cross. Patrick hopped fr
om one foot to the other. Then he had an idea. He could use this time. He unfolded the diagram and scanned it anxiously, trying to make sense of the fine lines and scratchy writing. It was clearer out here in the light. He picked out the outline of the tree, the sun behind it, the hole from which the squirrel peeped. Then “Regulator”. The word leaped up at him from the old yellow paper. Once, then again. Several times. And each time it appeared, a line led from it to – a bird. A little drawing of a bird.

  “What!” Patrick shouted the word aloud. The birds – the little birds that popped out of the tree on the hour. They were the regulators. And one had broken loose, just as Anna Varga had said. One had broken loose when the clock was shaken up last Saturday. It had broken loose and fallen into a flower pot. It had lain there for a week, while Anna Varga lay helpless in hospital and the clock ran faster and faster. And this morning it had been found. And now it was in Claire’s shoulder bag. “Yay!” carolled Patrick, ignoring the nudges and grins of the kids standing around him.

  The lights changed to green, and Patrick hurried across the road and raced for the shopping centre entrance. From now on it was easy. All he had to do was get the bird from Claire and stick it back where it belonged. Easy!

  “Easy! Easy!” he sang under his breath, running up the ramp. He felt wonderful. Nothing could go wrong now.

  14

  Disappearing Acts

  On the other side of the Barrier, Danny dropped to the ground and crouched, exhausted and bewildered. Around him scattered groups of people talked and walked, huddling together for protection from the wind, or comparing things they had found at the bottom of the hill. Below him a crowd had gathered to jeer at the black-uniformed soldiers who were mending the broken-down fence.

  Danny slipped his thumb into his mouth and with his other hand held the little china bird to his cheek. He thought about Claire and Patrick, now certainly frantic with worry and phoning home. He thought about his mother and father. And for the first time he wondered if he’d ever see them again. Tears started dripping down his cheeks. He put down his bird and furiously wiped them away.