The Clockmaker's Daughter

by Kate Morton

  ‘Then you are crying because the beauty of the artwork overwhelmed you.’

  To which I shook my head, because I knew that was not it.

  I told him then about the tall handsome man who had come to stand beside me, and the pretty woman, with her honey-coloured hair and neat mouth, and the things that they had said and the way that they had laughed.

  Pale Joe sighed then and nodded. ‘You are crying because the woman said unkind things about you.’

  To which I shook my head again, because I had never cared for the good opinion of those I did not know.

  I told him then that as I had listened to them I had become vividly conscious of the gaudy dress that Mrs Mack had procured for me. That I had at first thought it extraordinary – the crushed velvet fabric, the delicate trim of lace around the décolletage – but that I had realised suddenly that it was garish and over-bright.

  Pale Joe frowned. ‘I know you are not crying because you wished for a different dress.’

  I agreed with him that the dress was not the matter; rather, that in that particular room, I had realised myself to be garish and over-bright, and I had become overwhelmed with sudden anger at Edward. I had trusted him, but he had betrayed me, had he not? He had made me feel at home in his company, in his world, flattered me with his absolute attention – those deep, dark watchful eyes, the clench of his jawline when he concentrated, the hint of need – for surely, I had not imagined it? – only to embarrass me in a room filled with people who were not like me at all; who could see at once that I was not like them. When he invited me to attend as his guest I had thought – well, I had misunderstood. And of course there was a fiancée, that pretty woman with neat features and fine clothing. He should have told me, allowed me to prepare, to arrive on proper terms. He had tricked me and I never wanted to see him again.

  Pale Joe was looking at me with a fond, sad expression, and I knew what he was going to say. That the charge was unfair. That I had been a fool and the mistake was all mine, for Edward owed me nothing. I had been engaged and paid to perform a task: to pose as his model for a painting he wished to exhibit at the Royal Academy.

  But Pale Joe said none of those things. Instead he put his arms around me and said, ‘My poor Birdie. You are crying because you are in love.’

  After leaving Pale Joe, I hurried through the dark streets of Covent Garden, thick with ruddy-cheeked men spilling out of supper clubs and drunken songs drifting upstairs from basement rooms, cigar smoke mingling with the leftover smells of animals and rotting fruit.

  My long skirts shushed along the cobblestones and as I turned into Little White Lion Street, I glanced skyward and glimpsed the hazy moon between buildings; not the stars, though, for the grey smog of London sat too heavy. I let myself in the front door of the shop selling birds and cages, careful not to wake the winged creatures asleep beneath their shrouds, and then tiptoed up the stairs. As I passed the doorway to the kitchen a voice from the dark said, ‘Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.’

  I saw then that Martin was sitting at the table, a gin bottle open in front of him. A dull wedge of moonlight fell through the crooked window, and one side of his face disappeared into shadow.

  ‘Think you’re clever, don’t you, giving me the run-around? I lost a night waiting for you. I couldn’t work the theatre alone so I wasted my time under Nelson’s bloody Column watching the toffs come and go. What am I going to tell Ma and the Captain when they want to know why I haven’t brought home the coin what they was promised, eh?’

  ‘I have never asked you to wait for me, Martin, and I would be very pleased if you would promise not to do so any more.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be pleased, would you?’ He laughed, but the sound was parched. ‘You’d be pleased indeed. Aren’t you the proper little lady now.’ He pushed his chair back suddenly and came to where I was standing in the doorway. He took my face by the chin and I felt his breath, warm on my neck, as he said, ‘You know the very first thing my ma said to me when you came to live with us? She sent me upstairs where you was sleeping and she said, “Go and have a look at your pretty new sister, Martin. She’s going to need a close eye kept on her. You mark my words, we’re going to have to watch her close.” And my ma was right. I see the way they look at you, those men. I know what they’re thinking.’

  I was too tired for a petty argument and one that we’d already had a number of times before. I was eager to get upstairs where I could be alone in my bedroom to reflect on the things that Pale Joe had said. Martin was leering at me and I felt repulsed, but I was sorry for him, too, for he was a man whose palette was empty of colour. The boundaries of his life had been drawn narrow when he was a boy and they had never been extended. As his grip continued firm on my face, I said softly, ‘You need not worry, Martin. The painting is finished now. I am home. The world has been set to rights.’

  Perhaps he had been expecting me to argue, for he swallowed whatever it was that he had been preparing to say next. He blinked slowly and then nodded. ‘Well, don’t you forget it,’ he said, ‘don’t you forget that you belong here with us. You’re not one of them, no matter what my ma might tell you when she’s sniffing after artists’ gold. That’s just for show, right? You’ll get hurt if you forget it, and you’ll only have yourself to blame.’

  He let go of me at last and I made myself smile. But as I turned to leave, he reached out to grab my wrist, pulling me back fast towards him. ‘You look pretty in that dress. You’re a beautiful woman now. All grown up.’

  There was menace in his tone and I could imagine that a young woman accosted in such a way on the street would feel terror shoot up her spine as she met the scrutiny of his gaze, his curled lip, his thinly veiled intentions; and well might she be advised to react thus. But I had known Martin for a long time. He would never harm me while his mother was alive. I was far too valuable to her enterprise. And so, ‘I’m tired, Martin,’ I said. ‘It’s very late. I have much work to catch up on tomorrow and I need to go to bed now. Ma wouldn’t want either of us too tired for a proper day’s work tomorrow.’

  At the mention of Mrs Mack, his grip loosened and I took the opportunity to pull myself free and hurry upstairs. I left the tallow candle unlit as I stripped immediately from my velvet dress, and when I draped it from the hook on the back of the door, I made sure to flare out the skirt to cover the keyhole.

  I lay awake that night, turning over the things that Pale Joe had said to me, reliving every minute of time that I had spent with Edward in his studio.

  ‘Does he love you, too?’ Pale Joe had asked.

  ‘I think not,’ I had replied. ‘For he is engaged to be married.’

  Pale Joe had smiled patiently at that. ‘You have known him for some months now. You have spoken to him many times. He has told you about his life, his loves, his passions and pursuits. And yet tonight you learned for the first time that he is engaged to be married.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Birdie, if I were engaged to be married to the woman whom I love, then I would talk about her to the man who puts down grit during snowstorms. I would sing her name at every opportunity to every willing set of ears this side of Moscow. I cannot tell you with any certainty what he feels for you, but I can tell you that he does not love the woman that you met tonight.’

  It was just after dawn when I heard the knock on the door downstairs. The streets of Covent Garden were already busy with carts and barrows and women with baskets of fruits on their heads trudging towards the market, and I assumed it was the local watchman. He and Mrs Mack had an understanding, such that when he was performing his daily patrol of the streets, rattling out the half-hour marks so that people could tell the time, he would stop to bang the knocker of our door to signal wake-up time.

  The noise was softer than usual, though, and when it sounded for a second time, I rose from my bed and pulled the curtain aside to peer down through the window.

  It was not the watchman in his slouch hat and greatcoat at the
door. It was Edward, still dressed in his coat and scarf from the night before. My heart leapt, and after a split second of indecision I opened the window and called down to him in a half-whisper: ‘What are you doing?’

  He stepped backwards, looking up to see where my voice was coming from, and was almost hit by a flower cart being pushed down the street. ‘Lily,’ he said, his face brightening when he saw me, ‘Lily, come down.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Come down, I must speak with you.’

  ‘But the sun has barely risen.’

  ‘I realise, but I cannot make it rise any faster. I have been standing here all night. I have drunk more coffee from that stall on the corner than a man should ever drink, but I cannot wait any longer.’ He placed one hand across his heart and said, ‘Come down, Lily, or else I will be forced to climb up to you.’

  I nodded quickly and started dressing, my fingers overzealous with anticipation so that I fumbled each button and put a tear in my stockings. There was no time to neaten or pin my hair; I hurried down the stairs, eager to reach him before anyone else did.

  I undid the latch and pulled open the door and in that moment, as we faced each other from either side of a threshold, I knew that what Pale Joe had said was true. There was so much that I wanted him to know. I wanted to tell him about my father and Mrs Mack and Little Girl Lost and Pale Joe. I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that everything up until that point had been but a pencil sketch, preliminary and pale, in anticipation of our meeting. I wanted to tell him my true name.

  But there were too many words to find, and I did not know where to start, and then Mrs Mack was beside me, her housecoat tied crookedly around her generous middle, the creases of sleep still pressed into her cheek. ‘What’s all this about. What on earth are you doing here at this hour?’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Millington,’ said Edward. ‘I apologise for interrupting your day.’

  ‘It’s not even light yet.’

  ‘I realise, Mrs Millington, but it is urgent. I must impress upon you my deepest admiration for your daughter. The painting of La Belle sold last night and I wish to speak to you about painting Miss Millington again.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t spare her,’ said Mrs Mack, with a sniff. ‘I rely on my daughter here. Without her I have to pay my maid to do extra and although I’m an honourable lady, Mr Radcliffe, I am not wealthy.’

  ‘I will make sure to compensate you, Mrs Millington. My next painting is likely to take longer. I propose to pay your daughter double what I did last time.’

  ‘Double?’

  ‘If that sounds acceptable to you.’

  Mrs Mack was not the type to turn down an offer of coin, but there was no one with a better nose for value. ‘I don’t think double will do. No, I don’t think that will do at all. Perhaps if you were to suggest three times the price … ?’

  Martin, I noticed then, had come downstairs and was watching proceedings from the darkened doorway that led into the shop.

  ‘Mrs Millington,’ said Edward, his eyes now firmly on mine, ‘your daughter is my muse, my destiny. I will pay you whatever you think fair.’

  ‘Well then. At four times the price I’d say we have ourselves a deal.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He risked a smile at me then. ‘Do you need to collect anything from here?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I said goodbye to Mrs Mack and then he took my hand and started leading me north through the streets of the Seven Dials. We did not speak at once, but something between us had changed. Rather, something that had been there all along had finally been acknowledged.

  As we left Covent Garden, and Edward turned to look at me over his shoulder, I knew that there would be no going back from here.

  Jack has returned and it is just as well; the bones of the past are seductive and I am at risk of picking over them all night long.

  Oh, I remember love.

  It has been a long time since Jack set out with his camera and his melancholy mood. Dusk has fallen and the purple noises of night are upon us.

  Inside the malt house, he connects his camera to the computer and the photographs import at a rapid speed. I can see them all. He has been busy: the churchyard again, the woods, the meadow, the crossroads in the village, others that are all texture and colour, their subjects not immediately identifiable. None of the river, I note.

  The shower is on now; his clothes are in a pile on the floor; the bathroom is filling with steam. I imagine he is starting to wonder about dinner.

  Jack does not go straight to the kitchen, though. After his shower, with the towel still low around his hips, he picks up his phone and rocks it back and forth, considering. I watch him from the end of the bed, wondering whether he is going to disappoint Rosalind Wheeler with his report about the hiding place and the still-missing diamond.

  With an exhalation that lowers his shoulders a full inch, he starts to dial and then waits with the phone at his ear. He is tapping his lips lightly with his fingertips, a thoughtful nervous habit.

  ‘Sarah, it’s me.’

  Oh, good! Much better than a progress report.

  ‘Listen, you were wrong yesterday. I’m not going to change my mind. I’m not going to turn around and go back home. I want to know them – I need to know them.’ Them. The girls, the twins. His and Sarah’s. (One thing is certain: society has changed. Back in my day it would have been the woman shut out of her children’s lives if she dared to break company with their father.)

  Sarah is speaking now, and she is no doubt reminding him that parenting is not about his needs, because he says, ‘I know; that’s not what I meant. I should have said that I think they need me, too. They need a dad, Sar; at least, they will one day.’

  Further silence. And from the raised tone of her voice at the other end of the line, evident even from where I sit, she does not agree.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘yes, I know. I was a terrible husband … Yes, you’re right, and that’s on me. But it’s been a long time, Sar, seven years. I’m a whole new set of cells … No, I’m not trying to be funny, I mean it. I’ve made changes. I even have a hobby. Remember that old camera—’

  She is speaking again and he nods and makes occasional listening noises, eyes on the corner of the room where the walls meet the ceiling, tracing the line of the joist with his gaze as he waits for her to finish.

  Some of the wind has left his sails when he says, ‘Look, Sar, I’m just asking you to give me a chance. A visit every so often – the opportunity to take them to Legoland or Harry Potter World or wherever it is they want to go. You can draw the boundaries however you see fit. I just want a chance.’

  The call ends without a resolution. He drops the phone onto the bed and rubs the back of his neck and then he goes slowly to the bathroom and takes up the photo of the girls.

  We are of one mind tonight, he and I. Each of us separated from the people we love; each of us wading through memories of the past, seeking resolution.

  All human beings crave connection, even the shy: it is too frightening for them to think themselves alone. The world, the universe – existence – is simply too big. Thank God, they cannot glimpse how much bigger it is than they think. I wonder about Lucy sometimes – what she would have made of it all.

  In the kitchenette, Jack eats some sort of bean-filled sluice straight from the tin. He makes no attempt to heat it. And when the phone rings again he hurries back in to check the screen but is disappointed. He doesn’t answer the call.

  They all have a story, the ones to whom I am drawn.

  Each one is different from those who came before, but there has been something at the heart of each visitor, a loss that ties them together. I have come to understand that loss leaves a hole in a person and that holes like to be filled. It is the natural order.

  They are always the ones most likely to hear me when I speak … and, every so often, when I get really lucky, one of them answers me back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<
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  Summer, 1940

  They found the matches in an old green tin on a shelf behind the stovetop. It was Freddy who spied them, leaping from foot to foot with lusty enthusiasm and declaring himself the winner. Such gleeful celebrations sent Tip into another weary round of tears, and Juliet cursed quietly as she struggled to light the burner beneath the kettle. ‘Come, now,’ she said, as at last the match flared, ‘spilt milk, Tippy, love. It doesn’t matter.’ She turned to Freddy, who was still larking. ‘Really, Red. You’re four years older than he is.’

  Freddy, preternaturally unperturbed, continued to dance as Juliet mopped Tip’s face.

  ‘I want to go home,’ said Tip.

  Juliet opened her mouth to reply but Beatrice beat her to it. ‘Well, you can’t,’ she called from the other room, ‘because there’s nothing left. There is no “home”.’

  Juliet held on to the last threads of her frayed patience. She had been jolly all the way from London, but it seemed further jolliness would be required. Addressing her daughter’s adolescent acerbity – which had arrived at least a year too early, surely? – would have to wait. She leaned closer to Tip’s alarmingly blotched face, aware with sudden pressing anxiety of his short breaths and sparrow shoulders. ‘Come and help me with the supper,’ she said. ‘I might even find you a little square of chocolate if I look hard enough.’

  The welcome basket had been a kind touch. Mrs Hammett, the publican’s wife, had arranged it: a fresh loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese and a stick of butter. Strawberries and gooseberries in a muslin cloth, a pint of creamy milk and beneath it all – what joy! – a small block of chocolate.

  As Tip took his square and retreated like a stray cat in search of a quiet place to lick his wounds, Juliet made a plate of cheese sandwiches for them all to share. She’d never been much good in the kitchen – when she met Alan she’d been able to boil an egg and the intervening years had not added much to her repertoire – but there was a certain therapy to it: slice the bread, scrape the butter, lay out the cheese, repeat.