The Waiting Room

by Michael White

  I held the dead bird out to Aloysius but she just looked at me as if completely disinterested and then gave a loud meow which sounded more like a plea to be left alone than the salute for a successful hunt that I had expected! So I threw the bird away and the cat never even watched it disappear over the side of the roof; instead she just sat there staring at me some six feet away, licking her lips.

  I began to move towards her but stopped suddenly, hairs rising on my neck as the roof suddenly gave a loud groaning noise and the beam beneath my feet at the apex of the roof cracked loudly and dropped at least six inches. Tiles shattered all around me, some sliding off the roof and disappearing over the edge, shattering loudly on the ground seconds later, others just fell onto the stone floor below.

  I expected the cat to flee but she just sat looking at me almost sadly. There was another creak below my feet and the entire roof cracked loudly. At the far end of the apex where I had originally climbed up the entire roof splintered and fell down into the barn below. There was a loud crash and dust filled the air. Still the cat did not move. I somehow got the distinct impression that she did not want to leave me.

  “Don’t worry Aloysius.” I whispered, looking at her as dust rose around us and the roof groaned once more. “Hunting is a fine art. You will get there in the end.” As I said this the cat looked up at me and I froze, for I had seen the look that she was giving me before, though I had not seen it for more than half a century.

  It was the cricket look.

  There was a loud crash from the roof as it finally gave way beneath my feet and down I fell.

  Interlude Six

  ~ In which rifles are mentioned ~

  Apollyon laughed heartily as Evans took his seat once more. He was without doubt a proud man and knew better than to be impertinent to his superiors, yet he could not hide from his face the look of disgust he felt at the Earl’s laughter. Judging by Apollyon’s reaction to his story however, the Earl had enjoyed his tale greatly, for he seemed to be quite unable to move or indeed to speak. The rest of the table sat in an embarrassed silence however as his Lordship attempted to gain control of himself.

  “You attempted to train a cat how to hunt?” he gasped eventually, and when Evans just nodded in agreement the Earl dissolved into laughter once again. “Preposterous!” he managed eventually. “Such stubbornness!” Then a black look crossed his features as if something had occurred to him. A distant memory perhaps, or mayhap a decision of some sort. He continued speaking. “Yet it is not enough to bring you to this table.” To the great surprise of all gathered there apart from the unmoving Gabriel Moon, Apollyon slammed the table hard with his fist, causing several of our brandy glasses to tremble with the ferocity of his hand hitting the table. Yet on he continued as if searching Evans for something that he could not quite see. “There must be something else I fear for this will not suffice to allow you admittance into my club, nor an invite to the same!”

  This certainly made us all prick our ears up, for it would appear that Mister Evans was in jeopardy! We all paid careful attention to The Earl now as he wiped the tears from his eyes, still seated by the roaring fire, showing not even the slightest element of discomfort at all.

  “Yet I have an invite like all others here.” Sighed Evans.

  “Indeed.” Agreed the Earl. “Tell me Mister Dickinson Evans, you say you were a soldier?”

  “I was indeed, sir.” Said Evans carefully, “Proud of it too I am.”

  “Ever killed a man?” asked the Earl, watching Evans very closely now, Apollyon’s eyes glinting in the firelight, seeming at that point to me to be almost reptilian in the way that they lazily gazed at the man who had tried to train a cat to hunt.

  “Often.” Said the ex-soldier finally. “And what is more I enjoyed it. No greater feeling than when bayonets are mounted I should say.” He sniffed haughtily as he said this.

  “You enjoyed it?” asked the Earl, raising his chin as if sniffing at the ex-soldier.

  “I did.” Said Evans in almost a whisper. “No feeling quite like it I should say, sir. Queen and Country.” Much to my consternation Apollyon seemed almost to be relieved at Evans’s confession.

  “Well that will be it then.” He said finally, a broad grin forming on his face again, and with that it seemed that the confrontation was instantly forgotten much to the bemusement of most of the gentlemen sat around that table. The conversation continued to be batted about the remaining gentlemen at the table but I had lost interest now that Evans’s place in the club seemed to have been assured once more and the questioning by Apollyon seemingly over.

  Instead I returned to mulling over the last things that Moon had said to me. Infuriatingly the damnable manservant just sat there staring into space again now, ignoring everyone else completely as much as they ignored him, and ignoring me in particular. For the moment, anyway. I had the definite feeling that more was yet to come.

  I found myself reflecting upon his questions, and the impertinence with which he asked them. Was it indeed true that I had eradicated love from my life completely? I thought that it was not the case, just like everything else in life there was a time and a place. Yet I had begun to realise that children did not understand that. For them love was unconditional, and it could be argued (or indeed proven) that I was guilty of not giving them this in their life. The very thought that I had done this to them filled me with despair, and when I imagined the effect that this withdrawal, this coldness that I had wrapped myself up in had on my Emily too then I felt as if I were about to dissolve into grief at the damage I had done to both my wife and my family. I looked at the men about this table, and the men who had entered the club before me. Was the loss of love in your life worth this?

  The thought that they were not my equals flashed into my head but I ignored it for it seemed to be a habit that I was indulging in more than perhaps I should of late. I began to conclude that my constant search for advancement had alienated me from the very ones who loved me the most. Was this the case? Just as a miser always wants more and more money to feed his greed, then was I the opposite, driving people away from me so I could appear chameleon like as I rose through the echelons of society. Was it true that I withheld love from all those around me who deserved it the most – my family, my friends – even my children? Dear God I hoped not, for I did then I was a monster. And yet. And yet some of me forced my reasoning to concede that this was indeed true. I was a monster. Was it too late for redemption for me?

  I dwelt also upon the fact that I made little reference to my job in my daily life, preferring instead to hide behind the skirts of the fact that I worked for the civil service, thus creating the absurd notion that my work was far more important than it actually was.

  “Little more than a glorified clerk!” Spat Moon from across the table, staring at me once again I saw, though with this single sentence he turned away from me once again, staring into space as he did before. As before nobody else at the table batted an eyelid at his retort, failing to hear it altogether. I did notice the Earl raise an eyebrow however, though his face showed confusion more than anything.

  I made to retort that this was simply not true, but I paused. Was it? My previous train of thought seemed to indicate that this was indeed true, and I hid my head in my hands as I heard the double doors fly open again. I looked up just in time to see Evans disappear through them, clapped on the back by the Earl and the somewhat subdued applause of the ever dwindling remaining gentlemen in the room. The doors swung shut again and Apollyon asked for ticket number seven.

  “My turn.” Said Cornelius Radley, the engineer who was now my nearest neighbour sat to my right. Unsurprisingly, for he was an engineer after all he announced his story was called, “The King of the Cogs”. As he took a swig of his brandy before starting and making to stand I reflected upon the red light that shone inside the dark room, and my supposition that this time the light seemed a little brighter, though still of a deep red in colour. Also there was the fact that
this time it had seemed to almost flicker, which was most unlike that of light from a lamp.

  In my mind the red light no longer resembled the light cast from a lamp somewhere inside the room. No, this time to me the red light looked like flames.

  “I begin my tale as I end it; in a hospital ward.” Said Cornelius Radley nearby, and I forced myself to listen.

  The King of the Cogs

  I lie in a hospital bed covered in bandages though I cannot be sure for I cannot move. The pain is terrible yet I cannot speak though a nurse happens past me from time to time and drips water into my mouth. I can hear them talk to each other though they do not seem to realise that I can hear them. I remember reading once that hearing is the last sense that you lose when dying, and I fear that soon my hearing will be gone too. How this happened is an odd tale, though it is known to the newspapers and in Parliament, for I was an engineering apprentice by the name of Cornelius Radley, apprenticed to old Finch, or as he is known by the idle and children now (according to the nurses who tend me anyway) as “Black Finch” which in itself is also part of the tale.

  Let us begin for I have little time.

  There can be little doubt that old Finch was the King of the Cogs. As an engineer he was of course an irascible and not by any means approachable man, but put in front of him any device in which mechanics were involved and his touch would appear to the uninitiated to be almost like some form of magic. His deft touch with any kind of machinery was without a doubt uncanny. He would merely glance at a piece of machinery or a blueprint and instinctively know how it worked, and moreover if it could be improved.

  “Levers and pulleys” he would say. “When I was a lad it were rope and wood. Now it’s hard metal; iron and steam. Much more efficient.” We would be inclined to agree with him in the machine shop of Allsop and Bright, the assembly line being something new, powerful; almost revolutionary. She was a harsh mistress of course, as the children slogging all hours there would attest, but the work got done and that was the main thing.

  There was a tale told of his expertise in his younger days that proved not just how good an engineer he was but also the reverence in which his expertise was held. It does not mention much of his sense of humour however.

  It was said that a large firm up north had an issue with a steam hammer in that its efficiency was not what it should be, and so they called on old Finch who even back then was always referred to as “old”. He turned up and insisted the machine be turned on. He stood watching it for several hours during which he would brook no interruptions. After some time, the factory inspectors saw him move to the machine and make a small mark on one of the boiler plates with a piece of chalk that he produced from his pocket.

  “Replace the larger cog directly behind there and efficiency of the engine will improve by at least fifty percent.” he said and left. A week later the factory owner had the cog replaced and as old Finch had said the performance of the machine was vastly improved. Shortly after the same factory owner received a bill for one thousand guineas and a penny. The factory owner was livid and requested that Finch send him a detailed invoice which arrived shortly after.

  The invoice read thus:

  For making the chalk mark... one penny

  For knowing where to make the chalk mark... 1000 guineas.

  The bill was promptly settled.

  Bafflers and angle irons, cogs and steam hammers planers and shapers were his meat and drink, steam and iron and coal his obsession. If you were to hand when he looked at a malfunctioning machine the first thing you would notice was how he was able to lose all sense of time and place, his concentration given solely to the function of the device. If called on to diagnose a misfiring piece of equipment he would stare at it for long minutes as it hissed and crunched, the spinning cogs and parts taking over his attention to the extent that sometimes it was quite possible to believe that he had stopped breathing altogether.

  Then he would suddenly snap to attention and hold his hand up to insist the machine be stopped, and as it slowed he would begin his work, murmuring under his breath that cog seventeen needed realigning, or a tappet needed replacing or the like. Many would wonder how he knew where the fault lay, and many more wished him to be wrong, but he never was. The work would be done and he would stand back, gathering up his tools and raising his hand for the machine to be started up again. When it did it was like new; the problem solved.

  The management invariably considered him to be more than just a useful asset and there was always talk of promotion, which of course he always resisted as it would take him away from his beloved machinery and drive him into the much duller and to him completely uninteresting desk job with the inevitable report filling and pen work.

  This to some degree made the management more than just a little nervous. They knew that Finch was approaching retirement: his white shock of unruly hair and woefully thin frame attested to advanced years, though his eyes remained as blue and intelligent as they always were. Mister Nasmyth however, the owner of the factory knew perfectly well that there were no other engineers on the premises or possibly in the country that had the instinctive feel for machinery that Finch had. So they were keen for him to take on an apprentice or apprentices, which Finch being Finch he resisted voraciously.

  There had been a history of failed apprentices behind him of course, the longest serving of which had been just under a month for Finch had no time for them or their constant questions at all. He was also not terribly good at explanations. Eventually old mister Nasmyth dragged him into the office on one of his infrequent visits and told him that he was going to put him in charge of a new apprentice training initiative as he called it, though as far as Finch was concerned it was a school when all was said and done. There was always the smell of oil and coal tempered with the hissing of steam and the oiled hiss of pistons moving up and down, cogs spinning and iron being beaten and pressed into shape.

  “Made me an offer I could not refuse.” Finch would say to anyone who would care to listen, and even those who would care not to. It was an about face though for now he was forced to teach them if nothing else the basics of engineering and his precious cogs, pullets and what have you. It must have been terrible for the poor apprentices, for the turnover of young men on his books was extremely high. Sometimes they only lasted days, never mind weeks, for he was a harsh master. He continually carried a clipboard around with him on which was strapped sheaves of paper on which he would scribble furiously with his thick blue cased fountain pen as he inspected each apprentice's work. Yet he shielded what he was writing from any who would even attempt a cursory glance at what he had written, and nobody ever saw anything he had inscribed there.

  In fact over time Finch’s clipboard and blue fountain pen became almost as legendary as his ability with cogs and machines was. His apprentices made many increasingly absurd attempts to see what he had written on his clipboard as he wandered about their stations from day to day; some involving mirrors and so forth but to no success. The contents of the clipboard remained a mystery not just to the apprentices but to everybody except Finch for he was never seen without it and many a joke was passed around the workforce about the fact that he probably slept with the damnable thing, and assuredly took it with him into the privy too! Inevitably there were also several somewhat lewder jokes regarding the fountain pen as well, but I shall not recount them here.

  It was probably during the last three years before he retired that Finch began to become the ill-tempered, highly critical and downright rude person that he is remembered for to this day. That and the other thing of course, and perhaps one thing leads to another, but there was absolutely no doubt about the fact that during the last three years of his employment in Nasmyth’s Finch became a monster. Profanity after profanity he would bring down to bear on any apprentice or indeed employee that displeased him, and even the most hardened factory worker would be hard pressed to maintain a steely demeanour once the tirade of abuse was directed towards him o
r her, adult or child alike.

  “Useless!” was a favourite expression of his. “Incompetent!” being another, and they are very much the sanitised version of what he actually said, the recipient of his disdain being subjected to the burden of such vitriol that was currently being directed towards him. His language would make a church goer blush of course, and there were many complaints but Finch was, as he knew, completely untouchable. He just carried on as before if any complaints were made against him, safe in the knowledge that they would certainly not go any further.

  In fact his apparent descent into disdain for everything to do with his place of work began to take on epic proportions. Nothing was good enough for him, management were incompetent, the apprentices were buffoons and everyone else in between not even worthy of his attention. Yet nothing was said for despite his attitude, Finch’s apprentices began to grow in knowledge, and despite his frequent and vehement repudiation of his underling’s abilities, they did seem to the management if not anyone else (and certainly not Finch) to begin to display positive signs of competence that bordered on mechanical craftsmanship and competence.

  Though as I said, Finch would not agree and as his inevitable retirement began to approach his temper seemed to become shorter too. I even think that the management began to look forward to his departure now that there were half a dozen or so apprentices who were very quickly becoming more competent by the day, though this was of course as I said not Finch’s opinion.