Tin

by Padraig Kenny

  Most mechanicals had their propulsion and consciousness glyphs carved on to their skulls, but Gripper had the large curved symbols all over his body – something as large as he was needed more magic to power him. And yet, despite his appearance and the suggestion of fierceness, Gripper’s dark eyes had warmth and kindness in them. He may have been the oldest of Absalom’s creations, but in many ways Christopher thought of him as the most innocent.

  Gripper ground his jaws together with a hoarse metallic scrape. To the untutored this was just noise, but not to Christopher and the others.

  ‘Mr Absalom tried to sell Jack, Gripper,’ answered Christopher.

  Gripper looked at Absalom and ‘spoke’ again.

  Absalom looked at him incredulously and pointed at Jack. ‘Well, what do you think happened?’

  A cowed Gripper took a step back and held his hands together against his chest in a penitent fashion. Absalom turned towards his shed then stopped halfway, glared up at the sky and turned back to Gripper.

  ‘I’ll need you tomorrow, to help clear some snow.’

  Gripper nodded slowly.

  Absalom looked at Christopher. ‘It’ll be a way of making money,’ he sneered.

  Christopher sighed and followed Absalom into the shed, only to find his master had stopped and stiffened just inside the threshold. There was a brief pause before Absalom raised his arms in an expansive gesture of welcome and said, ‘Estelle!’

  Absalom moved further into the shed and Christopher squeezed in behind him. Estelle was standing by the table. Like Christopher, thirteen-year-old Estelle was proper. She was wearing an old herringbone coat at least a size too big for her. Her oval-shaped face was framed by her dark hair, and she was glaring at the engineer.

  ‘I’ve done what you asked, Mr Absalom,’ she said.

  Absalom eyed her for a moment. Estelle was calm and serious, and was never easily unnerved. She’s like a real grown-up, thought Christopher with admiration, even though she’s only a year older than me.

  ‘Thank you, Estelle. As ever I am filled with appreciation, and I know without even looking that your work is of the highest quality, as always.’

  Estelle stepped forward and sighed. ‘Four yards of skin. That’s four shillings.’

  Estelle held her hand out. Absalom looked at her palm, and then looked her in the eye with a sly, calculating look.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed on three, Estelle.’

  ‘It’s a shilling a yard. It’s always a shilling a yard,’ she replied, not moving her hand.

  Absalom sighed and reached into the pocket of his moth-eaten, oil-stained waistcoat and took out a small purse. He counted the money out into Estelle’s palm, making a show with his quivering fingers, as if handing the money over was causing him great pain.

  ‘Thank you, Estelle,’ he said. His voice was tremulous, almost self-pitying.

  Estelle merely grunted, pocketed the money and headed for the door.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay,’ Christopher blurted.

  Estelle looked at Christopher and frowned.

  ‘It’s a cold night,’ said Christopher. ‘I thought you might . . . that’s if it’s okay with . . . Mr Absalom?’

  He looked at his master hopefully, but Absalom had lost interest and had turned to sort through the junk on his table.

  ‘Thank you, Christopher,’ said Estelle. ‘But I’ve got somewhere to stay.’

  ‘You still lodging with old Mrs Barnaby, Estelle?’ asked Absalom without looking up.

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied.

  ‘Lovely woman, respectable, very fine manners. Surprised you can afford her class of lodgings.’

  Absalom smirked to himself, his lips pursing, as if he was trying to contain his laughter.

  Estelle clenched her jaw and gave him a murderous look that he didn’t notice. She turned and walked out the door, letting in a chilly gust of wind before slamming it behind her.

  Christopher frowned. ‘You should pay her more, Mr Absalom.’

  Absalom grunted. ‘She does fine work, and I look after her and she knows it. She also gets the honour of working for a master craftsman like myself.’

  Christopher raised his eyebrows at the words ‘master craftsman’. He very much doubted that a real master craftsman worked in conditions like this. The table wasn’t the only mess – the whole interior of the hut was crammed with junk, everything from pram wheels to empty cans. There were old wash basins, the shells of clocks that had been gutted for their springs and wheels, sheets of metal, copper wiring and the smell of oil, rust and Absalom’s sweat. Anything that wasn’t jammed on to a creaking shelf was left in a pile on the floor.

  On the left-hand wall there was a large painting, hanging at an angle. It was yellowed and grubby with spots of mould, but if you looked closely you could see it was of a man in eighteenth-century dress. He was standing with both hands on the pommel of a walking stick, and beside him there stood a wooden boy. The boy was covered in carved runes and glyphs. Absalom had rescued the painting from a rubbish tip. Sometimes he would stand under it with his hands on his hips, smiling up at the man in the painting as if he knew him and was greeting him like an equal. Occasionally Absalom would refer to himself in the same breath as some of the great engineers of the past. Christopher looked him up and down. He didn’t look much like a legendary engineer.

  ‘What are you going to make next, Mr Absalom?’ Christopher asked.

  Absalom had picked up two eyeballs from the table, and he gave them both a vigorous polish on his waistcoat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ll take it as it comes this time. I shall let the muse transport me wherever it may.’ He gave a wave of his hand around the room. ‘I’ve had a new consignment of heads, one of which will be the crowning glory of my latest creation.’

  Christopher looked around the room. There were more heads scattered around than usual, but they were a dull grey and looked badly moulded and scuffed. A few had dents in them, and knowing Absalom as he did, he knew they’d still have dents in them once they were up and walking about. He felt a twinge of sadness at the thought.

  Absalom’s ill temper seemed to have waned, but Christopher could still see a trace of resentment in his eyes over the botched sale.

  ‘You should get to bed, my boy. Get everyone inside the workshop. We’ve a big day tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Absalom,’ said Christopher.

  Jack, Rob, Manda and Gripper were waiting for him outside.

  Together, they made their way towards the workshop, which lay directly across the yard from Absalom’s shed. The snow was thickening, and the piles of junk were being buried beneath a smooth white blanket.

  Halfway to the workshop, Christopher heard a terrible squeaking noise, followed by a dull clang. He turned around to see Round Rob’s body spasming towards the workshop – minus Round Rob’s head. The body suddenly accelerated forwards, spun around twice, and then hit the ground. Christopher sighed. Rob’s head was always coming loose. Sometimes the others would take bets on how long his body could keep going without a head. The record was thirty seconds.

  Christopher walked back past the body and picked up Rob’s head. Gripper had already scooped up the rest of him. Round Rob smiled, but Christopher winced at the lock of hair that still hung down over his eye. For some reason, he found that more distressing than Rob’s head coming loose.

  Estelle was inside the workshop gathering her tools together in a canvas satchel. The new skin she’d made for Absalom was stretched across a metal rack. Christopher could tell by the slight glimmer in her eyes that she was pleased with it.

  Sometimes Christopher saw that same look when she was making her mixture in the workshop’s large black pot. She would bend over it, the almost heart-shaped curve of her black hair framing her face. Her lips were always tightly pursed as she concentrated, her eyes dark and intense as she gazed into the pot, mixing and melding, folding the white mixture in and over and on itself like dough, until suddenly, and with
out warning, it would develop a fleshy pallor.

  The trick was to take it out of the pot at just the right point. Take it out too early and it would liquefy and loosen and spill all over the floor, returning to the colour of milk. Take it out too late and it would become a gloopy substance bobbled with lumps and bumps.

  Christopher didn’t know whether it was through instinct or sheer repetition, but she knew the right moment every time, without fail.

  ‘Looks good, Estelle, but not as good as your best work right here,’ Jack said, jutting out his chin and presenting his face to her, pinching the skin on his right cheek and wiggling it.

  Estelle gave the tiniest smirk and shook her head. ‘Goodnight, Jack.’ She hoisted her bag of tools up on to her shoulder and left the workshop to a chorus of goodnights from the others.

  Christopher went and took out his own toolbox from under his bed. He fixed Rob’s head back on to his body, and when he was happy with the fit he picked up his scissors and cut the offending ringlet that had been hanging over his eye. Round Rob thanked him and gave one of his embarrassed but grateful smiles. Christopher then oiled the hinges on Jack’s arms and told everyone to be careful in the snow in case of rust. Jack gave him a mock salute. Christopher took a look at Manda’s short leg next, and made a face when he saw some of the corrosion on her knee joint. He made a mental note to nag Absalom about it, again.

  Meanwhile, Gripper was swinging back and forth from the rafters like a gorilla. Christopher told him to come down, as he didn’t think the beams could take much more punishment. Gripper let go and landed with a crash. Christopher scolded him, but he could see Gripper was pleased with himself and was fighting the urge to do a Gripper grin.

  Exhausted, Christopher sat on his bed and started to take off his boots.

  ‘I think I have dented my bum,’ sighed Jack.

  ‘Told you, I’m not looking at it,’ said Christopher.

  Round Rob sniggered, but Jack was frowning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Christopher.

  Jack looked a little guilty. ‘I was kind of hoping that I’d be sold.’

  Round Rob gave a little panicked whimper. They all turned to look at Jack. Christopher was taken aback.

  ‘Why?’ asked Christopher.

  Jack looked at the floor. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I suppose . . . I suppose I just want to be proper, like you. I’d like to know what it’s like to breathe and to have real skin. Proper skin. I want to know what it’s like to be small and to grow, and to keep growing.’ Jack looked straight at Christopher now. There was a fierceness in his gaze. ‘I want to be like you and experience normal but important things.’

  Christopher was lost for words. He suddenly felt uncomfortable and found he couldn’t look Jack in the eye.

  ‘Important things like knowing what it’s like to have a mum and dad,’ said Jack.

  ‘I don’t have a mum and dad,’ mumbled Christopher. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Jack.

  ‘Tell us what it was like, Christopher. Go on, tell us,’ said Rob.

  ‘What was what like, Rob?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘Having a family,’ said Rob.

  Christopher felt all of their eyes on him. He was used to their questions about his past, and he didn’t mind telling them the stories, but sometimes it just felt a little strange.

  ‘I don’t remember that much,’ he said.

  ‘But what you do remember is good. I like it,’ said Rob, his eyes shining.

  Manda had perked up. Even Gripper seemed interested. Christopher sighed.

  ‘There’s just snippets I remember, like little pictures.’

  Manda lay on the floor now, with her chin in her hands. ‘Tell us again, Christopher. Go on.’

  They were all begging him now. Christopher shook his head and smiled. ‘All right, all right,’ he sighed, quietening them.

  Christopher sat on the edge of his bed with his hands under his thighs. He gazed at the floor as he tried to conjure up images from the past, willing them gently to the surface for fear he might push too hard and lose them.

  He saw a woman’s face. She was in a kitchen, and she was smiling. He felt the familiar warm glow bloom in his chest.

  ‘Mum had blonde hair,’ he said. ‘It was soft, really soft, and it . . .’

  The woman turned. Her hair shimmered and rippled smoothly like a wave of light. Christopher swallowed.

  ‘. . . it was like honey and it lit up the room.’

  ‘Was she pretty?’ asked Manda.

  ‘Very,’ smiled Christopher.

  ‘Very,’ sighed Rob.

  Even Jack seemed entranced.

  ‘She used to bake the best cakes,’ said Christopher. He could see her now in her apron, checked red and white, her hair shining, streaks of flour on her cheeks and nose. He smiled to himself.

  ‘And your dad?’ asked Rob.

  Brown eyes, thought Christopher. He had brown eyes, but that was all he remembered, so he did what he always did and he made the rest up. There was the usual stuff about how good his dad was with his hands. He made things out of wood. Toys and tables and chairs. He had a workshop.

  ‘But not like Mr Absalom’s. Better,’ suggested Rob.

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher. He smiled at the look of wonder on Round Rob’s face, but he felt the tiniest pinch of guilt.

  Christopher told them how strong his dad was, and how handsome he looked, and how he kissed him goodnight on the forehead every night and told him bedtime stories.

  ‘Like you do now,’ said Manda.

  Christopher nodded.

  ‘Tell us about the house again,’ said Rob.

  Christopher looked at him and smiled, but the smile was just to hide the sharp spasm of pain he felt. There was that heat again. The sudden shock of a flame licking the air in front of him, ferocious and orange, and the smell of smoke, the crackling of burning wood, the roar, the terrible roar of air being eaten . . .

  Christopher squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and sucked in air as if he was trying too hard to remember. There was a brief pause as the others waited.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Maybe another time.’

  ‘Is it hard to remember?’ said Rob sympathetically.

  ‘Just a little,’ said Christopher.

  Very, he thought. So very hard to remember so very little, and for so very little to hurt so very much.

  ‘We’ll never be proper,’ said Jack gloomily.

  ‘But we can be better,’ said Rob brightly. ‘Just the other day Mr Absalom said he’d get me a new torso.’

  Jack and Christopher exchanged a look. Rob didn’t see it.

  ‘He says that a lot, Rob,’ said Jack.

  ‘But as soon as we make money,’ said Rob.

  Jack tried to look optimistic, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘Just think,’ said Rob. ‘A new torso. Maybe even new legs. We could all be upgraded. Zephyr grade maybe, or even a Pilkington.’

  ‘Pilkingtons don’t last,’ said Jack.

  ‘A Hockney Mark Two then,’ said Rob.

  ‘I saw a Cormier Original once,’ said Jack.

  ‘Did not,’ said Manda.

  ‘Did too,’ said Jack. ‘Me and Mr Absalom were in East Grimstead in a shop, and a girl came in with her parents. She had golden ringlets, perfect hair. She was dead pretty.’

  ‘It wasn’t her, was it?’ asked Rob.

  ‘Ellie Lockwood? Yes. Mr Absalom said it was.’

  ‘It was never, it was never Ellie Lockwood,’ gasped Manda.

  Ellie Lockwood was the most famous mechanical in all of Britain. They said she was fifty years old, but looked like she’d been made yesterday. She went to all the best parties and she was in all the newspapers. It was said she’d even met the king.

  ‘Did her hair look real, Jack?’ asked Rob.

  Jack nodded.

  ‘I bet her eyes match,’ sighed Manda.

  ‘They’re blue too,’ said Jack
. ‘She has the best skin. They say she can blush.’

  ‘I can blush,’ said Rob. He clamped his mouth shut and started to make squealing sounds.

  ‘You don’t have any breath, Rob,’ said Christopher.

  Rob stopped what he was doing. ‘Oh, right, I forgot.’

  Manda giggled.

  ‘Imagine being like that. Top of the range, and with parents and all. The nearest thing to being proper,’ said Jack.

  Christopher saw the dreamy look in his eyes, and felt bad for saying what he said next:

  ‘They weren’t her parents, Jack. They were her owners.’

  Jack looked slightly annoyed. ‘I know that, but still . . .’

  ‘Top of the range,’ sighed Rob.

  No one said anything. A gust of wind gently rattled the door.

  ‘We should get some sleep,’ said Christopher.

  ‘You mean you should get some sleep – we don’t need sleep,’ said Rob. He raised his right eyebrow, which promptly fell off. He tried to lean over and get it, but couldn’t reach, and he toppled over and started to roll around. Manda started to laugh, as did Gripper, who clapped his great clanking hands together with delight. Jack righted Rob and picked up his eyebrow and handed it to him. Rob held it out towards Christopher in the palm of his hand with a hopeful look.

  Christopher rolled his eyes good-humouredly and dug around in his toolbox for glue. He quickly reattached Rob’s eyebrow and patted him on the head.

  ‘We’ll get you new eyebrows soon,’ he said.

  ‘Cormier class,’ said Rob. ‘All fluffy. Nice enough to run a little comb through.’

  Christopher grinned. ‘Yes. Cormier class. Absolutely.’

  Round Rob settled into his spot among the junk pile. Manda went to her chair, Gripper sat back against the wall, and Jack leant nonchalantly by the door and listened to the wind.

  Christopher pulled his blankets tightly around himself and lay facing the wall. A vision came to him, a vision of flames and smoke, and he screwed his eyes shut in an effort to banish it.

  ‘I’ll tell you what though,’ said Jack. ‘That Ellie Lockwood fancied herself. She had airs and graces. Ideas above her station.’