The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  ‘So how was your day?’ she asked him brightly when he came back downstairs. ‘Is Mr Watkinson back at work yet?’

  ‘Sadly not.’ He took a sip of tea and gave a small involuntary shudder.

  ‘Sorry. We’re out of fresh milk so I had to use powdered.’ What a terrible housewife she was.

  ‘At least it’s hot,’ he said gamely. ‘Well, warm.’

  ‘Warmish,’ Nell said, and they laughed.

  ‘Talbot’s been up to his usual tricks,’ Arthur went on. ‘I couldn’t leave without checking the work he can’t be bothered to finish. He’s getting more slapdash than ever and he’s not training the lad properly, either. Sam’s picking up all sorts of bad habits. And when I point out where Talbot’s gone wrong, he goes off at the deep end. He can’t bear any sort of criticism. We need Watkinson to keep the peace. Still, enough of my woes. What’s this about the house being infested?’

  ‘I thought I saw a mouse,’ Nell replied, ‘but it was probably just my imagination.’ She retrieved Arthur’s plate from the oven and placed it in front of him. ‘Now, do your best. I’ve eaten already.’ Only potatoes and a slice of bread and marge, but she wasn’t particularly hungry.

  ‘I’m absolutely ravenous.’ And he must have been, because he managed to polish off the liver and most of the potatoes that had collapsed into a heap of grey mush. They had learned to eat supper quickly, before the air-raid siren inevitably sent them hurrying to the shelter.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Arthur said, when he had forced down the last mouthful. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hands.’

  He put something round and smooth in her cupped palms. She gasped when she saw it. ‘An orange! Where on earth did you find that?’

  ‘It fell off the back of a lorry.’ He grinned, delighted by her reaction.

  Nell dug her fingernail into the fruit’s waxy peel and inhaled the sharp citrus scent. It had been months since she’d seen an orange in the shops, let alone held one. The skin was already wrinkled and the fruit probably wouldn’t last till Christmas, more than a month away. She would keep it till the weekend, she decided, and share it with Alice and Arthur after tea. Maybe Alice could eat her segments in the bath, so as not to make a mess of her clothes. They were running low on soap powder and even a bib took ages to dry at this time of year.

  ‘I want you to eat it all yourself,’ Arthur said, as if reading her thoughts. He put his plate in the sink, scooped up her hair and kissed his favourite spot at the nape of her neck. ‘You’re looking rather run down these days, my darling. You know how I worry.’

  She did indeed. He went on, ‘Thought any more about what we discussed the other day?’

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind,’ she replied. ‘We belong together, Arthur – that’s what we’ve always said. Whatever this war throws at us, we’ll face it side by side.’

  He sat down again, his face serious. ‘There’s Alice to think about now. It’s not fair to put her through all this, not when you could both be safe in the country.’

  Nell stuck out her jaw. ‘If the Queen won’t leave London, I don’t see why I should.’

  ‘But the Queen lives in Buckingham Palace, not a terraced house in Vauxhall.’

  Nell sighed. ‘Let’s not go over this again, not when we’re both so tired. We’re just going around in circles. We’ll talk about it at the weekend, I promise.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Nearly time for the news.’

  They went through to the front room and Nell switched on the wireless. Now there was an added incentive to tune in: since the previous Sunday, Armistice Day, the pips introducing the nine o’clock news had been replaced by the chimes of Big Ben. Arthur had been so proud. People all over the country would be listening to that solemn sound, united in love for their country. She smiled at him across the hearth as the notes died away, but he was deep in thought and didn’t notice. Sighing again, she turned her attention to the world beyond their small terraced house. There was encouraging news from North Africa, apparently: thousands of Italian soldiers were surrendering in Egypt and British troops had captured some fort or other in Libya.

  She yawned, her eyes drooping. The siren hadn’t sounded yet and it was getting late; perhaps tonight they would be lucky. ‘Please, God,’ she prayed to herself, ‘let us not have to go to the shelter.’ It was a selfish request, given the suffering some people had to endure, but she’d come to loathe the Anderson with a passion. The shelter stood in the garden of their neighbours, Mr and Mrs Blackwell, who had generously offered to share it when the raids had started, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  ‘We wouldn’t hear of you going to a public shelter, Mrs Spelman,’ Mrs Blackwell had said. ‘Neighbours have to stick together these days.’

  None of them had had any idea they would be spending so much time together, but London had been bombed relentlessly since that first week of September. Night after night, Nell had stumbled along the icy garden path, Alice clutched to her chest in a cocoon of blankets. Four slippery moss-covered steps led down into the shelter’s chilly interior, where spiders and possibly rats lurked in every corner, and a frog had once hopped onto her foot; it had squatted there for a moment, staring at her in the light of a candle with its wet black eyes. Nell had always hated to be shut up in any confined space, let alone one that smelt of damp, mouse droppings and worse. She knew Alice felt the same. Most of the time, her daughter was an undemanding baby, but her small body would start to tense as soon as she caught sight of the shelter’s forbidding entrance.

  The Anderson was furnished with an easy chair near the entrance and two bunk beds standing opposite each other. Nell slept on the bunk above Mrs Blackwell with Alice in a Moses basket beside her, while Arthur took the berth on top of Stanley Blackwell. This ménage was completed by the Blackwells’ elderly terrier, Jack, who lost control of his bodily functions at the first explosion and would whine throughout the night in a pitch that set Nell’s teeth on edge. Outside, the sirens wailed, bells clanged, bombs detonated and buildings collapsed in an avalanche of brick and stone. Under the Anderson’s turf roof, Mr Blackwell whistled or snored, Mrs Blackwell knitted and sucked peppermints and Jack keened. Arthur was restless, tossing and turning and sometimes talking in his sleep. Once he had even sat bolt upright and shouted something in German, which had sent Mrs Blackwell into hysterics.

  It was kind of the Blackwells to let them use the shelter, Arthur reminded Nell; they didn’t have to. Mr Blackwell had built it himself in his back garden and made a gate in the fence so the Spelmans could slip through from next door. Their garden was half the size of the Blackwells’ and concreted over, otherwise Arthur would have put in an Anderson himself. They were lucky to have such good neighbours, Nell told herself as she lay sleepless through the wild nights. There was a surface shelter barricaded with sandbags a few streets away, but Arthur wouldn’t hear of her using it. Those brick-built shelters were a death trap, he said; you were more likely to be killed by one collapsing on top of you than by being caught out in the street. And surely it was better to spend the night with people they knew, rather than strangers who might have all sorts of unsavoury habits?

  Nell wondered about this. Mrs Blackwell’s habitual expression was one of disapproval. Her lips were usually pursed and she frowned ferociously even when asleep. She felt sorry for Alice, and said so on numerous occasions. ‘Poor little mite!’ she’d remark, shaking her head as she tweaked back the blanket, exposing Alice to draughts. ‘She’s looking very peaky. London’s no place for a baby, not at a time like this.’

  Mr Blackwell, on the other hand, had a genial air and a variety of cheery maxims at his disposal. He’d retired from his job as a mechanic on the buses but had gone back to work once the war started; thankful to get away from Mrs Blackwell, Nell suspected. His bulk took up a lot of space in the shelter but he was a comforting presence, by and large – especially on the nights Arthur was fire-watching at the Palace of Westminster.

  Now, the fam
iliar, stomach-churning blare of a siren startled Nell awake. She opened her eyes to find Arthur smiling at her so tenderly that she couldn’t help smiling back. ‘There I was, hoping we might have a night off at last,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head.

  He helped her to her feet, hugging her fiercely for a moment. ‘Chin up, old girl. This can’t last forever.’ She laid her head against his shoulder, breathing in the beloved smell of his soap and aftershave. ‘Better not linger,’ he said, detaching himself. ‘You fetch the baby and I’ll bring the valuables.’

  Upstairs, Alice lay on her back, fast sleep with her thumb in her mouth and her dark hair sticking up in tufts. Nell couldn’t bear to wake such a precious creature and take her to that awful place, to be pitied by Mrs Blackwell. Perhaps she would just pick her up so gently that she wouldn’t stir, and they would sit together under the kitchen table, just the two of them. It would be cosy there, sheltered by the chimney breast. If Alice did wake up, she would sing her gently back to sleep. Arthur would understand.

  Except, of course, that he wouldn’t. There was nothing for it. Nell slipped her hand under Alice’s damp, warm head that smelt of sugared almonds and lifted her out of the cot. Immediately, the baby’s back arched and she let out a howl of protest.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Nell murmured, bundling her up in the quilt. ‘I’m sorry, my darling. Time for the horrid old Anderson.’

  By the time they were hurrying out into the garden, the night was lit up by parachute flares and somewhere close by, sticks of incendiary bombs were already screaming towards the earth. The crash of nearby explosions sounded in her ears and the ground over which she was running seemed to shake and tilt. She stumbled and nearly fell, holding on to the baby for dear life. Behind her, Arthur shouted something she couldn’t hear. Alice might have been crying but it was impossible to tell, given the commotion.

  Mr Blackwell was standing at the bottom of the steps in his siren suit and tweed cap, peering out into the night. ‘There you are,’ he said, as Nell threw herself down the steps with Arthur close on her heels. ‘Thank goodness! Now we’re all present and correct. Come in and make yourself comfy.’

  A candle stuck in a saucer cast flickering shadows over the brick walls of the shelter. Its light revealed Mrs Blackwell sitting on the lower bunk, wearing an overcoat over her nightie and a pair of wellingtons. Her curlers were covered with a paisley headscarf. ‘Comfy, in here!’ She gave a bitter laugh and unwound another length of wool. ‘Mind where you’re treading, dears. Jack ate some tripe yesterday and it seems to have disagreed with him.’ She began knitting with some ferocity. ‘And how’s the poor little mite?’

  ‘Cutting another tooth, I’m afraid,’ Nell replied, catching her breath. ‘I’ve pinned a bickiepeg to her vest but she’s not happy.’

  ‘Of course she isn’t,’ Mrs Blackwell said. ‘She wants to be safe in the country, where it’s lovely and quiet, not stuck down here.’

  ‘Cheer up for Chatham, wooden legs are cheap,’ said Mr Blackwell obscurely, poking Alice with a beefy finger and making her howl.

  Outside, the world split apart in a cacophony of thuds and crashes. How strange it was, Nell thought, to be shut up in this godawful spot with the Blackwells, of all people, while some unknown people up in the sky tried to kill them. Arthur took Alice from her arms while she hung up her coat and swept their mattresses for debris and snails.

  ‘At least we’ve all made it down here safe and sound.’ Mr Blackwell rubbed his hands together. ‘I told you what Maurice said to his missus, didn’t I? When she wouldn’t leave the house without her dentures?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Nell said, smiling dutifully. Several times, she added in her head. Mr Blackwell worked on the principle that if a joke was worth telling once, it was worth repeating ad infinitum.

  ‘He said, “Come on, Betty! Hitler’s dropping bombs, not sandwiches!”’ Mr Blackwell shook his head, chuckling. ‘He’s a caution, that Maurice. “Bombs, not sandwiches!” He just came out with it, quick as a flash.’

  ‘Jam puffs would be more up Betty’s street,’ Mrs Blackwell remarked. ‘She wouldn’t bother bending down to pick up a sandwich. The woman’s always had a sweet tooth, that’s why she’s so fat – even now, on eight ounces of sugar a week for the whole family. She must be taking Maurice’s share, and the kiddies’ too. Either that or she’s getting a supply on the black market.’

  What would Arthur and the Blackwells do if I screamed out loud? Nell wondered. They’d put it down to nervous exhaustion, probably, and they might well be right. Arthur had tried to help by advising her to meditate. Her body might be trapped in the shelter but her mind was free to wander at will. He, for example, imagined the chalet high in the Swiss Alps where he’d once spent a holiday with his German cousins: ten of them, crammed into a small hut that smelt of cedar wood and smoke, its shingles creaking under the weight of snow and icicles that hung like transparent daggers. They had been marooned, cut off from the everyday world by a soft white blanket that muffled the sound of their footsteps but sharpened their senses. He had never known such a profound sense of peace, never felt so intensely alive as in that pure, cold air.

  Nell did her best to follow his advice. Her sanctuary was with him. He would be waiting for her up in the clock tower, making some minute adjustment to the machinery. He was single-minded; that was one of the things she loved most about him. Every task received his full attention, from heaving coal from the cellar to nudging the tiniest saw-toothed wheels and cogs into place with tweezers. When he looked at her with that steady, intent gaze, she felt as though she were being seen for the first time. In her mind’s eye, the Great Clock would be running smoothly and the room would be quiet, apart from the steady chink of the pendulum rod every two seconds. Arthur would lay down whatever cloth or gauge he happened to be holding and take her by the hand. She could feel his warm palm against hers, smell the oil on his overalls. Together they would climb up to the lantern at the top of the tower and look out over pre-war London, intact and beautiful in the drowsy evening light – just as it had been on that unforgettable evening he’d asked her to marry him. The parks would be green and leafy, the small Wren churches still standing peacefully in ancient, unblemished streets. Even the shabby terraces of South London across the river would look picturesque from that height; she felt a nostalgic fondness for them now so many had been blown apart. Arthur’s arm would be around her shoulder and – how could she have forgotten? – Alice, of course, would be on her hip, chubby and beaming.

  To date, however, Nell had never made it as far as the belfry in her mind’s eye. Her reverie would inevitably be interrupted by Alice grizzling, or Jack yapping, or Arthur mumbling, or Mr Blackwell snoring, or Mrs Blackwell harrumphing about on the bunk below – and sometimes all of these distractions at once.

  ‘Goodnight, darling,’ Arthur whispered now, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  She laid Alice in her basket on the top bunk and climbed up to lie beside her. The corrugated iron roof was only a couple of feet above their heads but she tried not to think about that. The baby began to cry and wouldn’t be distracted by the soggy rusk, so Nell turned discreetly on her side and fumbled under her jumper. Alice had been weaned for over a month and her breast milk was drying up, but a feed usually comforted them both. Not tonight, though. She yelped as her daughter’s new tooth sank into her nipple. ‘Bottles from now on for you, young lady,’ she whispered, readjusting her clothes. Alice was growing up fast; she was crawling already and soon she’d be into everything. Where could a child play safely in London? The parks were full of barbed wire and gun emplacements, the ground littered with lumps of shrapnel and broken glass.

  She stroked the baby’s head, humming softly, until Alice’s breathing quietened and she grew still. A lull had descended on the fire storm outside and they were both drifting into sleep when the most tremendous crash seemed to pick up the shelter and shake it until its teeth rattled, like a dog ki
lling a rat. Debris rained down from the roof onto Nell’s face, Alice shrieked, Jack yapped and Mrs Blackwell screamed. Nell sat up, grabbing the baby to her chest. The bunk swayed beneath her, threatening to collapse. ‘God save us!’ Mrs Blackwell cried, rolling sideways out of the rickety structure, while Mr Blackwell bellowed for everyone not to panic.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart.’ Arthur’s steady voice cut through the chaos. ‘I’m here.’ She reached for his hand and clung to it, speechless, the baby sandwiched between them. ‘We’re safe,’ he murmured, over and over again, and somehow she believed him.

  The racket seemed to last forever. Eventually, after what might have been long minutes or only a few seconds, the pounding died down and an uneasy calm descended.

  ‘That was a close one.’ Mr Blackwell switched on the emergency torch, revealing a scene of disarray. Mrs Blackwell was scrambling to her knees amid a tangle of wool, her dressing gown and nightie riding up to reveal a sagging thigh. There was no sign of Jack, although a low moan under the other bunk and the stench of rotten eggs gave his presence away. A carpet of stones, dirt and shards of brick littered the upper bunks and the wooden pallets that served as the Anderson’s floor.

  Arthur smoothed Nell’s hair away from her forehead, scanning her face. ‘Hitler certainly put us through the wringer that time,’ she said, smiling shakily. Alice took a shuddering breath before screwing up her face and letting out a piercing cry.

  ‘All right, Enid?’ Mr Blackwell helped his wife up. ‘Mrs Spelman? How’s the baby?’

  ‘Fine, I think.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with her lungs, at any rate,’ said Mrs Blackwell, dusting herself off. ‘I wonder who’s copped it this time.’

  ‘I’ll take a look in a minute,’ her husband said.

  ‘You will not,’ she retorted. ‘You’ll stay in here till it’s light. I’m not having you blundering about, falling into craters and God knows what.’