“Hello? Mr. Spork?”
Joe turns, and beholds a rare and curious thing: a fat man running.
“Mr. Spork?”
He really is running. He’s not quick—although he’s light on his feet, as so many fat men are—but he has considerable momentum and powerful thighs, and he is not trotting, cantering, or jogging, but actually running. He reminds Joe at this remove of his mother’s father, the meat-packer, shaven-headed and layered with gammon and eggs. This specimen has his bulk, but not his heft, and is somewhere between thirty and fifty.
“Hello? I wonder if we could have a word?”
Yes, “we,” for indeed there are two of them, one fat and the other thin, the little one concealed behind his enormous companion, walking fastidiously along in the wake of the whale.
It is the fat one who is calling him, between breaths, as he hurtles up Quoyle Street. Joe stops and waits, hoping to avoid any kind of cardiac drama or collision, and by some curious trick, the two men arrive at much the same time. The thin one takes over the talking. He’s older, greyer, more measured and more unctuous.
“My dear Mr. Spork. I wonder if we might go inside? We represent—among other people, you understand—we represent the Loganfield Museum of Mechanical History in Edinburgh and Chicago.” But he has no Scots lilt, just a pure English diction with a hint of apology. His sentences do not turn upward at the end, in the modern American style, but conclude on firm, downward full stops. “It’s a matter of some delicacy, I’m afraid.”
Delicacy. Joe does not like delicacy. Oh, he likes it fine in clocks and mechanisms, but in real life it means courts and money and complication. It sometimes also means that another of his father’s debts or wickednesses has found its way home, and he will hear about how Mathew robbed a fellow of his life savings or stole a priceless jewel, and have to explain that no, the treasure of Mathew Spork is not his to disburse, that patrimony is nothing but an empty leather suitcase and a parcel of newspaper clippings detailing Mathew’s mostly unconvicted outrages. Mathew’s money is gone, and no one knows where to, not even his wife, not his son, and not his creditors. On this occasion, however, the matter appears to be related to Joe personally.
There is one person in Joe Spork’s small circle of friends whose life is occasionally complicated by issues of law.
Billy, you bald git, what have you got me into? Soot and sorrow, I know it.
Soot and sorrow: the Night Market’s invocation of desperate seriousness, of doom and disaster. He feels a powerful urge to run.
Instead he says “Please come in,” because it is his conviction that England is a just place, and his experience that even where the law has been bent or broken, a little cooperation and courtesy can smooth over some remarkably large potholes.
The fat one goes first and the thin one second, with Joe bringing up the rear to emphasise that he is not running, that indeed, they are entering his lair at his urging. He offers them tea and comfortable chairs, which they regretfully decline. So he makes tea for himself, and the thin one says that perhaps he will, after all, and helps himself to a macaroon into the bargain. The fat one drinks water, a lot of it. And when everyone is refreshed and Joe has shown them around the more interesting bits of his workshop (the half-assembled chess-playing robot he is making on commission in the style of the notorious Turk, the wind-up racehorses, the Edinburgh case clocks) the thin gentleman steeples his hands, as if to say it is time to begin.
“I am Mr. Titwhistle,” the thin gentleman says, “and this is Mr. Cummerbund. Those are our actual names, I’m afraid. Life is capricious. If you should feel the urge at any time to chuckle, we’re both quite big enough to share the joke.” He gives a demonstrative little smile, just to show he can. Mr. Cummerbund pats his stomach, as if to say that he, personally, is big enough for that one and a number of other jokes besides.
Joe Spork takes this for a species of test. He smiles politely, even contritely, a man who knows what it is to have an odd name and feels no need to laugh. Instead, he extends his hand to them both. Mr. Cummerbund takes it lightly. He has very soft skin, and he shakes gently but enthusiastically. After a moment, Joe unplugs himself, and turns to Mr. Titwhistle.
Mr. Titwhistle does not lean forward for the greeting. He keeps himself perfectly balanced, perfectly inside his own circle. He shakes hands as if mindful that Joe might at any moment slip and fall, that he might therefore need the solidity of his size eight feet on the carpet and the strength in his lawyerly thighs to lend support. He has very little hair; a mere haze embracing his head like the fuzz on a petrified peach. This makes his age impossible to judge. Forty-five? Sixty?
He looks directly into Joe’s face, quite calmly and without embarrassment. In his eyes—which are grey, and kindly—there is no flicker of dislike or disapproval. Indeed, they are more like eyes that proffer condolences, or mediation. Mr. Titwhistle understands that these little disagreements come along, and that persons of intelligence and determination can always get around them in one way or another. If Joe did slip, Mr. Titwhistle would not hesitate to bear him up. Mr. Titwhistle sees no reason for unpleasantness between those who are presently on opposite sides of the legal tennis net. He is before everything a pleasant man.
Joe finds all his old, unused and unwelcome instincts rushing to the surface. Alarm! Alert! Sound the dive klaxon and blow the tanks! Run silent, run deep! He wonders why. He glances at the hand still gripping his own, and sees no watch. Gentlemen of this vintage rarely operate without watches, and watches communicate something of one’s identity. Of course, if one wished to avoid such communication … His gaze flicks to Mr. Titwhistle’s waistcoat, and finds what he’s looking for: a fob watch on an unornamented chain. No charms, no Masonic badges, no club marks. No private signs or colophon. No military insignia. A blank, empty space on an item for display. He looks back at the wrist. Cufflinks. Plain studs. The tie is generic, too. This man is a cypher. He hides himself.
Joe glances back at Mr. Titwhistle’s face. Gazing into those clear, benevolent eyes, he finds he is sure of exactly one thing: that Mr. Titwhistle, congenial sherry drinker and alderman of the city of Bath, would have precisely the same damp, avuncular expression on his face if he were strangling you with piano wire.
Unwillingly, he grants the Night Market self a brief leave to remain.
The formalities dispensed with, Mr. Cummerbund sits and lays out his notepad on his lap. From this angle, he is even more bizarre than when Joe first saw him galloping along Quoyle Street. He has a head shaped almost exactly like a pear. His brain must be squeezed into the narrow place at the top. His cheeks are wide and fatty, so that, if Mr. Cummerbund were a deer or a halibut, they would excite pleasurable anticipation in those fond of rich foods and delicacies. He smells strongly of a thin, high-scented cologne. It is a cologne advertised by young men who surf and then trip lightly into tropical casinos with curvy, dark-eyed women. It comes in a bottle made to look like a crystal glass pineapple. It is too young for him, and does not conceal the stinky eau de Cummerbund which is the natural product of his body.
“A matter of some delicacy?” Joe says.
“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Titwhistle agrees.
“Regarding?”
“Regarding some of your late grandfather’s effects.”
“My grandfather?” It is an innocuous word, and Daniel Spork was not a firebrand or a red-toothed crook—unlike his son—but it puts Joe a little more on edge.
“Yes, indeed. Mr. Daniel, I believe.”
“What about him?”
“Ah. Well … I am tasked to acquire your grandfather’s journals, and any correspondence you might be willing to part with. Along with any examples of his work or his tools which you might still possess. And any curiosities.”
“I see.” He doesn’t, or rather, he sees something, but cannot identify it.
“I’m authorised to negotiate the sale so that it can be done quickly, and to arrange for collection. The new exhibitions us
ually start in January, and they take a while to prepare, so time is of the essence. Have you been to the Museum?”
“No, I’m not familiar with it.”
“So few people are. A great shame. But the curators really do an amazing job. They build up the exhibits in a way which sets them off quite splendidly. You should visit.”
“It sounds fascinating.”
“Once I’ve seen the items, of course, I can give you a better idea of what we’d be willing to pay—but I have a considerable budget. American money, you see, not British. Additional zeroes, you understand.”
“And are there any specific items you might be looking for? I have a small number of rather ordinary tools which belonged to him. Although I think I do have a table clamp he designed for engraving work. The best stuff I’m afraid my father disposed of rather informally, while my grandfather was still alive.” Did he ever. Daniel Spork, measured and frail, shouting fit to raise the roof and shake the foundations. His son was a serpent, a buffoon, a deceiver. He was a crawling bug with no concept of honour, no understanding of humanity’s better urges. He was vile. And Joe’s mother, weeping and holding Mathew’s arm, clutching at the old man. Don’t say that, Daniel, please! Please. He didn’t know!
But Daniel Spork was a pillar of flame. A great trust had been shattered. The world was poorer for it—and Mathew, flesh of his flesh, lying and unforgivable clot, was the weak link in a chain of such incredible importance that it could not be fully expressed. Daniel turned his back and shook and shuddered, and batted away their hands. And then he went down to his workroom to leaf through the remains of Mathew’s “fire sale” and see what was still there and what could be reasonably brought back. It was only after a half-day spent leafing through his books and piling up bits and bobs upon his table, mouth still a bitter line of hurt and the Death Clock set appallingly in front of him ticking away these black moments of his life, that he looked over the remaining clutter and began to calm. His diary, yes, was here. His sketchbooks had gone to a friend in the trade, and could be had back, no doubt. His toolbox was gone—a magical thing of levers and cogs which extended and unfolded into a miniature bench—but the tools themselves remained.
Having lined up the survivors of the auction, Daniel paced and fluttered, opened ledgers and fussed with boxes, and finally gave a shout of satisfaction as he held up a collection of jazz records, old 78s, in a purpose-made satchel.
“Frankie,” he murmured. And then, with a snarl to his son, “Your mother!”
Only the sight of Joe—knee-high and cowering amid all this splashy and appalling adult confusion—broke through his rage, and even then it merely unleashed his grief, which was infinitely worse.
“No,” Mr. Titwhistle says, “nothing in particular. Unusual items always fetch a premium, of course. Anything idiosyncratic. Impractical, even. Or intricate.”
But his hands—which he has raised, palms up, to convey his sincerity—have betrayed him. He is tracing the outline of something, absently sketching it in the air as he speaks. Something which Joe has recently seen. Something strange, of which gentlemen from Scottish museums might in theory be aware, but whose connection with Joe himself should be quite beyond their ken. In any case, what manner of museum sends two fellows with anonymous ties and empty eyes all the way to London on the off chance? Do they not have the electric telephone in Edinburgh?
Mr. Cummerbund has been silent so far, listening and watching with great acuity, and every so often he has made notes in an impenetrable shorthand. The top leaves of the pad he is using have wrinkled, because his hands are moist and because he presses very hard with his cheap supermarket-brand ballpoint—a thin plastic thing which has already cracked along one edge, and which he occasionally puts between his lips to chew. Now, he removes it, and the smell of Mr. Cummerbund’s mouth is briefly added to the smell of tropical-fruit cologne, a tantalisingly disgusting flavour of old mint, tooth decay, and kidneys.
“Rodney,” he says tightly, and Mr. Titwhistle glances at him, then follows the line of Mr. Cummerbund’s gaze back to his own fingers. Joe sees the sequence of events unfolding, and realises a moment too late what will happen next: Mr. Titwhistle and Mr. Cummerbund look guiltily from the shape in the air to Joe to see whether he has made anything of it, and catch him staring guiltily at them. Between the three men, there is a moment of comprehension. Oh, yes. All out in the open, now, isn’t it? Or, not all, but enough. The rusty machinery of his father’s world wakes within him again, unfolding from an old corner of his mind that he barely knew was there; the forgotten instinct which prompts him to lie, promise, misdirect, all in one.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Joe says confidingly, “you place me in a rather awkward position. I had a similar offer not two days ago from another interested party, and this morning my phone has barely stopped ringing. I’ve made some enquiries and not all my suitors are in fact entirely reputable”—you two, in particular, but we don’t say that because we want everyone to feel nice and safe and not disposed to rash action—“so I’d rather prefer to deal with you. If the price is right, of course.”
He cringes a bit, inwardly. Joe Spork—new and improved and all grown-up—doesn’t think that way. Not any more. There was a boy once, who did—a kid who picked pockets and stood lookout; who tumbled through the tunnels of the Tosher’s Beat in search of pirate treasure, in the certain knowledge that there actually was some; whose nefarious uncles nipped up a drainpipe in the blinding dusk to relieve a duchess of her jewels, while Mathew Spork charmed and smiled and kept her on the hook and his one begotten son leaned against a wall and yoyo’d and kept an eye out for the Lily, as in Lily Law, as in Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police—but Joe had imagined that person no longer existed. He had no idea he could summon the pattern so easily.
Mr. Cummerbund closes his book, and glances at his partner.
“I’m quite sure,” Mr. Titwhistle murmurs, “that some accommodation could be reached for the full collection.”
“I’m so glad. Your good fortune, of course, is that I’ve begun to assemble it all. Mine is that now I have someone suitable to sell it to.”
“We should greatly prefer to avoid anything like an auction.”
You don’t care in the slightest. This is another test. Why is everyone testing me? I don’t have anything you want. Except, somehow, I clearly do.
Mathew is bubbling in Joe’s brain, commenting and advising:
Don’t sell. Not yet. If you make it easy, they’ll see through you.
To what?
To whatever you’re actually going to do.
Am I not selling, then?
Apparently not.
Cover. Conceal. Hide. Deceive.
A day of ghosts, most unwelcome and unawaited.
“Then I shall expect your pre-emptive offer to be quite striking. I’m sure it would have been anyway! And if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, gentlemen, I have another client appointment—on an unrelated matter, I assure you—at ten-thirty, and I really need to go. Shall we say, same time on Monday?”
There is a long pause. Jesus, Joe thinks, are they actually going to jump me? And then:
“Ideal,” Mr. Titwhistle says. He reaches into his jacket and produces, between two meagre fingers, a crisp white business card. “Do call if you have any trouble—the Museum has a good many friends. We can help in all sorts of ways.”
Yes. I’m sure you can.
Joe watches them walk away down the road. Neither one looks back. No car stops to pick them up. They seem entirely rapt in conversation, and yet somehow he feels observed, spied upon.
Fine. Then I’m very boring, aren’t I? I do boring things. I live a boring life and no one can say I don’t. I deal in antiques and curiosities, and I don’t do surprises. I’m recently single and I’m about to leave the 25–34 demographic for evermore. I like Chelsea buns the way they don’t make them these days and I fall in love with waifish, angry women who don’t think I’m funny.
&nb
sp; I wind clocks like Daniel.
And I won’t turn into Mathew.
“Billy, it’s Joe. Call me, please. We’ve got something to discuss.”
He sighs, feeling the need for some consolation and knowing that he has no one from whom he can easily require a hug, and goes back to work.
Joe winds the clocks every day after lunch. He does not, as is the practice of many in his trade, set them all to different times so that there is always one about to chime. He gets his clients by appointment, by referral. Spork & Co. is what is known in these days when everything is studied and taxonomised as a “destination business.” His customers, for the most part, already know what they want when they come, and they are unlikely to be soothed or cozened into buying something else just because it goes bong while they’re having a quiet cup of tea and a jam tart with the owner. What they want is splendour and authenticity and a sense of craft. They are buying perhaps most of all a handshake with the past.
And the past is here, caught by the crook of the Thames and the endless whispering of ratchets and pendulums, the busy susurrus of oiled mechanical technology. If he is lucky, or when he can schedule an appointment with reference to the tide chart and the radio set he keeps against the waterside wall, the fog will come in and waves will lap against the brick, and some mournful barge will creak down the river or even hoot into the mist, and as the whole place slips loose in time, his client will tumble nose-first into the magic of it and buy that item they came for even though, inevitably, they came expecting to get it at half the asking price. He sometimes has to turn down considerable offers on the building itself. He jokes on such occasions that if one of them owns the other, it is almost certainly the warehouse, with his grandfather’s patient ghost and his father’s restless, relentless magnanimity, which holds the freehold to the man.
Joe winds the clocks. The winders are on a small trolley—a keychain would rattle and scratch against the casements, a bag would mean rummaging through each time for the right key. He pushes it around and tries not to feel like the nurse who wheels the gurney of the dead. Clink, clank, I’m so sorry, it was his time.
Angelmaker Page 3