by Alan Garner
The drums took up the cable.
‘What makes wheels go round?’ said Robert.
Father looked at him from the other side of the clock, through the cogs and gears.
‘You, you swedgel,’ said Father.
‘I mean wheels,’ said Robert. ‘What makes them turn?’
‘You shove them,’ said Father.
‘But why do they go round?’ said Robert.
‘Come here,’ said Father. ‘This side.’
Robert left the winding.
‘Now see at these; these wheels here,’ said Father. ‘All different sorts and sizes, aren’t they, and all act according to each other?’
‘Ay,’ said Robert.
‘And if that little un there should stop, so would that big un yonder. It’s all according, do you see?’
‘Ay.’
‘Well, now,’ said Father, ‘have you ever asked yourself what makes this clock go? Have you the foggiest idea?’ Robert shook his head.
‘It’s this wheel,’ said Father. ‘It’s the escapement.’
In the middle of the clock there was a brass wheel, with pegs set on the rim of the face. Two iron teeth rocked in and out from either side by turns, holding and releasing the pegs, and the wheel came round. The teeth on the pegs were the tick of the clock.
‘You wouldn’t think so small a thing could make so great a sound,’ said Father.
‘But that’s escapement. And the tick goes into the pendulum. You couldn’t have time without you had escapement.’
‘Could you not?’ said Robert.
‘That weight you’re winding must try to get back to the ground, mustn’t it?’ said Father. ‘So it’s pulling on that cable. And the cable turns the wheels. But them teeth, see at them. That comes in and catches the peg, and stops the wheel, stops the whole clock: but the pendulum’s swinging, see, and in comes the other and pushes the peg forwards, and out pops the other tooth, and the pendulum swings, and back comes the tooth. Stop. Start. Day and night, for evermore: regular. It’s the escapement.’
‘I only asked why wheels go round,’ said Robert.
‘And I’m telling you. It’s escapement,’ said Father. ‘Why do you think them weights drop at all? You could say as you weren’t winding weights up, you were winding chapel down. It comes to the same. It’s all according, gears and cogs. We’re going at that much of a rattle, the whole blooming earth, moon and stars, we need escapement to hold us together.’
‘I must go help me Uncle Charlie,’ said Robert, and stepped onto the ladder, into the pendulum bay.
‘That’s right,’ said Father. ‘l knew I could’ve saved me breath.’
Robert went.
‘By, it’s a day’s work to watch you put the kettle on,’ said Father.
Robert went.
‘Hey!’ Father called after him.
‘What?’ said Robert.
‘Was it you as took the extension off the wall and reared it up?’
‘Ay!’
‘By yourself?’
‘Ay!’
‘You’re shaping, youth,’ said Father.
Robert untied Wicked Winnie, and ran with her along the road. ‘What’s he on at?’ he said. ‘“Escapement”? That’s not escapement. It’s fine oil.’
He was able to ride a little under the wood, but he had to keep running to push.
‘Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o!’
‘Who—whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o!’
Robert heard the distant cry of the summer fields go up on Leah’s Hill.
The men were excited. ‘Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o! Who-whoop! Wo-whoop! Wo-o-o-o!’
Then Robert heard a shot. It was hard, not like a gun. There was another. And four quickly after that. And silence. Robert listened. There was no sound. The heat was pressing the day flat, and the air thick with it.
Robert left Wicked Winnie at the gate and ran into the house. He could hear Mother making the beds. ‘Father’s fettling the clock!’ he called up the bent stairs. ‘I’m off up Leah’s!’
But first Robert cleaned Wicked Winnie again, and rubbed linseed into her wood. Then he put the kettle on the fire for Faddock Allman’s brew, and went out.
The bottom field was cut, neat with kivvers. The men and women were eating their food under the hedge. Uncle Charlie was leaving for the road. He had his rifle slung on one shoulder and Faddock Allman over the other.
‘Dick-Richard! I want you!’ he shouted.
‘What for?’ said Robert.
‘Never mind what for. Let’s be having you. The tooter the sweeter.’
Robert ran to where Uncle Charlie stood by the gate.
‘Gently does it, Starie Chelevek,’ said Uncle Charlie. And he carefully set Faddock Allman down in Wicked Winnie.
‘Where’s he going? said Robert.
‘He’s having his dinner with me,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘At our house?’ said Robert.
‘Where else?’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘Has Father said?’
‘He’s not been asked,’ said Uncle Charlie. He bent down to Faddock Allman’s helmet. It had slipped over one ear.
‘I’ll have me brew same as usual,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Young un fetches for me.’
‘Eyes front,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Straighten your pith pot. Get on parade, me old Toby.’
‘Was that you shooting? said Robert.
‘Ay,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘I’m back at work Tuesday: so I might as good practise.’
‘I’ll not come in,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘I’ll not disturb your dinners.’
They had reached the house.
‘Who’s having their dinners disturbed?’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘I’d sooner not,’ said Faddock Allman.
‘What must I do?’ said Robert.
‘Bung him round the back,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘He can sun hisself, and I’ll feed him through the window.’ Robert took Faddock Allman round the side of the house and put him against the white limewash, under the thatch.
‘Shan’t you be too hot, Mister Allman? said Robert.
‘Champion,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Grand.’ He watched the sun.
Robert went back in.
‘Will he be all right?’ he said. ‘It’s a whole topcoat warmer against our back wall.’
‘Not for that old sweat,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘He did his soldiering in Mesopolonica. He’s used to it.’
Uncle Charlie lifted the boiling kettle off the fire and made a brew of cocoa. He took the brew, the kettle and his rifle with him into the garden.
‘Warm enough?’ he said.
‘Grand,’ said Faddock Allman.
Uncle Charlie gave him his brew. Then he cleaned his rifle. He put the bolt and the magazine on one side and poured the boiling water down the barrel, the whole five pint kettle.
He looked into the barrel from both ends, and pulled a length of rag through, fastened to a cord, time and time again until the rifle was dry. He picked up his oil bottle; and frowned.
‘Who’s had this?’ he said. ‘Some beggar’s touched this.’
‘It was me,’ said Robert.
‘And who gave you permission?’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘It wasn’t more than a drop,’ said Robert. ‘I needed it for her wheels.’
‘I don’t care what you need,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘And you don’t touch, think on.’
He oiled the moving parts of the gun, the catches, magazine, levers, bolt and barrel.
Father came round the corner of the house. He had put his bicycle against the gable end. He stopped when he saw Faddock Allman.
‘Now then, Faddock,’ said Father.
‘Now then, Joseph,’ said Uncle Charlie.
Faddock Allman drank his brew and said nothing.
Father looked at Uncle Charlie and went inside. ‘Put the kettle on, Dick-Richard,’ said Uncle Charlie.
Robert filled the kettle, and took it to the fire. Mother was serving Father his dinner.
Robert ran back again quickly.
Uncle Charlie had assembled his rifle and was rattling the breech open and closed.
‘Ease! Springs!’ shouted Faddock Allman.
Father shut the window from inside.
Uncle Charlie smiled. ‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we, Dick-Richard? Your father and me? Him sitting up in that chapel, like a great barn owl, oiling his clock. And me, oiling this. Eh?’
Robert pointed to a bent piece of metal on the rifle.
‘Is that the escapement?’ he said.
(The eswhatment?’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘That’s the cocking piece locking resistence.’
‘Oh,’ said Robert.
‘I’d best be doing,’ said Faddock Allman. ‘Now as Master’s having his dinner.’
‘You stand easy, Starie Chelevek,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘I’ll fetch you some dinner meself.’
‘No. I’ll be off. Young un takes me,’ said Faddock Allman.
‘Does he?’ said Uncle Charlie. He picked up Wicked Winnie’s sashcord and put two turns of it around the boot scraper by the door and pulled all his weight on the knot. ‘Let him unfasten that, then. Come on, Dick-Richard. There’s top field to be cut this after.’
He took his rifle and Robert into the house and sat at the table, on the sofa by the window. Father was eating. Robert stood near the door. Mother poured fresh tea.
‘It’s not brewed,’ said Father.
‘It’s wet,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘Why isn’t this tea brewed?’ said Father.
‘By, it’s close in here, isn’t it, Joseph?’ said Uncle Charlie, and opened the window. Father leaned across and shut it.
‘Give over,’ said Uncle Charlie. I’ve been second man to Ozzie Leah on the scythe all morning, and I could do with a drop of coolth.’
Father tapped the table with his square-ended fingers as he spoke. ‘What’s yon Mossaggot think he’s doing here while I’m having me dinner?’ he said.
‘l fetched him. I’m feeding him,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘There’s a war on,’ said Father.
‘Eh up! Where?’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Now, Joseph: Charlie’s home. Joseph, whenever has the stockpot gone short when Charlie’s home, eh? There’s good flesh-meat, isn’t there, and without granching your teeth on lead shot? Come on, Joseph. Charlie’s home.’
He put his hand on Father’s arm. His own arm was thin and brown under the golden hairs. Father looked down at the arm.
‘Get off with your mithering,’ said Father. He ate angrily.
‘I seem to recollect, Joseph,’ said Uncle Charlie, ‘as how it hadn’t used to matter so much when Faddock Allman was being shot to beggary by them Boers.’
Father didn’t answer. Uncle Charlie cut a round of bread, spread it with dripping, and opened the window. ‘Cop hold,’ he said to Faddock Allman, and left the window open.
‘Eh, Dick-Richard,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Your father’s vexed, seemingly. What must we do to cheer him up?’
Robert looked quickly at Father, and caught a flash of blue eye. Robert said nothing.
‘Here, Dick-Richard,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Over here.’
Robert went. Father ate. Robert was ready to run.
But Uncle Charlie was quicker. He grabbed Robert with both hands, and lifted him and stood him on the table. Robert’s boots clattered among the dishes and his head touched the ceiling beams. He was looking into both men’s eyes.
‘Give us a song, Dick-Richard,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘One for to win a war with, eh? A penny. See.’ He pulled a penny out of his pocket and slid it on the table, holding it under his finger. Robert looked at Father again, but Father was eating.
Robert’s boots shuffled the tea pot. He felt Uncle Charlie’s hand firm holding to his britches. So he sang.
‘Kitchener’s Army,
Working all day,
What does he pay them?
A shilling a day.
What if they grumble?
The Colonel will say,
“Put them in the guardroom,
And stop all their pay”.’
Uncle Charlie hefted Robert down by his britches, and pushed the penny towards him.
Robert took the penny. Father still ate.
‘Dear, dear, Joseph,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Will music never sooth the savage breast? What else can we do?’
He took the bolt and magazine out of his rifle, squinted down the barrel, and put it to his lips as if it were a trumpet. He blew a note.
‘Just tuning,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘No harm done.’
He blew again, and, by altering the shape of his lips, he played the notes of ‘Abide with Me’. His face was dark red and his eyes rolled.
‘You daft ha’porth!’ Father nearly choked on his food.
Uncle Charlie tried to wink at Robert, and went on playing. ‘You lommering, gawming, kay-pawed gowf!’ shouted Father, and coughed and laughed his dinner over the table. ‘Give over! Any allsorts can play that dirge! Let’s have some triple-tonguing!’
‘What tune must I play?’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘There’s not but one tune,’ said Father. He opened the corner cupboard and took out his own E Flat cornet. ‘There’s not but one tune.’ He wet his lips, loosened the valves of the cornet, and looked at Robert. ‘I’ll give you the note, youth. But you can stay off the table. Right!’
Father and Uncle Charlie drew in breath together, and Father began the great tune of the Hough, triple-tongued, fast. Uncle Charlie hit what notes he could, and Robert sang to the soprano E Flat.
‘Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt?
And can you wash it clean?
Oh, can you wash a soldier’s shirt,
And hang it on the green?’
‘And again!’ shouted Father. ‘Ready!’
Retreat! Forward! Charge!’ shouted Faddock Allman beneath the window.
Robert couldn’t sing. His neck hurt. Uncle Charlie slid under the table with laughing. And Father played, his cap on his head, standing above his dinner, and played until the tune was finished.
‘Ay,’ said Father. ‘Mesopolonica.’
After dinner, Robert took Faddock Allman back to the stones by the roadside. Uncle Charlie walked with him, carrying his rifle and a spade from the end room of the house.
‘Your father,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Take no notice. He was a bit upset.’
‘I know,’ said Robert.
‘He’s a man very fluent in giving.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s them horseshoes and the hours,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘They could take his touch away for ever, him as is the only best smith from Chorley to Mottram. If I was Joseph, I reckon I’d live in chapel clock till this lot was done with. But I’m lucky, Dick-Richard. It’s me trade. Now. What shall you be?’
Uncle Charlie lifted Faddock Allman onto his sacking and gave him the hammers, and the rifle.
‘I’ve not thought,’ said Robert.
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘All in!’ shouted Ozzie Leah.
The men and women moved to the top field.
‘What do you want?’ Uncle Charlie said again.
Robert went with him, pulling Wicked Winnie, up the hill towards the jackacre patch.
‘I like seeing to Mister Allman,’ said Robert. ‘And getting for him.’
‘Good God, youth, that’s no trade!’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘You want craft and masterness in you! You’re no Mossaggot! You’re a Houghite! You must have a trade!’
‘Can I work with you, then?’ said Robert.
Uncle Charlie picked up his scythe and gave the spade to Robert.
‘I work by meself,’ he said. ‘I’ve no apprentices.’
‘Have you not?’ said Robert.
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘I can be a soldier if I want,’ said Robert.
‘And why do you want?’ said Uncle Charlie.
‘The marching and that,’ said Robert. ‘And they give you medals, same as you and Mister Allman.’
‘Your father calls them bits stuck on the outside of one chap for sticking bits on the inside of another,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘And he’s right. No, youth. You must have the flavour for soldiering. I’ve got it, and you haven’t. It’s not in you. Now then: here’s your next fatigue.’
They were at the jackacre patch. It was a sandhole with stones, ragged at the edge from Robert’s morning.
‘You can fill this lot in,’ said Uncle Charlie, ‘and grass it over.’
‘I’ll not fill that in!’ said Robert. ‘There’s ever so many stones come out.’
‘No,’ said Uncle Charlie, ‘but you can smooth it round for Ozzie Leah to lead his cart in for the kivvers when they’ve stood. He’d break an axle, the way you’ve got it now.’
Ozzie Leah, Uncle Charlie and Young Ollie took their stand in the field. The scythes lifted and the swarfs fell. Round the field they went. The sun shone.
Robert tried to level the hole. It was a lonely, hot job, dull, not like the morning when everything was being found. He shovelled and sweated, patched the ground with turf and trod it in.
The sun was so hot that it took all colour from the land.
‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.
Everywhere but the corn was black and dark green. Saint Philip’s church was black, its weathervane cockerel black and just proud of the horizon. The whole land lacked shadows or relief, but for the corn and a bloom of light on the tops of the beech trees in the wood above Long Croft.
They worked the afternoon.
‘Whet!’ shouted Ozzie.
Kivvers and stubble followed the men, round and round, the square spiral tightened on the field.
At baggin time Uncle Charlie came down to see how Robert had managed. He looked at the grass and earth.
‘I said smooth it, youth, not build a flipping parapet.’
‘Well, cob you!’ shouted Robert. ‘Cob you, then!’
And he stuck his spade in the ground and ran down the field to Faddock Allman. Uncle Charlie followed with the beer. He was smiling. Robert lay under the hedge, batting at flies with his hands.
Faddock Allman and Uncle Charlie drank, and Uncle Charlie passed the stone jar to Robert. ‘There’s more to feckazing than feckazing, isn’t there, youth?’ he said.
‘It’s these clegs,’ said Robert. ‘They’re eating me.’