And luckily, I’m not interested in Churchley & Sons anyway, but somewhere around the back. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, I plunge into the twist of alleyways that lead from the street around the back of the huge white building. I end up in a loading bay, flattening myself in between a row of bins as a delivery lorry squeezes past. When the lorry is gone, I hear it – a sound – regular and steady, yet somehow, jumbled too. I walk faster down the alley, the sound getting louder. The tiny street twists sharply at the end in front of a brick building with a few tags of graffiti. A door in the wall is standing partly ajar. The sound is coming from inside.
I go through the door into a corridor. Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. Bells – I’ve set off an alarm! Memories of the police station come rushing back. I’m about to run away when the alarms begin making another sound: ‘cuckoo, cuckoo’. There’s a chorus of four chimes, and everything begins to cuckoo at once.
Clocks – lots of them! As realisation dawns, the knot of tension inside me begins to unravel. I’ve definitely found the place.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
There’s no answer, so I go down the corridor and stare through the open door at the end. In front of me is the most bizarre workshop I’ve ever seen. There are mountains of clocks – clocks on walls, clocks on shelves, a forest of grandfather clocks, clocks in various states of dishabille on a long workbench, their intricate metal innards carefully laid out. There are carriage clocks and funky alarm clocks, digital clocks, and a whole wall of cuckoo clocks. Everything is jumbled and the wooden floor is covered with fine metal dust and boxes of tools and piles of papers, books, and diagrams. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, or maybe forward. One by one the clocks stop chiming, whirring, buzzing, and cuckooing, and fall back into a steady drone of ticking. Rhythmic yet completely out of time. For the first time in what seems like days, I grin.
From a corner of the room, a throat clears.
I jump – still startled from the clocks going berserk. Turning around, I see a desk, piled high with stacks of books and papers. I peer into the dim light, expecting to see a wizened old man with wild white hair, a monocle, and a leather apron – something straight out of Dickens. But the man who stands up from behind the desk is anything but…
He’s tall – very tall – with a rangy but strong-looking body. His hair is dark brown, and comes almost to his shoulders, curling a little at the bottom. His chin is covered with a stubbly beard, but his cheekbones and facial features are well-defined and almost delicate. He looks about thirty and is wearing faded jeans and a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt. But the thing that draws my attention and keeps me staring is his eyes. Pale and blue – almost luminous as they lock with mine.
He gazes at me silently with a half-smile on his face, bringing his fingers to his chin in consideration. I notice how long and slender they are. I find I can’t look away from him.
‘I was going to say carriage clock,’ he says. ‘But maybe pocket watch. Hmmm. Strange – usually I can tell right away.’
‘Sorry?’
‘What you’re looking for.’
‘I’m not actually here to buy a clock,’ I say.
‘That’s what they all say.’ He winks conspiratorially at me. ‘But you know what? I usually find that there’s something here for just about everyone. Look at this.’ He picks up something off the desk. It’s a Mickey Mouse watch on a red leather strap. ‘Walt Disney gave this to Julie Andrews when she starred in Mary Poppins.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, look here. There’s a mark.’ I notice that his nails are on the long side as he points to a scratch in the metal so tiny that I barely notice it. ‘It says: “Thank you for the magic, Love Walt”.’
‘I never would have known,’ I say.
‘And here,’ he strides over to a shelf and takes down an ugly-looking black box. ‘This is one of the earliest clock radios ever made. A Casio.’ He holds it out. ‘It’s not really digital – it has plastic numbers that flip around.’
‘I had one of those in my bedroom as a kid.’ I say. ‘Gosh, I’d forgotten.’
He chuckles. ‘I had one too. Funny how time flies, isn’t it?’
‘I guess you would know.’
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’ His eyes catch the light and glint like a pale moon as he puts the clock back on the shelf. ‘But actually, when I’m in here working, it’s the one place where I really lose track. Time is passing all around me, but I don’t even notice it.’
‘That is odd,’ I say.
‘But you aren’t here to talk about time, and you aren’t here to buy a clock. So…’ he considers me, ‘do you mind if I ask – why are you here?’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say with a laugh. The roomful of clocks – and the man himself – are so odd that I feel strangely at ease. I’ve never been that interested in clocks – I expect most people aren’t – except as useful devices to tell me whether I’m early, late, or just being stood up. But here, in this place, clocks seem intrinsically interesting.
I take the velvet bag out of my handbag and set it on the worktable. My hands fumble with the cords. I finally manage to open the bag and take out the locket. As I put it in front of him, I watch his face – after all, first impressions tell a true story. He picks up the heavy silver lozenge, the chain coiling over his long fingers. His brows draw close together. Something flickers in his eyes: disbelief.
He flicks open the catch. The bird pops out and begins its slow mechanical rotation, silently moving its delicate beak, the crystals on its feathers sparkling in the light of his work lamp. He stares at it, clearly fascinated. It’s like he’s forgotten that I’m there. He snaps the locket shut and opens it again, still mesmerised.
‘Amazing.’ He stares at the bird, all trace of amusement gone from his face. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘It belongs to a friend. I said I’d take it to have it cleaned. But I’m also hoping to find out something about it.’
‘I’m not sure I can help you with that,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen anything like it before.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t quite hide my disappointment that he can’t tell me anything about it.
He moves behind his worktable and turns on a bright magnifying light. ‘I think it ought to be able to sing,’ he says.
‘Sing?’
He searches around on the desk, picking up one tool after another and discarding it. Finally, he settles on a thin sharp probe like a dental instrument. He holds the locket under the light and prods delicately at the metal joint that makes up the bird’s throat.
‘Something’s stopping it from turning all the way around,’ he says. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a music box inside. The bird ought to sing.’ He looks up at me. ‘Do you mind if I have a fiddle about? I won’t damage it, I promise.’
‘Um sure. That’s why I’m here.’
He holds up a magnifying glass and peers down the bird’s throat, probing with the wire instrument.
I lean in closer until our heads are almost touching. His dark hair falls in a curtain over his eyes and I can’t see his face, but I watch his long fingers as they deftly probe down the bird’s throat.
‘It’s swallowed something,’ he says, with the gravity of a veterinarian trying to help an injured animal. ‘It’s jamming the tiny wheels and gears inside.’
He passes me the glass and I peer into it. Close up, the mechanism seems even more complex. But because I don’t know what I’m looking for, I can’t tell what’s out of place.
He sets down the wire probe and takes another tool from the leather roll – a tiny pair of pliers that wouldn’t look out of place in a doll’s toolbox.
‘There’s something wedged in there pretty good,’ he says. ‘I’m surprised it works at all. Maybe a child once tried to feed the bird.’
‘Maybe.’ I wonder if Mrs Fairchild was that child. Seeing the mechanism through the glass has led me to question once again whether this really is
just a child’s trinket. To my, albeit untrained, eye, it looks like a delicate work of art.
The Clockmaker’s hand is rock steady as he performs the necessary surgery. It seems to take a very long time. I hold my breath, willing it all to go well.
‘There. Got it!’ Gingerly he pulls on the object that he’s hooked with the pliers. Something flashes gold in the light and he sets a piece of metal onto the table.
‘A key!’
‘Yes.’ The Clockmaker continues to perform post-operative work on the bird. He goes through a succession of miniature screwdrivers and probes, checking the joints, dabbing oil on with a paintbrush, and tightening unbelievably tiny screws.
I pick up the gold key and turn it over in my hands. It’s tiny – just over a centimetre long, with a trefoil design at one end, and notches at the other. It reminds me of the key I had to my pre-teen diary – pink faux leopard skin with a gold lock – where I wrote down all of my precious twelve-year-old secrets. Or perhaps it’s the key to a jewellery box? I hold it up close and peer at it. There are a few scratches on the notched end of the metal, but no other markings.
‘That should do it,’ the Clockmaker says, grinning proudly. ‘Watch this.’ The bird folds up on its tiny hinges and he snaps the locket shut. He opens it again. The bird springs to life on its perch and begins its slow rotation. Instead of stopping halfway around, the bird continues a full rotation. The hinges on its beak move, and this time, there’s a delicate tinkling sound as the music box inside begins to play. I gaze at the small object in the hand of the Clockmaker, mesmerised by its delicate perfection.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ His face is lit by the pure delight of a child looking into the window of a toyshop at Christmas. I feel a spreading warmth inside of me, like holding a cup of hot chocolate after throwing snowballs. He senses me looking at him and smiles, but neither of us speak for a long moment. That silence, as much as anything else about him, makes an impression on me. Finally, when the tune comes to an end and the bird gradually begins to slow its rotation, he snaps the locket shut.
‘Thank you!’ I say. ‘I never knew it could sing.’
He dabs a bit of oil on the outer hinges. ‘I wonder what the song is,’ he says.
‘I could ask Mrs Fairchild – she’s the owner.’ I sigh. ‘But I’m not sure she’ll know.’
‘Fairchild did you say? That name – it sounds familiar.’ His face darkens. ‘Where did you say this came from again?’
‘I didn’t.’ All of a sudden, it’s like a heavy mist has descended between us. ‘The owner lives in a house called Mallow Court. Up near Aylesbury.’ I figure I owe him at least that much of an explanation.
‘Mallow Court.’ He puts his fingers to his chin, considering. ‘You know, I’ve definitely heard of that place. In fact—’
But I never do learn what ‘in fact’ he’s heard, because just then, a door flanked by two grandfather clocks opens at the side of the room. An attractive blonde woman comes into the room, wearing a smart skirt suit, and high heels. ‘Chris…’ she says, a teasing smile on her face. ‘You know you’ve got a meeting with— oh sorry…’ she sees me and cuts herself off ‘…sorry, Mr Heath-Churchley – I didn’t know you had a customer.’
Heath-Churchley.
‘No worries, Agatha,’ he says. ‘But can you tell Dad I’ll be up later? I’m in the middle of something.’
Dad! My mouth gapes open in stunned horror. Maybe it should have been obvious given the location of the shop, but I can’t believe that the Clockmaker – of all people – happens to be a member of my bogey-family.
The woman purses her high-gloss lips and looks at me in disdain. The Clockmaker turns back to the locket, but I snatch it away, along with the key, and shove them both into the velvet bag.
‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go.’ Despite being surrounded by clocks I check my wrist for a watch that isn’t there. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr… um… Heath-Churchley. I can show myself out.’
I turn and make for the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ he says. ‘Please.’
I whirl around, frantically digging in my handbag for my purse. Money – he must want money for the work he did. ‘Of course – I’ll pay now. How much?’ My voice jitters.
‘No. That’s not it.’ He looks positively wounded. Of course – the rich never like to talk about money. ‘I was just wondering – I mean, I don’t even know your name.’
‘It’s Alex.’ I’m too flustered to come up with a fake name at the drop of a hat. ‘Thank you again for your help. If you do want payment, then send an invoice to Mallow Court.’
I reach the door and duck out into the alleyway just as the clocks begin to chime the half hour. The cuckoos pop out and I hear their sound echoing behind me, sounding like ‘stupid, stupid, stupid…’
Which is nothing short of the truth.
- Chapter 13 -
I walk quickly away from the workshop, vaguely retracing my steps through the warren of streets. It’s as if I’ve emerged from a cosy, magical world into a reality much grimmer than before. The sky is dark and a few heavy raindrops begin to fall. I don’t have an umbrella, and it only takes half a block before the sky opens up and rain pours down with biblical force.
I put my head down and run, but the rain soaks through my jacket, filling me with a cold, wet gloom. Why didn’t I just stay where I was and wait out the storm? After all, does it really matter that the Clockmaker is a Heath-Churchley? Just because ‘Daddy’ was awful to me and the wedding disaster still haunts me as my first real failure as manager at Mallow Court, does it follow that the sins of the father must be visited on the son?
Though the more I think about it, the more disdain I feel. The Clockmaker may be holed up in his quaint little workshop – but it’s still attached to ‘Daddy’s’ auction house. He hasn’t exactly struck out on his own. Not when there’s a sexy PA who probably has an intercom at her desk but decides to seek him out in person. He may be eccentric, but he’s still a man, and must be rich and posh at that.
And what’s more – Mrs Fairchild knew! She suggested I take the bird to ‘The Clockmaker’ – sent me into the jaws of the lion. What had she said? “Ask anyone around there – they can direct you”. If she knew that, she must have known the rest.
Incensed, I storm to the Tube. Just as I’m about to descend into the bowels of subterranean London, my phone rings. It’s Tim. In the strange world of wind-up clocks and mechanisms that don’t run on batteries, I’d almost forgotten the reason I came to London in the first place. For a nanosecond, I consider rejecting the call – I’m soaked and in no fit state for man or beast. Instead, I barge my way into the recessed doorway of a wigmaker’s shop and answer breathlessly on the sixth ring.
‘Hi Alex, you haven’t forgotten me, I hope.’ His voice is deep and resonant. And given where I am, I wonder what he would look like in his barrister’s wig – and nothing else.
‘How could I forget my “get out of jail free” card?’
‘Not only free – but I’m going to buy you a proper drink.’
‘I could use one.’
‘Did you get my text about the wine bar? I’m done in court for the day.’
‘Yes, I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘And Alex…’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Me too.’ My spirits lifted, I end the call and head into the Tube.
*
‘Hi, over here,’ Tim calls out as I enter the wine bar. Butterflies flit in my stomach as he looks me up and down and seems to like what he sees. I must look like a drowned rat who’s crawled out from one of London’s underground sewers – but whatever floats his boat.
‘It’s lovely to see you again.’ He leans in and kisses me on the cheek, his lips just brushing the corner of mine. I shiver – he’s quite handsome, and besides, it’s been a while since anyone bothered to kiss me.
‘You too.’ I
take in his perfect suit, clean-shaven square jaw and light brown hair that’s shiny and tousled from the rain. If anything, he’s almost too good-looking. Who knew that was possible? Surely a man like him would be better off with an equally well-groomed woman, like the Heath-Churchley PA – with the whole nine yards of highlighted hair, manicured nails, aerobicised thighs, and mile-high heels. Rather than someone like me.
‘So how was your journey?’ he says.
‘It was fine, and thanks for inviting me. It hasn’t been the best day.’ I grin. ‘Forgot my umbrella – as you can see.’
‘I like the slicked-back look.’ He tucks a stray strand of wet hair behind my ear. I lean in and let myself be warmed by the lustrous brown of his eyes. ‘But let’s get a drink down you right away. Hopefully then things will improve.’
‘They already have,’ I flirt back effortlessly.
‘Good.’ He flags down a server and I order a large glass of Zinfandel. When the server has left and the obvious banter is exhausted, I twist a beer mat between my fingers. I still haven’t worked out how much I should tell him – the fact is we’ve only met once – twice if you count the house tour. So before he can ask me what I’ve been up to, I jump in first.
‘So, how was court today?’
‘Fine.’ His nose twitches. ‘It was the usual stuff. An old lady was suing the council because she slipped and fell on the library steps. She wanted her day in court – more to complain about the reduced opening hours and the fact that they don’t have the two latest Jackie Collins books than about the access issues.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘So did you win? I take it you represented the council?’
‘Oh, I won, all right. I usually do. But I wasn’t representing the council. I got her a settlement for one hundred and fifty pounds plus expenses: train fare to court and a bun at the station. Now she can buy Jackie’s latest – maybe even a signed copy.’
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