“And when I pulled you down you went right to sleep, Simon’s baby, and I had to get the rainwater. Water wakes people up. Only it didn’t this time, and I thought you’d gone away. But I waited, to make sure.”
“Rainwater?” I asked eventually. My mind was working slowly. I could not seem to move away from the memory of that floor so far below us, from the believing that I could float there.
“Water from the bucket,” said my uncle, “for catching what comes from the ceiling.”
I looked at the puddle on the floor, touched my sopping nightgown, and then smelled my hands. That water must have been there for quite some time. “Thank you, Uncle,” I said.
“You got confused,” he said again.
“But Uncle Tully …” I looked up again. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it late?”
“No, no. Not late. It’s early, quite early, so early that it was only late thirteen minutes ago.”
I took that to mean it was twelve minutes after midnight. I must have slept right through the chiming of the clocks. I had gone to bed at nine, or maybe half past, I couldn’t remember. What had I been doing in between? Perhaps I didn’t want to know.
“But why were you in the chapel, Uncle?” The irony of the question was not lost on me, since I didn’t know why I was there myself.
“For clocks!” he said. “And the ticking. Clock ticking is very nice. You know exactly when the ticks will come, unless you forget to wind them. It is always easy to know what a clock shall do. And it tells you things that are important, like when … Are you sad, little niece?”
The horrible truth was only just hitting me, that if Uncle Tully had not been there, listening to what his clocks told him, that my body would now be a broken heap on the chapel floor. And that it would have been no one’s doing but my own. A cold emptiness took the place of my other thoughts. I think the feeling was despair. I wiped at my eyes. “It’s just that … I don’t like to be confused, Uncle Tully,” I said, “and I’m … very cold.”
My uncle got up and stood next to me, and then his coat dangled near my face. I wrapped it around my shoulders. It was warm. He sat down beside me, not too near, reached out, gave one of my arms the briefest of pats, and then sat on his hands. He was wearing a long nightshirt that fell below his knees, and his feet were bare.
“I think I should tell her a secret,” he said to himself. “Should I? Shall I? I think I shall!” His voice echoed slightly before dropping to a confidential whisper. “Sometimes I get confused.”
I couldn’t help but smile at him. “Thank you for telling me, Uncle.” Then my smile faded as another thought struck. “Do you think … that perhaps we might not tell anyone else about my … being confused?”
Uncle Tully rocked on his hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know, Simon’s baby. Who do I not tell? Mrs. Jefferies brings the tea, and Lane knows what is right. I could ask Lane….”
“Never mind,” I said quickly. I was feeling more alert now, and it would not do to agitate him. Probably the less he thought on the subject the less likely he was to mention it. “But could I ask you to do something else for me, Uncle? Something that is important?”
He leaned forward again, the blue of his eyes bright and intense.
“Could you walk with me … to Marianna’s room? You know the way, don’t you? I don’t want to … get confused, or …” I lowered my gaze, hoping I would not cry. It was difficult to admit these things, even to my uncle. “I don’t want to make another mistake, on the way.”
“Oh, yes! Yes, yes! That is right. You should go to Marianna’s room! That is just so. Come on, then. Come on!”
So I followed after my uncle, the end of his nightshirt flapping against skinny calves as he bounded confidently through the stairways and corridors. When we reached Marianna’s door, he stopped, still bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“See!” he whispered happily. “We did not forget at all. No mistakes!”
“No, Uncle.” I opened Marianna’s door, and saw the key sticking out of the lock from the inside. I must have done that, I thought, though I did not remember.
Uncle Tully stepped inside his mother’s room, wringing his hands together, turning around and around in his own circle, the right way, of course, as I had done when looking for Davy. The fire was nearly out, but there was a soft glow on the wardrobe and the walls. “You made it clean,” he said, accomplishing only a very loud whisper. “That is splendid. That is as it should be.” But then unease spread all over his face. “But you are not sitting. That isn’t right! It isn’t right….”
I dropped quickly into my chair beside the hearth, where I normally sat with my tea before bed, sorry that I was getting my favorite place wet, but more concerned about upsetting the delicate balance of my uncle’s comfort. He gazed at me as I sat in the chair, happiness radiating from his face. “Yes,” he said, “that is where you sit, where you both sit. That is just the place you both belong. Just so.”
I looked back into my uncle’s beaming smile. It was Marianna he was seeing sitting in that chair, and the knowledge stabbed me, ripping right through my middle. Marianna would have never betrayed him. “Uncle Tully,” I whispered, “may I give you a kiss good night? I forgot to ask … the last time.”
Uncle Tully frowned and began twisting a section of his nightshirt. Then he came to my chair and suddenly thrust out his neck, eyes squeezed shut as if trying not to see something dreadful. I kissed the place where the prickling beard met his cheek, and he was out the door, arms pumping. Then his head popped back around the doorjamb. “Don’t forget playtime, Simon’s baby!”
When his footsteps were gone, I shut the door and locked it, hung his coat on the back of a chair, to let the damp spots dry, took the metal bucket from the hearth and shoveled some glowing coals into it. I carried the bucket into the bathing room, opened the rose-petal door, and loaded the little firebox below the water cylinder, first turning the key in the door to Mary’s room, though it wasn’t likely I would wake her; she truly did sleep like the dead. I twisted the water from my nightgown into the basin and laid it on the hearth chair beside Uncle Tully’s coat. Then I sat on the floor, naked but for my dressing gown, waiting for the water to get warm, watching heat ebb from the remaining coals.
When the water was hot, I filled the tub and slid inside, letting the warmth soothe the chill that had not quite gone from inside me, unbraided my hair and washed it, scrubbing every inch of my skin, then scrubbing every inch dry when I was done. I put on a clean nightgown, removed the sash of my dressing gown and carefully made a knot with it around the bedpost. Marianna’s bed was warm, the pillows soft, but I did not lie down. I made a decision. If I was going to live a lie, then that lie would not be for me alone. There were eighteen days, and if those days were to be Uncle Tully’s last, then by God they would be the happiest I could make them, no matter who I had to hurt, including myself. The trogwynd blew, a soft note that might sing me to sleep. I looped the end of my sash around my wrist, and tied myself to the bedpost.
The next morning I found a trail of pink wallpaper when I ran my finger through the dust on the library wall. So I borrowed an old dress of Mary’s — with her permission, this time — and we covered up our hair, tied on aprons, opened the windows, and set to cleaning.
“Lord, Miss,” Mary giggled. “What a sight you are!”
I could only imagine. Mary’s freckles were lost in a haze of dirt that had settled on her face as we beat the dust from the pillows, curtains, and rugs. When it was almost playtime, I left Mary to it, took off the kerchief and apron, my hair blousy, and walked the moor path to the Lower Village, a basket on one arm and Uncle Tully’s coat over the other.
But I veered from the path first, climbing the rolling hills, and found Davy’s shallow hiding place. It was empty, but I placed the book about South America beside the little standing stone, draped with a protective cloth and a note tucked beneath its cover, along with a carrot I had pulled from Mrs.
Jefferies’s garden. Other creatures might get the carrot first, but perhaps not. I found the path again and followed it down to the village, my face warm by the time I reached it, but I was surprised when I got there. Doors were shut, windows shuttered, the dock quiet as I passed. I rang the little bell at the green-painted door, mystified.
After a few minutes, Lane opened the door and left it open, hurrying back out of the room as soon as he had. He was sweaty, dark tendrils sticking to his forehead. “I’ve left the … I’ve left something hot!” he called over his shoulder.
I came in and shut the door, hanging Uncle Tully’s coat on a hook. Lane must be melting silver, I thought. I wished I could watch him, but I didn’t think he’d like me to. I was unpacking my basket when he came back, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth. They were nearly black.
“Done,” he said with satisfaction, then saw what I had set on the table. It was an old sherry bottle, corked. He frowned at it.
“Does my uncle like lemonade?” I asked him quickly. “The lemons came from the boat yesterday, and it’s so very hot, I thought he might find it pleasant. But there was only this old bottle to put it in. I found it in the back of the larder. Empty. I brought cake as well.” I began folding the rumpled blankets on the little cot where Uncle Tully slept, pretending not to notice the way Lane’s shoulders sank in relief at the innocent contents of my bottle. “Where is everyone? There’s hardly anyone about on the street.”
Lane hesitated for a moment, then shut the door to the hallway carefully, so it wouldn’t make noise. “There’s been a death in the Upper Village,” he said quietly. “Mr. Turner was sick in the infirmary. An old man, probably not long for this world, in any case, but he was found dead this morning, on the floor with a knock to the head. The committees are meeting, to discuss what should be done, and as anyone that wants to can attend such a meeting, I reckon they’ve all tried. But it’s better if Mr. Tully doesn’t know.”
I glanced at the closed door. “He’s in the workshop?” Lane nodded, coming to pick up the bottle, examining it once before reaching up to the shelf for a glass. I remembered Mr. Turner. He’d not liked the sight of me the day I walked by the canal with Ben Aldridge. “But surely he just fell?” I said. “If he was old and ill?”
“Probably. But there were some things missing from the infirmary as well, and a window had been broken. That’s serious business. We don’t have theft in the villages. Mostly people can get what they need without it. That’ll have to be looked into.” He paused, swishing the lemonade in the glass. “And just so you know, I’ve looked into that … into what you told me, about the room down from the kitchen, with the candles and the ornaments and such, and … I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that anymore.”
“Oh?” I looked up. Lane was leaning back against the table, looking steadily into his lemonade, face flushing beneath the tan. I came to put the cork back in my bottle, though in truth I was only trying to look at him, to see this new color of his skin. Whatever might be causing his embarrassment I could not imagine, but I was enjoying our little pretense too much to risk the asking. So I only said, “Well, if you say it’s fine, I’m sure it is, then.” With everything else, I’d hardly given another thought to the room of the ornaments and that odd dinner anyway. The biggest threat inside Stranwyne, I had discovered, was myself. “But didn’t you want to attend this meeting?”
“No,” he replied. “Someone has to stay with Mr. Tully.” He was still talking quietly, his voice low, and I was suddenly aware that he was right beside me, very still, and that the door to the hallway was shut.
“You could have left him with me.”
“Yes. I suppose I could have.” He was smiling, just a little. Neither one of us moved. “It’s winding day today. You’ll like that.”
“I will?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. I stood with my hands on the basket, Lane not four inches away. “I thought winding day was on Thursday,” I said.
“Thursday is for clocks. This is different.” Then he said, “Are you getting tanned, or are you dirty?”
I looked up to see the gray eyes examining my face, which barely reached his shoulder. “I’ve been helping clean Marianna’s library. For the party.”
“I see.”
“And I can’t find my bonnet,” I whispered. His lashes were so dark, and he was staring so intently at my nose that I thought he might lift a finger and touch it. I breathed deeply. I could smell sweat and smoke and metal and … Lane. If this was his idea of sugar, it was a very unfair one.
He had just begun to smile again when the door to the hallway opened. I turned quickly back to the basket, heart racing, feeling caught at I knew not what. Lane stayed right where he was, arms crossed.
“Hello,” I heard Ben Aldridge say. I turned around.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Aldridge.”
“And good afternoon to you.” He came properly into the room and shut the door, a little tousled from the wind, I saw, and uncharacteristically unshaven. “You’re looking rather well today, Miss Tulman,” he said. “I think Stranwyne suits you.” Then his gaze settled on Lane. “Mr. Cooper has examined the body and believes it was an accident, and the missing bottles have been found. Not stolen, just misplaced. So no need for Mr. Babcock. Burial this evening.” He turned back to me and smiled. “It’s almost playtime, is it not? And I am doubly in luck. Not only has winding day fallen on my day in the workshop, but you will be there to see it as well. May I, Miss Tulman?”
He offered me his arm, and there was nothing to do but take it, and let Lane, his smile gone, follow us into the workshop.
Winding day, I discovered, came every thirty days, and was my uncle’s time to wind all of his toys one by one, to make sure each was well and in working order. Uncle Tully was bouncing as he walked, beside himself with glee at my presence in the workshop, telling me about each toy in detailed, if rather disjointed, sentences. Ben walked with us, seemingly content though he was ignored by my uncle, while Lane hovered just behind, silent, again the protective shadow. But when I looked back over my shoulder, I saw that the shadows had lightened, the gray gaze fixed on my uncle, a small smile mirroring Uncle Tully’s.
I was careful not to ask the wrong questions during our rounds, or to inadvertently touch, until, to my shock and delight, Uncle Tully asked if I would like to push over the dragon. I performed the task with enthusiasm, though not so much as to make another pile of scale painting for myself or Lane, while my uncle alternately plucked at his coat and clapped his hands. When Lane had spun the wheel that stopped the flow of steam and I was catching my breath, dabbing my neck on the sleeve of Mary’s dress, I noticed that Ben seemed pensive. He rubbed his whiskered chin as the dragon’s whirring hum was reduced to a click.
“You seem displeased, Mr. Aldridge,” I remarked. I was flushed and happy.
“Oh, no indeed, Miss Tulman! The dragon is marvelous, isn’t it? But the thought has just struck me that perhaps a mechanism that can keep an object perpendicular to the earth, can also keep another object parallel to it, like the fish….”
I left him to his ruminations and watched the peacock spreading its tail, shimmering with turquoise and purple in the gaslight, and I smiled at the towheaded boy — who was not my father after all — spinning the toy top that never quite left his hand.
The toy that was Simon Tulman sat small and thin with salt-and-pepper hair and a large mustache, leaning sideways in a chair with one leg crossed over the other. I had never really noticed him before; he looked nothing like Uncle Tully or the figure of Uncle George. The crossed leg jiggled every now and again, a nervous habit that reminded me of my own tendency to rock on my heels, and he lifted a well-used pipe to his lips. I gasped and Uncle Tully beamed when the smoke blew from his lips. He had serious eyes, I decided, and perhaps sad ones. I asked Uncle Tully to wind him again, and while he was doing that I said to Lane, softly, so my uncle could not hear, “Where does he get the faces?”
Lane glanced once at Uncle Tully, who was talking to himself while he wound. “The porcelain ones are made at the pottery kilns, where they do the figures for the market.”
“But is this … is it what they really looked like?” I was having trouble looking away from the face of my father.
“Have you never seen a portrait of your father?”
I shook my head.
“There’s one in the house. I’ll show it to you. But there are the portraits to be used, and Mr. Tully makes sure I don’t have the details wrong. He has a very good memory for that sort of thing.”
I thought of the life I had felt in the little silver statues in Lane’s room. “You carve them, for the mold, and then you paint them?”
“Here he goes, little niece!” my uncle shouted. “Look, look!” The pipe rose to my father’s lips. “Simon is thinking of what to do next! He is always careful about what he does next. You should be careful, too, little niece, in case it has not rained again!”
“What is he talking about?” Lane whispered.
“No idea,” I replied, eyes on my father, thoughts on a moldering rain bucket in the gallery of the chapel.
“Lane?” my uncle yelled. “Lane! I hear a tick, a tick where it shouldn’t be! Lane …”
Ready as always, Lane silently held out an oilcan, which my uncle retrieved at a trot, pulling up my father’s trouser leg to fiddle with the gears.
“Monday is my uncle’s time for trying new things,” I said quietly, “and I thought perhaps …” But I had to look away, nose wrinkled. It was ridiculous to feel squeamish, but the way the oil ran, and the way Uncle Tully’s fingers worked inside my father’s leg, it was rather like seeing a surgeon use his knife. I felt Lane’s gaze move to me and knew that he was amused. “I thought perhaps I would take my uncle and Davy to the old castle,” I continued, “up by the water gate at the head of the canal. Mary says it’s just a ruin, but I should like to see it before …”
The Dark Unwinding Page 15