The Clockmaker

by Jane A. Adams

  Abraham saw his brother perhaps once a month, but there was nothing unusual in that. They cared about one another as family should but they were not close and had little in common, even in terms of politics. They did not even attend the same synagogue. Benjamin’s wife preferred one closer to their new home, where she could mix with what she told Abraham was ‘a better crowd’, and Abraham understood that for business people there was a need to see and be seen, and to look prosperous because that inspired trust in prospective customers. He understood all of that and had tried to make allowances for the fact that their plans more often than not excluded him.

  Abraham’s refusal to remarry had set the cat among the pigeons, too. His brother told him that it made him socially difficult to deal with, because a lone man coming to any kind of event upset the numbers.

  Abraham understood what he meant: the human race was expected to appear two by two and singletons made people feel uncomfortable. From Abraham’s perspective, this was never a particular issue, but that was largely because he rarely attended the social events that his brother had organized and it occurred to him only now that the impact of that was that they had drifted very far apart.

  Abraham was close to Joseph because it was Joseph who undertook to deliver or collect the clocks or bring the requests for engraving of plaques or watches or for particular orders that Abraham might be able to fulfil. The two had become friends and often took time out to go to concerts, or to talk or eat together. And Abraham would be the first to admit that he had come to think of Joseph more as a son than a nephew. He realized now that he was furious at the idea that his brother might have done something to put Joseph at risk.

  He was utterly taken aback by the fact that the Goldmanns had not even sent a representative. What was going on? It was a ghastly and tragic business, Abraham thought, but somehow it would have been better if he had been able to make sense of it all.

  He travelled most of the way home by bus. Walking back towards his shop, he had to pass the public house that Clem Atkins had ordained as his personal domain. He glanced through the windows, noting that Atkins held court at the bar, shoulders shrugged, his hands held out as though expressing some displeasure at the world. Abraham was a little startled when, after walking on a few more steps, his name was called.

  ‘Oi, you. Levy.’

  Abraham turned. He didn’t know the man but he knew what he was: one of the thugs always at Atkins’ beck and call.

  ‘Mr Atkins wants a word.’

  Abraham sighed and turned back. He wasn’t particularly afraid. Clem Atkins took his dues, as had those who had come before him, and no doubt as would those who came after, but he made little bother for Abraham. Abraham knew not to rock boats.

  His boots clumped on the wooden floor and he was aware that the room had fallen silent. Clem Atkins was still standing at the bar, but this time he had a drink in his hand.

  ‘Will you raise a glass with me?’ It wasn’t really a question or a request. Atkins gestured to a second glass sitting on the bar, into which the barman was emptying rather too much whisky.

  Abraham picked it up. ‘What are we drinking to?’

  ‘I hear it was the funeral today. Bad business, that. From what I saw, he was a nice boy. Too often it’s the nice boys that get hurt.’

  ‘With that, I cannot argue,’ Abraham told him. ‘The innocent often suffer.’

  ‘I never said he was an innocent.’ Clem Atkins narrowed his eyes. ‘Not many of them round here. Innocents.’

  Abraham took a sip of his drink just to give himself something to do and to buy some thinking time, and then he said. ‘Is there something you wanted, Mr Atkins?’

  ‘Just passing on my condolences.’

  ‘And I appreciate that.’

  ‘I hear his girlfriend didn’t come to the funeral. Nor her family.’

  ‘No, they did not.’

  Atkinson sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his free hand. ‘Strange that. Not much respect.’

  Abraham wasn’t sure what he should say, or whether he should say anything. What was Atkins after?

  He took another drink and then set the glass down on the bar. ‘Thank you for your condolences,’ he said. ‘I bid you goodnight, Mr Atkins.’

  He almost expected to be called back or, worse still, dragged back, but as he walked towards the door, he was aware of the noise of the bar picking up again and the chatter resuming, and the game of dominoes, which had paused when he came in, continued noisily in the corner. He opened the door and stepped outside, and realized, as the cold air hit him, that he was sweating. What had that been all about?

  Abraham opened his front door, stood in the hall, listening to the sounds of the house, the ticking of the clocks and the usual creaks as it settled for the night. He locked the door, turning the key and drawing the bolts, and then went around the house, ensuring that everything else was secure and that no one had been inside while he’d been gone. He would have liked to check the shop, but nothing could have persuaded him to go outside again, not tonight. He comforted himself with the fact that one of his two new lodgers, living over the shop, was usually home in the evening. He wanted some tea, but he didn’t think he had the strength to make it, and so instead he took himself upstairs to bed, opening the curtains just a crack and peering down into the street, not sure what he expected to see but glad that there was no one around.

  He had not been afraid when he had been called into the pub. But he was afraid now and he could not explain why. He was sure that Clem Atkins knew what his brother had been up to and, whatever it was, that it had involved Joseph, and he was sure also that Clem thought that he, too, was involved.

  Nothing, Abraham thought, could be further from the truth. He might once have been in his brother’s confidence but since Benjamin and his family had moved away to what his sister-in-law viewed as a safer and more civilized location and Abraham been left behind, he had withdrawn from all but the most legitimate of business. The making and selling of clocks; the engraving of messages of congratulation or love, that was Abraham’s world. He had chosen to not even ask what his brother might be involved in these days. But he was far from convinced that he could persuade Clem Atkins of that.

  SIXTEEN

  Usually, Addie made her decisions based on looking at people’s shoes. People will try to keep their clothes smart, brushed and clean, but they couldn’t hide what was happening to their shoes. They might polish them and take them to the cobbler for repair, but wear on shoes meant they had very little money to spare; people with old shoes were not her targets. So the young man was not one of her usual types. His clothes were neat, his trilby had a red band, and his coat was a good cloth, well made and did not look old. But he did not wear smart shoes. His boots were polished, but they looked like those a soldier might wear, and it struck Addie that they were made for exactly that: long wear. They did not speak of a young man who was well-off, just one who took care of what he had. His suitcase reinforced her deductions. It was leather and clasped about with two buckled straps. But one corner had been repaired and the repair looked very old, so either he was very attached to this ageing case or he could not afford or did not want to spend money on a replacement.

  Addie knew the type: he wouldn’t have much money on him and what there was would be carefully guarded, tucked into an inside pocket. But she smiled at him anyway because there was something in his eyes that was kind and something about the long, slender fingers gripping the suitcase that spoke of sensitivity and thoughtfulness – although Addie could not have told anybody why she thought that. No doubt she was just being fanciful.

  She could see Fred and Gus standing together beneath the clock and chatting about nothing in particular, and she caught Gus’s eye and his look of surprise when he realized that she was going to talk to this young man, his immediate assessment of her target aligning with her own.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Addie said, ‘but my watch seems to have stopped. Do you have the right
time?’

  He looked momentarily flustered and smiled at her, but opened his greatcoat just enough to get to his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a beautiful watch. One of such quality that it caused Addie to reassess. He told her the time and tucked the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and she made a fuss over adjusting her own little wristwatch.

  ‘It’s unusual,’ she said, ‘to find a young man still using a pocket watch. Family heirloom, is it?’

  He smiled. ‘A gift,’ he said. ‘My uncle is a clockmaker. He gave it to me when I came of age.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What a lovely thing to do.’

  That information, Addie thought, reinforced her first impression that this was not a rich man. He just happened to have one beautiful thing. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said and went on her way.

  She was aware that he was watching her, so rather than walk straight back to join Fred and Gus, she was about to walk straight past, just in case, when Fred caught her attention by taking her by the arm. She shook him off impatiently. ‘Leave off. He’s not one for us.’

  She glanced back to where the young man stood, hesitating now, as though concerned about her, and for just a moment she allowed her heart to beat faster. Then, not wanting to draw more attention, she turned back to her companions and suggested they go and have a cup of tea. And when she looked back again, the young man had turned and was headed towards the train.

  Addie thought back now to that first meeting, that innocent – at least on Joseph’s part – encounter at Lincoln station. She almost wished they’d robbed him then and there. That way, perhaps he would still be alive. Indeed, if she’d not seen him that second time, in all likelihood he would still be alive. He would have forgotten about her and not engaged her in conversation, asking if her watch was working now, demonstrating by that simple query that she’d been on his mind and that he’d remembered her.

  Addie folded her arms across her body and stared out of the window. It was raining again – not good for working because people hurried that bit more, armed themselves with umbrellas and pulled their coats more tightly across their chests. To have a really good day, you needed sunshine, and for the best, you needed warmth, people strolling unguarded and content with the world.

  Addie thought she’d never be content with the world again.

  SEVENTEEN

  There had been a letter waiting for Henry on his return. It was from Cynthia.

  By the time you get this, we will be heading for home.

  Henry set the letter down on the small table beside the window and shed his coat, hanging it on the peg behind the door and taking a moment to switch on the electric fire and pour himself a drink before sitting down in his favourite chair and casting the bright, plaid rug across his knees.

  Oh, Henry, I will be so glad to come home. We drove up into Belgium and then onwards to the border, following the route Albert and his men took in 1914. I’ve never known him hanker after doing this before. He’s as close-mouthed about the war as you are, but on this occasion he seemed decided on it and so that’s what we did. We made our way to Ypres, intending to stay for a few days, but Albert changed his mind as suddenly as he had first made the decision to go. We turned instead towards Liège and he left me alone at the hotel while he wandered off to God knows where. But when he returned for dinner, he seemed more content and so I asked no questions. I know he came here right at the end of the war and he spoke to me about the devastation the city had suffered. I knew then that he had come looking for someone, but I didn’t ask who or why. Some questions are best left unasked.

  In time we came to the border crossing near the Oostkantons and we followed the line of the Vennbahn for a time.

  The Vennbahn, Henry remembered, was a railway built to transport ore from Aachen to Luxembourg, but in 1914 it had brought troops to Liège, presaging one of the first conflicts of the war, and a few weeks later Albert had led his men at the first battle of Ypres. Henry thought he understood why his brother-in-law might want to return after all this time; it was not an inclination he himself had ever had.

  The next day we drove on to the factory near Aachen. You would not recognize the place. I almost did not. As you know, inflation is out of control, poverty is rife, the supply of raw materials affected by the inability of the German importers to pay in currency that their suppliers will accept. The Mark is not yet in freefall – though Albert and I have no doubt that will come – but the price of an order placed in Deutschmarks will have doubled by the time payment is made because the currency is so devalued, day on day, hour on hour. So far, Albert has bought in American dollars and British pounds and has thus kept the supply chain intact, but now suppliers are so jittery that even this means is failing and the goods, once they are ready for sale, are so undervalued as to undermine the market. Buyers know desperation when they see it. They buy so cheap as to barely cover the cost and now the factory is operating at a great loss.

  Henry, it shames me so deeply, but I had to join my voice to those of Albert’s business advisors, demanding that Albert close the German businesses, despite the knowledge that those who depend on the already scant wages will then have even less. But the business is haemorrhaging money. If we maintain our interest, it will bankrupt us. And so, as of three days ago, we have begun to pull all interest from the German economy, have put the buildings themselves up for sale, knowing that we may recoup only a fraction of our investment and that anything we do now will be in the nature of limiting damage only. For Albert, this has been a sobering experience and for that alone I am glad that we made this journey. He is beginning to see what I have suspected for some time now: that this is not time for expansion or for chancy investment but for rationalizing and consolidating and protecting what we can.

  I feel that this lesson more than any other will help keep Albert from the clutches of the likes of Hatry and his foolish get-rich-quick schemes.

  Oh, but, Henry, there are other incidents that have upset me equally. When we were waiting to cross the border, we witnessed lines and lines of people queuing up to take their money into Belgium, just to buy bread. Although few shops will now accept their currency, those that will are profiting by it by charging many times the usual cost – and yet still they tell me this is cheaper than the cost in their home town. And there is such hatred brewing, such tension.

  I hope, dearest Henry, that life is treating you well. You must come and see me as soon as I return. I need to speak to my little brother almost more than I need to hug my children – and you know me, so can guess from that just how great my need must be.

  Later that evening Henry called at Cynthia’s house, partly in the hope of further news of his sister’s return. He arrived at the same time as Malina Cooper, Cynthia’s secretary and general help.

  ‘You look cheerful,’ he commented. ‘You’ve been shopping?’

  Malina smiled at him and hugged the brown paper parcel. ‘I’ve bought the most beautiful winter coat,’ she said. ‘I’m going to show Nanny. Are you coming up?’

  Henry said that he was, knowing that his niece would be happy to see him. ‘Have you heard from Cynthia? I had a letter saying they were returning.’

  ‘Telegrams,’ Malina said. ‘One to me,’ which evidently pleased her a great deal, ‘and one to Mrs Mullins’ – the redoubtable housekeeper, Henry thought – ‘saying to expect them on Friday or possibly Saturday. They will send word once they have decided on their flight.’

  ‘Cynthia seems to have become fond of aeroplanes,’ Henry commented.

  ‘It would be so much fun to fly, don’t you think?’

  ‘Fun, perhaps, but I think the cost would be beyond me.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, yes.’ Malina opened the nursery door and a moment later Henry was engulfed in Melissa’s embrace. ‘Uncle Henry, Mummy’s coming home. I’m so excited.’

  ‘So am I, my love,’ Henry confessed. He allowed himself to be led to a chair, and Melissa plonked herself on his lap. Tea and bread for making
toast arrived – with extra for Henry and Malina – and Malina’s coat was shown off. This was such a relaxed, informal house, Henry thought. So unlike the cold, austere and uncaring place in which he and his sister had grown up. The difference still shocked him in an odd sort of way, for all that he was glad of it. He still half expected someone to come in and reprimand them, punish them for being happy.

  Malina held up the coat for him to see. Deep green in some sort of soft but sturdy wool and with a heavy lining and a little fur trim at the collar.

  ‘I like the colour,’ he said.

  ‘Thirty bob from one of those little Jewish tailor shops off Cable Street. Such a bargain.’ She stroked the fabric, clearly delighted. ‘I don’t know how they do it at that price.’

  Henry thought of the conditions the sweatshop labourers worked under, but decided not to comment. Malina was paid better wages than she had ever earned and with bed and board thrown in, but that still didn’t make her well-off. It was the poor preying on the poor, he thought, but then he reminded himself that his sister’s gowns were in all probability made by the same workers, in the same conditions and with no more benefit to them.

  The thought suddenly left him depressed.

  ‘Uncle Henry?’ Melissa was sensitive to his moods. ‘What made you sad?’

  He smiled at her, stroked the red-gold hair that was so like her mother’s. ‘I’m just tired, sweetheart.’

  She nodded, accepting if not quite believing. ‘I suppose trying to find murderers must be depressing,’ she said.