The Clocks in This House All Tell Different Times

by Xan Brooks

  Coach told the truth, that final night in the forest. The funny men went missing in action and were promptly listed as dead. Each has decided he prefers it this way. They have forgone disability payments to ensure widows’ pensions go directly to their wives. They have settled their accounts; they have severed their ties. Were it not for Grantwood they would be all alone in the world.

  No doubt the land is full of similar casualties; men who slipped briefly off the map only to be relocated later. No doubt most were quick to make sure that the error was corrected and their families informed. But there remained, in the end, a handful – maybe more – who peered into a mirror in search of a face, or dabbed at a blanket where their legs used to be, and concluded that they were not the same men they had been before. They did not look the same or move the same or think along the same lines as the men who went into battle. They had been so transformed that there was little point going home. It would upset those who had known them; it would disturb the world’s balance. The Bible does not record what happened to Lazarus after Jesus raised him from the tomb and threw him back on his family, beyond suggesting that the Jewish priests were scandalised and wanted the stone rolled back into place. The Scarecrow thinks this sounds about right and that Lazarus’s family might have wished the same thing. The initial thrill of reunion would be overtaken by an undertow of consternation and then a creeping kind of horror.

  When the Maudslay turns off the track and honks its horn, the funny men gather in the courtyard to welcome their guests. Lucy is delighted to see them and it takes but a minute to show her the cottage. What was once the sitting room has been given over to Toto, who can’t manage the stairs. Instead, they all gather in the kitchen, which opens onto a back garden that ends almost as soon as it begins at a dark yew hedge as high as a man’s head. The Scarecrow’s bedroom is a tumult of papers and books and laden ashtrays, but the Tin Woodman’s next door is almost comically neat. The bed is so crisp and ordered it looks as though it has never been slept in, as if the Tin Man simply props himself in a corner and flicks a switch at his back. Lucy has an urge to tease him about this, but there is something so intimate about being shown into his room that she finds she can’t do it; she feels awkward and shy.

  The girls are to share the third room, at the back. It contains a bed and an armchair, and a modest chest of drawers. The window is uncurtained, but the view is lovely: over the top of the yew hedge to fields and woodland beyond. Lucy puts her packing case on the floor and takes it all in with a glance. She doesn’t need to be told that this was the Lion’s room once.

  “One important rule,” declares Coach when they are back in the yard. “You don’t go up to the main house, ever. It’s not for the likes of you. Don’t even walk in that direction. If you have to walk, walk the other way across the fields at the back. Even then my advice is to go early in the morning or late at night when it’s dark. Your best look-out is to stick around here.”

  Crisis is keen to have his say too. “The other big rule: clean up after yourselves. Come to think of it, clean up after us and the fellows to boot. You’ll have to earn your keep and we have plenty of jobs you can do. There’ll be enough time for dirty business. Time enough, I’m sure.”

  Crisis is right. In the days that follow there is time for dirty business of every kind. Working in tandem, Lucy and Fred clean the cottages, prepare shepherd’s pie and wash dishes after dinner. They launder clothes and peg them to dry on the drooping line in the yard. They shovel the stables and wash down both lorries until the vehicles could pass for new if you squinted your eyes and stood at a thirty-yard distance. And they perform these duties without complaint. Winifred explains it is a great opportunity and that they are basically employees of the Grantwood estate and this means they’ve pulled themselves closer to the aristocracy than either their parents or grandparents managed to do. She says running away from the Ring-o-Bells was the best decision she made. She says she can’t believe Edith and how stupid she was. Poor Edith jumped ship just a moment too soon and if she had only stayed put she might be here with them today.

  Scrubbing tiles in the kitchen, Fred spins exuberant fantasies of where Edith is now. She says she saw Edith dancing for pennies outside the Ring-o-Bells. She has heard that Edith has taken a part-time job with the organ grinder, standing in for the monkey when the monkey is sick. She says that Edith recently got married to the fat widowed father of a fat boy in her class and that both the boy and his dad take it in turns to have Edith in bed, and that they both crush her with their bellies and have unfeasibly small cocks. She hears that Edith recently gave birth to a baby. It has a very big belly and an unfeasibly small cock.

  “For heaven sake, Fred, she’s only been gone for a month.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Edith,” Fred says thoughtfully. “Maybe it was John instead.”

  If the evening is cool, they sit with the funny men in the kitchen and play a card game called Bumble and Buck, or such a version of it as their various impediments allow. If it is warm they drag the chairs out into the yard and pass the bottle between them, like al fresco revellers on an Italian piazza. The funny men are not fussy, they favour rum, gin and scotch. Lucy decides that she likes the gin best of all.

  “Oh Falconio, Falconio. I’m drinking like an Eye-tie and I’m so far from home-io.”

  Crisis heaves up his bedroom window. “Last time, I swear it! Keep the fucking noise down!”

  The Tin Woodman waves this complaint away with his hook. “Who is this chap anyway? Falconio.”

  “Little Eye-tie fellow. Bookmaker. Money-lender. He broke my grandad’s armio.”

  Toto says, “We’ll get him for you. We’ll rough him up.”

  “Oh leave him alone, poor little Falconio. Best thing that could have happened, if you ask me.”

  The Scarecrow says, “What a vicious kid you can be. I shouldn’t care to get on the wrong side of you.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk. You killed people in the war, the whole lot of you. How many did you kill in the war?”

  “Conservative estimate?” says the Tin Man. “Six hundred, at least.”

  “Three bears and a tiger,” the Scarecrow confesses.

  “Put ’em up. Put ’em up. I’m seeing red which means you’re dead.”

  “See what I mean? Vicious.”

  “But that’s why we love her,” the Tin Man explains. “She’s our little spitfire. She’s our wildcat. She’s one of the best I’ve had and by God, I’ve had a few.”

  Fred dissolves. “Oh Tinny, you bastard. Always thinking of Mench.”

  Toto says, “Pass that over here, you’ve been at it too long. And anyway,” he adds, “where does that leave our Lucy? What’s Lucy’s special appeal?”

  “Don’t,” she pleads. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  The Tin Man says, “Lucy’s appeal is that she’s the nice one. Men lust after the bad girl and they dream of the nice girl. It was always that way and it always will be.”

  “So you’re saying we’ve got the ground all covered?”

  “Indeed I am,” the Tin Man says. “What I’m saying is, we’re living in paradise.”

  She does wish that Crisis had not called it dirty business; it seems an unnecessarily mean thing to say. It reminds her of what Great Crested Owl had said on that last night in the forest, or her grandfather’s remark when she was leaving the Griffin. And immediately he said it, it felt as if he’d sent her off on the wrong foot, like a long-jumper who stumbles on his run-up to the board. Because it was not long after that, on her first day at Grantwood, that the Tin Man took Winifred with him upstairs and Toto requested she join him in what used to be the sitting room. And on this occasion the procedure felt strange; it was bothersome and uncomfortable in a way it had never been in the forest. Even with the curtains drawn, the day outside was far too bright and she was conscious of either Coach or Crisis clumping about in the
yard. There was a framed picture on the bedside table of a woman she supposed was Mrs Toto, and a pair of spectacles he would put on to read the newspaper. The pillow smelt of his hair tonic, and once he had installed her beneath the sheet, he had her help him remove his shirt and his vest, which meant that she could see clearly where his arm had been torn off and his side pierced by sharp objects. And while this sight did not repulse her as she might have assumed beforehand, it did make her sad and breathless and she thought she might have to leave, it was looking that bad. But then she demanded some scotch from the bottle by the bed and drinking calmed her anxieties, or certainly softened their edges, and after that it was the same as before, or very nearly. She does not like the scotch so much as she likes gin. Still, she has discovered that all have their uses and, lucky for her, there are plenty of bottles to hand. All those years at the Griffin, surrounded by bottles. Only now does she discover what a comfort they can be.

  On Saturday morning Coach says that he might drive down to London to pick up provisions and that if she were to give him six shillings she could ride along too and drop by at the pub. She says, “Why should I pay you six shillings if you’re going there anyway?”

  “Five shillings then. Don’t chisel me, girl.”

  “But you just told me you were going there anyway.”

  “I only said I might be. In any case, it’s off my regular route.”

  She weighs this up and says, “Maybe next Saturday.” If she gives Coach five shillings and her grandfather five shillings then that obviously leaves only five shillings for her.

  Another thing that bothers her: while she is called to Toto’s room and the Tin Man’s room, she is never called to the Scarecrow’s room. Winifred shrugs that she hasn’t been either, but that it makes no odds so long as the Scarecrow pays up at the end of each week and that it is common practice in business to pay to keep the goods on reserve whether you use them or not. She adds that the Scarecrow is probably drinking too much and that this has made him too sick and dozy to manage much else. But Lucy is unconvinced. The Scarecrow has never struck her as remotely dozy and she doesn’t believe he drinks any more than Toto and Tinny. If anything, he drinks less. Most mornings he is up and working while the rest lounge in bed. He has set himself up in the workshop across the yard, where he likes to repair the broken furniture from the middle cottage and construct cutlery that can be used by men with one arm. Some of these items could be sold in a shop, they are that impressive. She is particularly taken with a combined knife and fork that operates on a hinge. But he has also made a spoon with sharp sides that cuts the food first so it can be lifted to the mouth. The Scarecrow says that the only task beyond the power of a one-armed man is taking the top off a hard-boiled egg.

  Finally the suspense grows so great that she resolves to confront him. She pads to the workshop and asks him outright when he is going to ask her upstairs and he glances up from his varnishing and informs her, quite shortly, that this will not be an issue. He adds that he is prepared to pay for her and Fred to be here, but that what happened in the woods was wrong, and will not be repeated. Then he returns to his work and leaves her standing there like a fool.

  Close to tears, she says, “It makes no sense. Why are you cross with me?”

  “I’m not cross with you,” he snaps, which of course makes him sound more cross than ever. “Why must you be so deliberately dense?”

  Dismissed, feeling hurt and confused, she turns on her heel. Mrs Coach eyes her froggily from the bench in the yard.

  And there is one last thing that bothers her. When the money changes hands she sees that Winifred has lied. The lie is not especially great, but even a middling lie is a lie nonetheless. Fred had explained that she earned one pound in her first week at Grantwood but had agreed to cut her fee to fifteen shillings to ensure Lucy’s inclusion. But when the banknotes are passed over it becomes apparent that Fred is still on her regular rate, which means that she is being paid more for the exact same work. Lucy takes the view that this is wildly unjust. She is careful not to cause a scene in public but rounds on Fred when they are alone in their room.

  “Lucy, Lucy,” Winifred says soothingly. Then she abruptly changes her mind and adopts a different tack. The girl leaps onto the bed and brandishes her pillow as a shield. She screams, “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me! My lawks, Lucy-Goose, I’ve never seen you this way.”

  “It’s not funny, Fred, I’m really angry about it. It’s really bad form.”

  With faint reluctance Fred lowers the pillow. “Business problems. We’ll sort it out. But don’t you be getting all het up with me about it.”

  “How will we sort it? I thought it was sorted.”

  “Christ, Lucy, simmer down. And anyway, how was I to know they were going to still give me a pound? I was as surprised as you were. But what should I say? ‘Oops, sorry, you’ve given me too much. Here, take it back and have the next one free of charge’?”

  Lucy says, “I just think we should be paid the same.”

  “We will be,” Fred says. “I’ll have a word with Toto.”

  Standing alone in the cobbled courtyard, she can see the gables and chimneys of the big house. She could open the gate and walk there in three minutes but of course she does not, it would send Coach apoplectic, so she has learned to appreciate the house from one remove. Hardly a night goes by without the place throwing some kind of revel. The dark air brings bright noise. Men’s laughter booms like distant thunder. Excited women shriek like fireworks. From time to time a band will play and the songs are wanton, exultant and thoroughly foreign to her ears. She has never heard music that bears even a passing resemblance; she suspects it might not strictly be counted as music at all. She wishes someone would see fit to throw up the windows and open the doors. She would dearly love to be able to hear the music more clearly.

  The obvious consequence of consuming too much rum, scotch or gin of a night is that she has developed a tendency to wake early and then is frequently sick. Winifred is more hardy, she rebounds like a ball. The trouble is that Winifred snores and spreadeagles her limbs and it is all Lucy can do to maintain her berth in the bed. She wants to requisition a spare mattress from the storage cottage, but the days keep slipping past her and she has not got around to it yet.

  One bright, balmy morning – perhaps the last truly warm one of the year – she hauls herself upright shortly after eight, which means she has slept for a good deal less than five hours. But when she descends to the kitchen she sees she has company; the Scarecrow is up too. Despite their last fractious exchange, she supposes she is still glad to see him. She likes him best of all the funny men.

  He says, “Can I pour some tea? Or would madam prefer to vomit first?”

  She accepts the tea and gingerly sips. “What are you reading?”

  He turns the cover to face her. The Island of Dr Moreau, by HG Wells.

  “Is it good?”

  The Scarecrow nods. “It’s not bad. I think The Invisible Man is better.”

  “This tea. It’s not bad either.”

  Her studies her face. “I’m glad to hear it. That said, you remain a quite interesting shade of green.”

  “I think I’ll be alright. I just need some fresh air.”

  They find a gap in the hedge and strike off through the field, following the route that Coach has instructed is the only one she can take. Along the way he runs her through the plots of The Island of Dr Moreau and The Invisible Man and she resolves to read them both because she is sorely missing her books. The mist is rising off the grass and a kestrel has stationed itself as a fixed point overhead. She feels less sick; stretching her legs has worked wonders. They circle the woodland, which is really not much more than a copse, and the return leg affords them a perfect view of the house. It stands warm and golden in its fold of green valley.

  “My God, what a thing. And Fred says they have a camel too.” />
  “That’s true, they do. It’s not very friendly, though.”

  “Who cares if it’s friendly? I just want to see it.”

  Sheep graze the meadow beside the house’s west wing. And in the middle of the meadow, amid the sheep, the servants have erected a medium-sized marquee. She assumes the marquee has been put up to accommodate the excess guests from the various parties and if so might have stood here all summer. The Scarecrow tells her that the marquee is made out of Indian chintz. The sides have been painted with crimson flowers. Each one is far larger than any flower has a right to be.

  “How do you know it’s made out of Indian chintz?”

  “Coach was saying. He called it ‘Indian Chink’, but I worked out what he meant.”

  “I love it,” she says. “Don’t you think it looks beautiful?”

  The Scarecrow grimaces. “I don’t know, it’s alright. I’m afraid it reminds me of a tent I once spent too much time inside. A small field hospital overseas.” A moment later he adds, “Naturally that one was also made out of Indian chintz.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No,” he says. “Not seriously.”

  When they head down to explore, the sheep part like the Red Sea to allow them to go through. There is no sound from within the marquee, the last guests would have departed sometime before dawn, but the interior is still pregnant with the revels of the night before. The air is so fragrant with cigar smoke and alcohol that it feels thickened and sweetened, like condensed milk. Embroidered cushions and silks have been scattered and heaped along the sides. White trestle tables carry laden ashtrays, overturned magnums and champagne flutes marked with the prints of noble thumbs and fingers. She identifies a pair of Turkish hookahs, a discarded top hat and a sequined shoe with a broken heel. Sunlight illuminates the fabric walls, which gently bow and ripple as though the marquee is sleeping; as if it inhales and exhales in its own steady rhythm. And standing there inside the rippling skin, Lucy decides that ghost stories need not always be dreadful and that some haunted houses are significantly better than others. The marquee is at rest after its nocturnal exertions. It is a place of old enchantments and merry shades.