The Waiting Room

by Michael White

  Time flew until on the last day of September 1858 Finch’s retirement day finally came. I seem to remember it was a Thursday which seemed like a strange choice of day of the week to retire upon but it had been explained by Finch that on the Friday after the day of his official retirement he was to take a liner to visit his brother in the Americas, which many of us who worked in the factory considered strange as he had never mentioned any such family before. Yet he was not an easily approachable man, not given to much jibber jabber and so it passed over our heads that it was entirely feasible that he would not mention family or indeed anything else of a personal matter to us at all.

  Much excitement filled the factory that day for it was announced to the workforce that there would be a presentation given to old Finch at three o’clock and that any who wished to attend could be free to do so as long as they made up their time away from their work at the end of the day. Despite Finch being by this point very much a character who hardly promoted any feelings of joy or comradeship it was predicted by the workforce in general that there would be a high turnout for the retirement presentation as a rumour had flown about the factory floor that old Finch was finally to reveal the contents of his clipboard, which had over the years now reached legendary status and was therefore of great puzzlement and interest to all who worked in Allsop and Bright’s. It was said that even mister Nasmyth himself did not know what was written on the clipboard and if the owner himself did not know anything at all about the clipboard’s contents then what chance did they have as mere underling for its secrets to be revealed? It was of the general opinion that at the end of the day the retirement speech would be the time that the secret of what the clipboard contained would finally be revealed.

  Many thought that perhaps it was going to be mundane scribbling he made there which would be of no benefit or use to anyone other than a fellow engineer, and although this was invariably the case it was of great interest to all concerned that even this unremarkable fact was about to be revealed.

  Three O’clock came and we filed onto the engineering workshop floor for the speeches. Old Finch stood looking straight ahead, his gaze never wavering as he was praised by the management to the rafter and back and was finally graced with a memento of a cog cast in gold which Finch sniffed at before placing it into his overall pocket by where he stood. After this Finch made a somewhat dry and humourless speech that concentrated mostly on the unacceptable decline of quality in engineering in general and Allsop and Bright’s in particular. Mister Nasmyth stood wincing beside him as Finch tore into almost everyone he came into daily contact with and his final words were very much of the nature of “goodbye and good riddance.” Deciding almost certainly that the feeling was entirely mutual, Mister Nasmyth began to shuffle old Finch off the perch where he stood and into retirement and obscurity, though strangely Finch did not seem to be ready to leave just yet.

  Until someone settled the matter by calling out from the crowd.

  “What about the clipboard then, Finch?” came the shout which was rapidly taken up around the shop floor, voices crying out for the clipboard’s secrets to finally be revealed. It was almost at that point that it became apparent that Finch did not actually have either the clipboard with its attached sheaves of paper or blue fountain pen with him! It was a first and that was for sure!

  As the cries increased in volume Finch raised a hand for silence which settled about the multitude gathered there, their expectations rising.

  “Ah the clipboard.” smiled Finch with what I must say was a slight air of malevolence in his voice. There could be little doubt that he was fully aware of the enigma this simple piece of stationery had become given that he seemed to spend most of his time concealing both it and the accompanying blue fountain pen.

  “I have prepared a little puzzle for those who consider my clipboard to be of some strange fascination.” Smiling he stepped to one side and pulled what appeared to be a small wooden box from under a bench to his side. It stood on the floor and looked like a small crate covered in what appeared to be etched plates of brass and cogs, lettering scrawled and etched into the soft metal. There was a small lever on the top to which was attached what looked like a little brass bell. “If my apprentices are as competent as the management consider them to be then you will soon find my clipboard and fountain pen inside.” He gave a broad wink which was more unnerving than reassuring. “Every single note I have ever written on my clipboard is in there.” He gave one last smile. “Feel free to peruse them at your leisure.” He paused as if done and then held one finger up for attention. “It must be opened by the application of engineering of course. Try to force the lid or break the box in any other way and there is a small container of acid inside the box which if disturbed will dissolve the contents long before anyone can get their hands on them!” He smiled once again and then he stepped down and making his way through the crowds left the factory at a brisk pace, pushing ill-naturedly through the thronged mass of now boisterous workers as he went as if in a hurry. Obviously he had to make swift departure to board the liner that would take him to the America’s.

  Not a single person that was gathered there then has ever seen him again.

  There was a mad scramble to look at the box but management urged us back to work and the box was transported to a workbench in the engineering and maintenance department for the apprentices to have a look at it.

  In their own time, obviously.

  I examined the box carefully, as did the other apprentice engineers. If I were to tell the truth it soon became obvious that Finch had set a test that was clearly beyond our capabilities to open. Quite simply the arrangement of gears and cogs made no sense at all. The handle at the top of the box when moved merely rang the brass bell, presumably as if indicating a wrong move had been made. Half a dozen of us apprentices stood around the box scratching our heads and making suggestions, none of which seemed to work. The cogs would turn of course and the levers and gears could be switched but the box stubbornly refused to open or indeed to do anything at all.

  A week passed. Very quickly the majority of the workforce lost interest in it of course, though to us apprentice engineers it grew in fascination if anything. Several of us would arrive at work perhaps a little earlier than usual with scribbling made on an old scrap of paper and set to turning the cogs on the box and finally pulling the lever, at which point inevitably the brass bell would ring to indicate that a wrong move had been made, and so the sequence would need to be restarted right from the beginning once again. There were many dinner breaks spent poring over the box as well, and more than a few evenings spent spinning cogs and pulling levers with the usual effect of just one single brass bell ringing. Mister Nasmyth even showed his face around the door one evening as we stood there as flummoxed as usual.

  “Any luck?” he asked as we stood removing our caps and shaking our heads.

  “Fine engineers we seem to have these days.” he snorted in derision and in our embarrassment we all silently agreed that we simply had to crack the puzzle of how to open the damned thing. To be frank we would have had at the damnable thing with a ruddy hammer by that point if old Finch hadn’t warned us off shaking, rattling or striking the device in any way.

  Several weeks passed. Still we kept up our efforts but nothing worked. We were on our lunch eating by our benches whilst a few of the other apprentices pored over the box when we suddenly heard the brass bell ring once again.

  Only this time it rang twice in rapid succession.

  We raced into the room enquiring what they had done to make it do this. They stood and showed us the sequence of cog turning and gear pulling they had followed and as they completed the sequence the bell rang twice again.

  “It’s a start!” I yelled. “There must be another sequence after this!”

  “Or several.” said one of my colleagues glumly by my side.

  Sadly he was right.

  It took a lot of gear turning and so on until a few nights later the b
ell suddenly rang three times in quick succession. There were more than a few beers supped down at the pub that night, but still the box remained firmly closed. So on we continued.

  It took another month to complete the next sequence complete with four rings of the bell and six weeks after that before the bell rang five times.

  The next time however when the bell rang six times a small clasp snapped open on the side of the box from a recess none of us had ever seen or noticed before. Yet that was all. It was just an open clasp.

  On we went.

  This time it was only a few days before the seventh bell rang and another clasp fell open. Yet still the box would not open. Obviously there were other hidden locks or clasps holding it shut. It looked like this was to be a long process but we carried on, our appetites whetted by our success so far even though inevitably the testing of sequences involving the cogs and gears was a long and laborious process. It was on the Friday that the eighth bell rang and a tray slid open from the box, upon which sat a small piece of paper. Almost reverentially I plucked the paper from the tray. It was of good quality I could see and folded neatly in four. I opened it as all of the apprentices gathered around me. The writing was neat and in fine ink and read,

  “To open the box press the brass bell down firmly once.” It was followed by a strange signature that we had never seen before that looked as if it might contain the name “Finch” in there somewhere.

  “Get Nasmyth!” I shouted, ensuring nobody touched the bell atop the box until he arrived, which he did do soon after, red faced and out of breath. We all gathered around and watched intently as I leaned forward and pressed the bell down. Now it freely moved, sliding down into the box until it was flush with the surface. There was a small clunk and a small piece of what looked like string suddenly appeared in a small recess that had slid open.

  “String?” asked Nasmyth. “What’s all that about then?” Eager to finally see the box open we fell into a reverential silence awaiting whatever was going to happen next, which was when we heard the fizzing sound. Nasmyth leaned down and looked into the recess inside which the string seemed to be getting shorter.

  “That’s not a piece of string.” gasped one of the apprentices as he stooped down to look at it. His voice had a decided wobble as he continued and the fizzing sound suddenly stopped. “It’s a fuse...” he finished and I had but time to gulp as the world seemed to erupt about me, and all I saw was smoke and flame and death…

  ***

  So here I lie in my hospital bed. They think I cannot hear them these nurses who tend to my burns, though I can even if I cannot speak. According to them my chances are non-existent but I do not listen for this. I listen so I can hear what happened when the box exploded. The first thing I learned was regarding the destruction of Allsop and Bright’s which apparently was total. It simply did not exist as a building any more. Nearly two hundred and seventy five souls dead. The police cannot work out what explosive Finch used but it was powerful, that was for sure. I heard the nurses speculate that the only reason I was not dead like most of the rest of them was a sheet of metal from the roof fell on me, shielding me in some way. Yet soon I will be number two hundred and seventy six. They say it is inevitable as I am too badly burned.

  More darkness. This time voices nearby. They say in whispers that Finch cannot be found even though he is looked for. A person of that name fails to appear on any of the liner passenger logs. Even the newspaper journalists cannot find a trace of him; all are at a complete loss.

  Time slips again. Nurses again. I feel weaker today as if I cannot tell the difference between light and dark, and the pain is terrible to bear. Not much longer I think. More voices.

  “They found the pieces of paper from the clipboard they say.” I hear and I give all my strength to hear of what they talk. “They say he designed it to cast the papers inside the box into the air like confetti.”

  “Twisted he is if you ask me.” I hear the other voice.

  “What was on the damned paper?” I try to shout but no sound comes out of my mouth.

  My efforts are draining me. The dark rises from all around and I feel myself slipping away; floating and as I do so the last voice I ever hear comes to me like a knife through my heart.

  “The paper was blank of course.” the nurse says. “Police say it has never been written on at all.”

  “Sick.” repeats the other nurse as she comes nearer, noticing my discomfort. I think she may have touched me but I cannot be sure. “Not long now, love. It will soon stop hurting.”

  “They found the pen too.” the other voice, and as she continues the dark leaps at me as I realise just how sick old Finch really was and how he has done for me and nearly three hundred others too.

  “The police are quite certain. The blue fountain pen had never been written with at all.” she says. “Never even had ink in it. Not ever.”

  With what may be a wail I find my head spinning and the darkness takes me.

  Interlude Seven

  ~ In which the lack of humour of the common engineer is greatly lamented ~

  “It would appear that Old Mister Finch did not have much of a sense of humour, my friend” said Byron Rothering from towards the top of the table.

  “A fair assessment.” Said Cornelius Radley, taking his seat once again now that his tale was done.

  “It would appear to be a common fault amongst those who call themselves engineers.” Continued Rothering sagely, “For their minds are set more upon functionality, precision and the blue-prints of mechanical operation.”

  “Precisely.” Said Radley. “Though I do not see this as a flaw, though perhaps you do?” asked the engineer, staring at the gentleman across the table to his right.

  “Merely an observation.” Smiled Rothering, raising a glass to the engineer which he gratefully returned.

  “Mayhap a sense of humour is vastly over-rated in an engineer’s line of work?” queried Jeptha Farrager on Rothering’s left and again the engineer nodded.

  “I query whether such single minded behaviour is to be admired or not?” I queried and noted a look of consternation on the engineer’s face.

  “A fine one to talk.” Smiled the Earl, joining the conversation at last. “Lamentable is not that you Mister Ewan criticise another for showing a solemn face to the world whilst you seem to carefully keep yourself to yourself in all matters, is it not?”

  “Not at all.” I replied, surprised that once again I seemed to be the target for the Earl’s barbs. “I think you will find I possess a fine sense of humour. My work requires it, if nothing else.” Apollyon smiled at this.

  “Shuffling pencils for a living almost certainly requires a lack of brevity I imagine.” He smiled, and anger filled me as he sat looking to see if I had taken the bait.

  “I think you will find that a man of my station does not get where he finds himself in the world by shuffling pencils.” I hissed, trying to avoid Apollyon’s snares but failing to do so altogether.

  “What of your father’s inheritance?” enquired the Earl, an impudent look upon his face.

  “What of it?” I snarled as Apollyon stood and headed towards me.

  “Surely that had more to do with your advancement than the sheer delight of your personality.” He smiled. “I feel your inheritance paved your way somewhat.”

  He paused as he approached me, as if remembering something. “Oh. The house too. That was also part of your benefit from your late father’s will I imagine. It must be very profitable to be an only child I think, Ewan.” The infuriating look on his face filled me with rage in an instant.

  “That is none of your business, Apollyon!” I shouted, and the three remaining men at the table sat open mouthed at my outburst. Personally I felt that I was blotting my copybook with the Earl so to speak, but I no longer cared. My mind was in doubt now about my entrance to the club altogether, and this impudent fellow in particular!

  “My work or inheritance is not for you to comment on. I am w
ell regarded in my place of employment and in society in general. Anything beyond this is no concern of yours” The Earl just continued grinning at me, as if he was enjoying my discomfort, and his revelations of my past, for revelations they were. I kept knowledge of the money and property bequeathed to me a close secret, for if I was forced to admit it, which I never normally would of course, it explained completely where I now stood in society, a fact that never failed to urge me on, up and up the ladder so to speak, to make some progress that was of my own creation rather than gifted to me by now deceased parents.

  “Well regarded in your place of employment?” hissed Apollyon as he moved forward again and kneeling down put his face close to mine. “They think you are a fool, Jacob Ewan.” He spat as I looked in his eyes and now his face had drained of any sign of humour. Now he looked deadly; threatening. “They snigger like children behind your back.” He whispered to me. “Ledger Ewan they call you.”

  “They most certainly do not!” I spat back at him, his eyes now transfixed on mine.

  “Tick tick tick Jacob.” He said, no smile upon his face. “Tick your ledger and think of a life in which you have attained something by your own merit rather than being granted it by your sweet dead daddy.”

  I have to say here and now that I am not a man for violence. I never have been and I hope I never will be, for I consider it beneath me. Yet my mind was in turmoil already, what with the words Moon had spoken to me and my realisation that I have excluded love from my life, and there was something else too; something about the stories.

  Yet I could reasonably take no more. I had heard the name “Ledger Ewan” whispered behind my back whilst at work before of course, but I had chosen to ignore it, considering those who whispered it to be unworthy of my attention. Yet I had also when younger whilst boarding been taught by my father to take no nonsense when the bullies and name callers came to taunt me.