The Clockmaker's Daughter

by Kate Morton

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Bloody bombers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody war.’ He picked up his pen and dropped it repeatedly, incendiary-style, against the wooden surface of his desk. Beyond the crooked blinds, half-drawn against the dusty window, a fly was batting its death throes.

  A clock ticked.

  Someone in the hallway laughed.

  Finally, with a rapidity and deftness that belied his generous size, Mr Tallisker tossed the pen aside and took up a cigarette in its stead. ‘Birchwood,’ he said finally, on a current of smoke. ‘It could work.’

  ‘I’ll make it work. I can be back in London—’

  ‘No.’ He swatted the suggestion aside. ‘Not London. Not theatre.’

  ‘Sir?’

  The cigarette became a pointer. ‘Londoners are brave, Jules, but they’re tired. They need an escape and most of them aren’t going to get it. Theatre’s all well and good, but sunny village life? That’s the stuff. That’s the story people want to hear.’

  ‘Mr Tallisker, I—’

  ‘A weekly column.’ He swept his hands out to either side as if suspending a banner: ‘“Letters from the Laneway”. The sort of thing you might write home to Mother. Stories of your life, your children, the people you meet. Anecdotes about sunshine and hens laying eggs and village japes.’

  ‘Japes?’

  ‘Farmers and housewives and vicars, neighbours and gossip.’

  ‘Gossip?’

  ‘The funnier the better.’

  Juliet frowned now as she readjusted her back against the rough bark of the tree. She wasn’t funny, at least not in print, not for the benefit of strangers. Acerbic at times – barbed, she’d been told – but funny was not her métier. However, Mr Tallisker had been unmoved, and thus had the Faustian pact been made. The chance to get away, to come to this place, in exchange for … what? ‘Why, your integrity, of course,’ the Alan in her mind supplied, a light smile playing on his lips, ‘only your integrity.’

  Juliet glanced down. The blouse she was wearing was not her own and it wore like an apology. Kind of the volunteers to find them clothes, of course; remarkable the way such groups popped up to meet the needs du jour. She remembered a trip to Italy some years before, when she and Alan had emerged from St Peter’s to find it raining, and suddenly the Gypsies who’d been selling hats and sunglasses only an hour before were laden with umbrellas.

  A shiver rippled through her at the memory, or perhaps its cause was simpler than that. The last of the day’s light was dissolving and the night would be cool. In this place, the warmth went with the light. Juliet and Alan had been surprised when they came here on honeymoon by the night air on their skin, in that small square room above the pub, with its lemon-striped wallpaper and a window seat for one that they’d managed to share. They’d been different people back then, other versions of themselves: lighter, leaner, with fewer layers of life to see through.

  Juliet glanced at her watch, but it was too dark to read. She didn’t need to see the hour to know that it was time to be getting back to the house.

  Palm against the tree trunk, she pushed herself to a standing position.

  Her head swooned; the whisky bottle was lighter now than she’d realised and Juliet took a moment to regain her balance.

  As she did, something in the distance caught her eye. It was the house, but there was a faint show of light inside, right up high in one of the gables – the attic, perhaps.

  Juliet blinked and shook her head. She must have imagined it. Birchwood Manor had no electricity and she hadn’t been upstairs to leave a lamp.

  Sure enough, when she looked again, the light was gone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  They rose next morning with the sun. Juliet lay in bed listening as the children ran excitedly from room to room, exclaiming at the light, the birdsong, the garden, tripping over themselves to get outside. Her head was a whisky mud and she feigned sleep for as long as she could. Only when she sensed a looming presence on the other side of her eyelids did she finally admit to being awake. It was Freddy, right above her, proximity rendering his face – already generous of feature – unusually large.

  Now it widened into a delighted gap-toothed grin. Freckles danced, dark eyes shone. Already, somehow, he had crumbs around his mouth.

  ‘She’s awake,’ he shouted, and Juliet winced. ‘Come on, Mummy, we must go down to the river.’

  The river. That’s right. Juliet turned her head by degrees and saw a shock of blue-glass sky through the gap between the curtains. Freddy was tugging her arm now and she managed a nod and a brave, meagre smile. It was sufficient to send him scampering from the room with an excited whoop.

  Impossible to explain to Red, whose faith in the world’s never-ending supply of good times was absolute, but Juliet wasn’t on holiday; she had a meeting with the local arm of the Women’s Voluntary Services lined up at eleven, in the hope of uncovering an angle for her first ‘Letters from the Laneway’ column. Nevertheless, the single benefit of being woken at such an ungodly hour – for, really, one had to look on the bright side – was the unexpectedly long stretch of hours remaining until duty called.

  Juliet threw on a spotted cotton blouse because it was close to hand, belted a pair of trousers, and ran her fingers through her hair. A brief trip to the bathroom to splash water on her face, and she was ready. Rough, but she would do. Downstairs, she gathered Mrs Hammett’s basket with its bread and cheese, and they left the house, following the same flagstone path that she had taken the night before.

  Tip, in a pair of faded dungarees at least an inch too short, propelled himself forward like a wind-up doll, his short legs racing as he chased his brother and sister across the grass towards the track that met the river. Beatrice had stopped by the big old stone barn at the top of the coach way and was holding out her arms. Tip leapt into them when he was close enough, and she slid him around so that he could clamber onto her back. What it was to be the youngest of three – what luck to be born into a jumbly, rowdy group of bigger people and be simply adored.

  A huddle of geese retreated in alarm as the children barrelled past them, Red laughing with glee for the simple joy that he was running with the sun on his skin and the breeze in his hair. They looked quite unlike her children, and Juliet was struck again by the contrast between this place and London, the only home her three had ever known. It was the world they came from, to which their father so resolutely belonged. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, a tall, lean Londoner with a wooden pipe that he’d been frowning around in a most pretentious manner. She’d thought him arrogant then – talented but impossibly self-assured; pompous, even, with his mannered way of speaking and his opinions on just about everything. It had taken time and the unfortunate business with the revolving door at Claridge’s for her to see through his irony to the beating heart beneath.

  She’d caught up with the children now, and they took turns climbing over the ivy-covered wooden stile before setting off westwards along the river’s edge. There was a red canal boat moored against the bank, and it reminded Juliet, vaguely, that there was a lock or weir nearby. She made a mental note to take the children exploring one day. It was the sort of thing Alan would suggest if he were here; he’d say how marvellous it was for them to see the lock in action.

  A salty man with a beard and a peaked cap nodded at them from the rear deck of the longboat and Juliet nodded back. Yes, she thought, this was the right thing to do, to come here to Birchwood Manor. They would all do better here; the change of scene would be a balm after the dreadful things that they’d been through.

  While the boys tripped on ahead, Bea had fallen into step beside her. ‘When you came here on honeymoon, did you and Daddy walk this way along the river?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Is this the way to the jetty?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘My jetty.’

  Juliet smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why di
d you come here?’

  She looked sideways at her daughter.

  ‘To this village,’ explained Beatrice. ‘On your honeymoon. Don’t people usually go to the seaside?’

  ‘Oh, I see. I don’t know. It’s hard to remember now.’

  ‘Maybe someone told you about it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Juliet frowned, thinking. Strange that she remembered so many of the details from back then, yet others were completely gone. Bea was right: it was most likely that someone – the friend of a friend – had given them the suggestion, possibly even the name of the pub itself. That’s how things tended to happen in the theatre. A conversation in the dressing room, or at a backstage script rehearsal, or, perhaps most likely, over an after-show pint at Berardo’s.

  Whatever the case, they’d reserved the little room at The Swan by telephone and travelled down from London on the afternoon following their wedding lunch. Juliet had lost her favourite pen somewhere between Reading and Swindon – and this is what she meant by some memories sticking like films, for she remembered the train ride vividly. The last thing in her journal had been a hastily sketched note about a West Highland terrier she’d been watching on the floor across the aisle. Alan, who’d always loved dogs, had been chatting with the owner, a man wearing a green cravat, who’d talked at length about poor Mr Percival’s diabetes and the insulin shots required to keep him well. Juliet had been making notes, as was her habit, because the man was interesting to her and belonged, she was certain, in a play she was planning to write. But then she’d been overcome with a wave of nausea, and there’d been a dash to the loo, and Alan’s surprised concern to deal with, and the arrival into Swindon – and in all the bluster her pen had been forgotten.

  Juliet kicked at a small rounded stone and watched as it skittered along the grass and disappeared into the water. They were almost at the jetty. By the clear light of day, she could see how decrepit it had become in the intervening twelve years. She and Alan had sat together on its end, their toes trailing in the water; Juliet wasn’t sure she’d trust it to hold even her weight any more.

  ‘Is this the one?’

  ‘And only.’

  ‘Tell me again what he said.’

  ‘He was delighted. He said that at long last he was going to have the little girl he’d always wished for.’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘You’re making it up.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘What was the weather like?’

  ‘Sunny.’

  ‘What were you eating?’

  ‘Scones.’

  ‘How did he know I was going to be a girl?’

  ‘Ah …’ Juliet smiled. ‘You’ve become cleverer since the last time I told you the story.’

  Beatrice lowered her chin to hide her pleasure, and Juliet fought the urge to embrace her prickly little child-woman while she still could. The gesture, she knew, would not be appreciated.

  They walked on and Beatrice picked a dandelion, blowing gently to send spores of fluff startling in all directions. The effect was so elemental and dreamlike that Juliet had an urge to do the same herself. She spotted a full head and plucked it by the stem.

  Beatrice said, ‘What did Daddy say when you told him we were moving here?’

  Juliet considered the question; she had always promised herself that she would be truthful with her children. ‘I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘What do you think he’ll say?’

  That she’d clearly gone mad? That they were city kids, just like their dad? That she’d always been a romantic … ? A familiar, half-forgotten trill rang out above and Juliet stopped sharply, reaching out to alert Bea too. ‘Listen!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shhh … a skylark.’

  They stood silently for a few seconds, Beatrice squinting at the blue sky, scanning for the distant, hovering bird, Juliet watching her daughter’s face. Bea’s features took on a particularly Alan cast when she concentrated: the slight furrow above her aquiline nose, the heavy knitted brow.

  ‘There!’ Bea pointed, eyes widening. The skylark had appeared, shooting towards the ground like one of Herr Hitler’s incendiaries. ‘Hey, Red, Tippy, look.’

  The boys spun around, attention following their sister’s finger towards the diving bird.

  Hard to imagine that this leggy eleven-and-a-half-year-old was the new life that had caused such commotion in this very spot all those years ago.

  After the episode on the train, Juliet had managed to mollify Alan. She’d pleaded too much rich food at lunch, the motion of the carriage, that she’d been focusing on her notebook instead of looking out of the window, but Juliet had known that she was going to have to tell him the truth soon.

  Mrs Hammett at The Swan had torpedoed that time with her well-meaning query on their first morning. ‘And when are you due?’ she’d said with a beaming smile, as she arranged the milk jug on the breakfast table. Juliet’s expression must have painted a clear enough picture, for the publican’s wife had tapped her nose and given a wink and promised that the secret was safe with her.

  They’d found the jetty later that day, when Mrs Hammett sent them off with a picnic basket – ‘part of the honeymoon package’ – and Juliet had broken the news over a thermos of tea and a rather good scone.

  ‘A baby?’ Alan’s confused glance had dropped from her eyes to her waist. ‘In there, you mean? Now?’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘Quite.’

  It had to be said, he’d taken it well. Even Juliet had found herself beginning to relax a little, his easy acceptance bringing solidity to the flimsy picture of this new future she’d been trying to imagine since the nurse confirmed her fears. But then:

  ‘I’ll get work somewhere.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are things I can do, you know.’

  ‘I do know. You’re the best Macbeth this side of Edinburgh.’

  ‘Real work, Jules. In the day, I mean, like a normal person. Work that pays.’

  ‘Pays?’

  ‘So you can stay at home, raise the baby, be a mother. I can … sell shoes.’

  She wasn’t precisely sure what she’d said next, only that the thermos had fallen over and the tea had scalded her thigh, and then she was somehow on her feet at the end of the jetty, gesticulating wildly and explaining that she had no intention of staying home, that he couldn’t make her, that she’d take the child out with her if she must, that it would learn to be happy that way, that they’d manage. Needless to say, this wasn’t the version of the story they told Beatrice.

  Juliet had heard herself as if from outside – she’d felt articulate and certain – and then Alan had reached for her, and said, ‘For goodness’ sake, Juliet, sit down!’, and she’d considered it, moving a step closer, before he added the fatal, ‘You have to be careful in your condition.’ And then she’d felt his words like a stranglehold, and her breaths had shortened, and she’d known that she simply had to get away, from here, from him, to find clear air.

  She’d stormed along the river in the opposite direction from which they’d arrived, ignoring his calls to come back, and heading instead towards a copse of trees on the horizon.

  Juliet didn’t cry, not as a rule; she hadn’t since she was six years old, when her father died and her mother told her they were leaving London to live with Granny in Sheffield. Now, though, the heat of her anger, her frustration that Alan could possibly see things so wrong-headedly – that he should think she was going to give up her work, stay home each day while he went out to make a living as a … a what? A shoe salesman? – caused everything to spin away from her, as if she were being pulled apart like wisps of smoke on the breeze.

  Before she knew it, Juliet had reached the trees and, seized by a sudden urge to disappear from sight, ploughed directly into the grove. There was a narrow path of flattened grass, the sort made by repeated footfalls, and it was leading away
from the river. She’d supposed that it would bring her full circle to arrive on the other side of the village, back near The Swan, but Juliet had never been great with directions. Deeper and deeper she went, her thoughts thundering, and when she finally reemerged into the sunlit day, she hadn’t been on the edge of the village at all. She’d no idea whatsoever where she was. To add insult to injury, she’d been hit with a wave of nausea so strong she’d needed to grab the nearest tree and be sick—

  ‘Wheeeeee!’

  Juliet jumped as Red soared towards her, arms outstretched. ‘Mummy, I’m a Spitfire and you’re a Junker.’

  On instinct, she swerved her body to avoid collision.

  ‘Mummy,’ he said crossly, ‘that’s not very patriotic of you.’

  ‘Sorry, Red,’ she began, but her apology was lost in his wake as he zoomed away.

  Bea, she noticed, was already well ahead, almost at the copse of trees.

  Juliet was disappointed: the jetty had been part of their family story for over a decade and she’d looked forward to bringing her daughter back here one day to see it. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected – not reverence, not really, but something.

  ‘Are you sad, Mummy?’

  Tip was next to her, looking up with his searching eyes.

  Juliet smiled. ‘With you in the room? Never.’

  ‘We’re not in a room.’

  ‘No. You’re quite right. Silly me.’

  He slipped his small hand into hers and together they started walking again towards the others. It never ceased to amaze Juliet how perfectly the hands of her children fitted within her own and how warming she found the simple gesture.

  On the other side of the river, a field of barley glimmered yellow. It was hard to believe, as the Thames tripped freshly and bees sought clover in the grass, that a war was being fought. There were signs in the village, of course: the street names were all gone, windows were criss-crossed with tape, and Juliet had seen a poster on a phone box reminding passers-by that they should all be digging for victory. They’d even covered the Uffington White Horse, lest it prove useful to enemy pilots seeking the way home. But here, now, on this gentle bend of the river, it seemed almost impossible to believe.