"That's all right,” she said, patting his hand. “You aren't here to talk anyway."
He found his voice. “Actually, that is why I am here."
"Oh,” she said. “If that's what you like. I've got just the girl for you. Her name is Bethany—What's the matter, dear? You're awfully red. Is this your first time?"
"No. Yes! I mean, thank you.” He lifted her hand from his with his free hand and rushed into the night.
It was cool though there was no breeze, for the brothel (which was what it was) was too warm. He leaned against a rough stone wall, taking deep even breaths. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. It was too much. Now he knew the type of man Mr. Johnston was. He should go home. Find his mother, find a home. Plow. Marry. Raise a passel of children. Watch the boys grow into men, and the girls into beautiful women. Grow old and gray and content.
There was a touch on his shoulder. He whirled, prepared to fight.
It was a woman.
She held up her hands. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."
She was dressed so that her breasts bulged from her thin diaphanous blouse. She wore nothing with which to hold them, so that they sagged a little. Her dark nipples pressed against the white fabric. Her skirt reached only to her knees and was made of loose material so that it could be lifted easily.
"You're a whore,” he said.
"Now, that's no way to talk to a lady.” Her finger was on his lips. “I saw you come from Madame Flannery's. She charges too much, and her girls are sometimes diseased. It's best this way."
He tried to protest but while she'd been talking she'd undone his trousers. Her hand was soft and warm; and her nails were sharp but even, so that when they scraped it was not pain that made him take a sharp breath. She pushed him against the wall, pressed her lips to his. She opened her mouth in that way that city girls do. Her hand was guiding his. She put it against something wet and soft, and made him push his finger inside. Suddenly, she dropped to her knees. Her mouth was warm and wet and very skilled.
She stood back up before he finished, hiked her skirt and guided him inside. She breathed heavily and made small noises but did not scream as he thought she would. When he finished, he tried to apologize. She put a finger to his lips, but in a different manner this time. “One silver coin,” she said.
He nodded, his face flushed, and gave her two. That was all the money he'd brought with him. She kissed him on the cheek. “You want anything,” she said. “Anything at all. This is where I am."
And then, like a wraith, she was gone. That isn't to say that she dissolved like a ghost, but that by the time his brain was functioning even to register her absence she was elsewhere.
He tied his trousers quickly. Shame made him run all the way back to the school. His key opened the outer door. He flung himself onto his bed, steepled his hands, and stared at the ceiling. His mother was ashamed to be thought a whore. Yet this woman had been just the opposite, delighting, it seemed, in her business.
Henry was not unaware of the pleasures of sex. During adolescence some girls had been fascinated by his size, and had wondered whether he was proportionate. But the woman had been everything those girls had not been: graceful and interested in his pleasure.
He would see her again. Not immediately. He wanted to, of course, but he wanted to savor the memory for a little while. He had once, in his wanderings as a boy, happened upon a small copse of wild apple trees. The taste of the first apple was exquisite; the second nearly so, but the third tasted no different than any other apple. He did not notice it at once, but only later, while lying beneath the tree, so full that any wolf that had happened upon him would have found him the easiest of prey.
* * * *
The sixth day he was applying pitch to the lip of the roof over the entrance. The roof angled down everywhere but here, where there was a section that jutted up from either side like an inverted V over the door. It was here that he was standing when he fell.
With a cry, he scrabbled at the roof. The brush in his hand fell, but if someone noticed he did not know. He found himself hanging by his fingers, his legs dangling and waving, threatening to send him after the brush. He looked down and saw that there was something catching the sun on the face of the wall.
For a moment, he was certain he would die; and then he managed one leg over the lip and, once flat on the roof, he lay there for a while as his heart threatened to burst from his chest.
When his breathing had calmed, he moved more deliberately, but swiftly all the same, and returned with a length of rope. There was a crumbling brick chimney some dozen or so paces away (he knew it was not to the hearth in Mr. Brightman's office, but having seen none of the other rooms, he did not know where it led, if anywhere) and it was to this he tied the rope. He tied the other end around his waist and around his chest into a sort of harness. He tested it, knowing that his weight was greater than most men. He sat at the lip for several moments. If he fell, he was certain to kill himself and likely someone on the street as well.
He decided; and then he was over the lip.
It was a huge clock face. One hand was on the eleven, the other on the five. Not knowing which was which, he guessed the eleven was correct. He thought it was still morning. When he finished his next patch, he swung over again. The hands were exactly the same.
He still could not navigate the school as well as he would have liked, so he carried a hand-drawn paper map, adding pieces when he came across a new section. Which he did every day.
He first approached Mr. Johnston, but he was asleep on a soldier's cot in his office. It smelled of ale. Then he sought out Mr. Brightman.
He knocked on the door. When the gray-haired head poked out, he said, “Are you busy, sir?"
"Is Mr. Johnston dead?” He didn't sound concerned.
"Oh no, sir. At least I don't think so. He's drunk, I think."
Mr. Brightman's face seemed to fall a little, though that could have been because he opened the door wide. “Is there something you need? I've only got a little time."
"Actually, that was what I came about. I was shingling and almost fell but didn't, and then I saw the clock. Why doesn't it work? Surely someone could fix it."
Mr. Brightman sat in his chair. “Well, that isn't precisely true. Yes, someone could. But do you remember how I told you colleges were about questions? Well, I have one for you. When you paint furniture which part do you paint?"
"All of it."
"Really? The backs as well? How curious. But do you paint them with the same attention to detail? No, of course not.” He made himself comfortable in his chair (as much as was possible, at least) but did not indicate that Henry should sit. “This building used to be the mayor's office. The buildings beside us were the post, the police, the town council room and so forth. When the city grew, the government required more space. At least, that was what they said. We bought the space and connected the buildings. I'm sure you've noticed. In fact, if you haven't realized, the entire block is the school. That is why it is safe for you to sleep in the courtyard. Yes, I know. I wander at night, remember?
"So the street just out there used to be much wider. But as the city grew, the streets became smaller as buildings encroached. The clock is too high to read easily from the furthest side of the street. If no one is to use it, why bother? That's why I asked you about the furniture."
Henry's eyes brightened. “Could I see the inside? I won't touch anything."
Mr. Brightman pursed his lips and knitted his bushy eyebrows. “Touch all you want.” He removed a key from the desk. “Why? It's just a clock."
"This is about questions, right?"
Mr. Brightman nodded. “Very good."
"Have you been to the country?"
"Once, to visit a sick aunt."
"When you did, what was the first thing you noticed?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose the wide open space. But that's not what you want. All right. Your question is too general, you see
? Try once more."
Henry thought hard. “I can't. You're much better than I am."
Mr. Brightman dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “The Socratic method does not come naturally. And there is something to be said for plain speech. I think that might be what I most noticed when I visited my aunt."
"Ah!” said Henry. “You see, you noticed something that you don't have. I don't mean that you aren't capable of it, sir, of course. I mean that it is something you have heard of, but is uncommon. You see, farmers don't have clocks. We live by the sun more or less."
Mr. Brighman nodded. His chair creaked. “Of course. You don't need to divide the day as such.” He rummaged through the selection of books behind his desk, grumbling a little, then found one and offered it to Henry. “This should explain the mechanism well enough. Oh, I know, reading is difficult; but there are some excellent drawings. By all means, enjoy yourself. Be careful. Oh, and I was going to deliver this to you later.” He handed over a plain envelope. He stood and opened the door. “Good day, Henry."
The envelope contained a letter from his mother. The door closed behind him softly. He read the letter by the light of the candles. She wrote better than he did, though not much.
* * * *
Dear Henry,
I am glad to hear you are well. I am too. I have found that the work is pleasing and does not hurt me as much as I thought. The women are nice too. We are like a machine is how they say it. I had thought to visit you but it seems that we are very good seamstresses in this factory and so must work a lot. If you have a holiday please come see me. But write first.
Your loving mother,
Edna Vick
* * * *
School was to begin in two days. The clock, he decided, was not going anywhere. But the woman whose name he did not know might. It was unlikely; but less so than the clock. Just outside the entrance and across the street, he looked up at the clock face; but Mr. Brightman was correct. All that could be seen was the glass itself. The hands could not be seen.
He sought her out using Mr. Johnston's heavily folded map. She was not where he expected her to be. Perhaps she was with another man; if so, he would wait. Between the brothel and the building beside it was a narrow alleyway unlit by any of the streetlamps. It was here that he made to hide.
He waited for a long time; and then he heard, behind him, wet sounds and grunts and moan. He turned. There was little to see, but his eyes had adjusted to the dark as well as they could and he could make a woman with her back pressed against the wall and a man pressed against her. The man was thrusting hard; it wasn't long before he stopped. He pressed something into the woman's hand and ran away.
She smoothed her skirt.
Henry walked to her. “Hello,” he said. He saw that her blouse was open. Her breasts were smaller than he remembered. He thought she was a little thinner than he remembered, as well.
"Well, hello,” she said, smiling.
He walked up to her swiftly (fearing his courage would leave him soon) and kissed her hard. She wrapped her hands in his hair and pulled him to her. She untied his trousers. Her hands felt good. Suddenly she lifted herself up, wrapping her legs behind his back. He had to hold her tightly but the experience was better than he would have thought.
When he finished, she untangled herself. “That's a silver,” she said. She began to button her blouse.
"I don't have one,” he said. “A few coppers..."
Where she had hidden the knife he couldn't imagine. But it was cold against his manhood all the same. “Your turn,” she whispered. Her voice was harsh the way a hand run against a rough plank is.
"I can pay you later."
"No good,” she said, her mouth tight, her lips thin. “A merchant can cut off your hand for stealing his wares.” She shifted the knife a little.
He felt tears coming to his eyes. “I'm a student at the College. Look, here's my key. I'll be back soon."
The knife slid away. Her face was paler than he thought. “No. No, no, no. Why didn't you say so? Never mind. Just, just let's say that we're even. Don't speak to me ever again, all right? Then we'll be even. All right?"
He swallowed, and reached for his trousers before she could change her mind. “Sure,” he said. “Sure."
She walked away, her hips swaying. As she turned the corner he thought he heard her say, “Lonely, are you?"
* * * *
Before Mr. Johnston's gout began to act up, before he began to medicate it liberally with ale, Henry said, “Where's the key to the clock tower?"
"Clock tower?” said Mr. Johnston. “Nothing up there you need."
"Mr. Brightman said it was all right. See? He gave me this book, so I can look around."
Mr. Johnston's face was doubtful. “You going to finish your work? Well then, I guess it won't hurt.” He hunted through a series of keys hung on hooks beside his cot. “This one, I think. If it's not, come back. But get your work done, all right?” He waggled a finger.
Against the odds it was the right key. The door was a little access door on the opposite side of the foyer from the entrance, hidden beneath the first landing of a set of heavy oak stairs. The door was so small Henry had to nearly double over to enter. There was a narrow cast-iron staircase that wound its way upwards. There was a thick layer of dust and a number of cobwebs, some new and some broken. He stepped on something soft—probably a rat dropping. Through a hole in the ceiling he could see a brass sphere about the size of an ox's head. A piece of wood held it to whatever it was connected to above. It was dark and stifling here, for there were no windows and only the one door which had remained locked for so many years.
The second-floor door led to a room that was empty save for a set of weights about half the height of a man and a few dove feathers. He closed this door.
There was a third door at the top of the stairs: heavy, but not locked. Henry guessed that the room must be covered on all sides with heavy wood, else the noise would be deafening when the bells were struck. A breeze ran through all sides of the room. A massive iron frame filled with a number of gears and axles dominated the room. One wire went from the frame upwards; when he glanced up, he could see the belfry. Another two wires ran up, through some pulleys, and down to the weights below.
The wood from the sphere was connected to a piece of iron shaped like a quarter moon with two sharp teeth on either end. One of these was hooked into a gear. When he pushed the wooden pole, which took a good deal of strength, the sphere swung and when it reached the furthest height, it released the tooth, which let the gear turn with a loud grating sound; and then this was caught by the second tooth. He feared what he might have started, especially as it was so terribly loud, so he stopped the sphere.
When he climbed the next narrow iron staircase, it led to the belfry, which was completely open to the air on all sides through openings in which even he could stand straight. From here he could see the whole of the city on every side. No, he thought, he could see only the cobbled streets; the dark alleys and narrow streets of the type in which he had met his love were not visible. The bell was enormous; he guessed he could fit an entire cow inside. He went back to the iron frame and spent several hours studying it and the book.
One thing he knew: if he was going to start this clock (and he knew he would) he would need plenty of oil and rags.
* * * *
That night he wrote to his mother.
* * * *
DEAREST MOTHER,
I HAVE FOUND TWO THINGS THAT HAVE CAUGHT MY INTEREST. ONE IS A GIRL. THE OTHER IS A CLOCK. THE GIRL IS VERY NICE. THE CLOCK IS NICER. IT IS NOT USED. IT SEEMS A WASTE TO ME. DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN I FOUND THAT SICK CAT? I WANTED TO DROWN IT. YOU SAID NO. YOU SAID EVERYTHING HAS A PURPOSE. I BELIEVE I HAVE FOUND MINE.
YOUR LOVING SON,
HENRY
* * * *
It was the longest letter he had ever written. By the time he had finished, the sun was just beginning to show itself through his window.
* * * *
He had spent most of his saved money on his love. The remainder he would need for books (which he thought would be a terrible waste on him, but Mr. Brightman said they were necessary) and other supplies. He could not afford the oil and the rags, not yet.
He spent the last day before class on the roof, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the smell of pitch which reminded him so much of home. Mr. Johnston did not ask for the key; Henry was certain he had entirely forgotten. While he was in Mr. Johnston's office, he realized that he had overlooked the grease and rags on one of the shelves. There were a number of tools as well. And Mr. Johnston was asleep on his cot.
* * * *
There was something pleasant about the space. He could hear doves outside, and sometimes they would fly down from the belfry if he was quiet enough. There was a quiet air of neglect. His neighbors had used to be Mr. and Mrs. Martin, a quiet elderly couple. When Mr. Martin had died, Mrs. Martin quietly sold most of her possessions and moved in with her sister to the north. The farm had been sold in parcels to her neighbors which meant that the simple house and barn that stood on her land lay empty. Sometimes he would sit in the barn for a few moments, enjoying the silence, the smell of forgotten hay, the sounds of sharp nails on wood. It was not abandoned by all: there was a family of mice that made its home in a dark corner; and there were cats who chased those mice. This clock tower felt much the same way: abandoned by men only.
He wasn't sure he had permission to touch the mechanism; he didn't ask.
First there was a great deal of dirt to remove. With a soap and rag he wiped away the worst of it. Then he began to systematically disassemble and clean each piece. He had nearly every piece laid on the floor so that he knew the order in which to assemble them, when he realized that he could only just see the outline of the gear in his hand. He laughed. Time had passed with his knowing it while he cleaned the clock.
* * * *
School started. After so much time, he knew where the classrooms were, and which he was to go to. There was a system of bells for those who did not have watches. (They cost more than he was paid in a week; and anyway, he had spent most of his money.)
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 Page 11