The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  ‘All’s well that ends well,’ Mr Blackwell replied philosophically. ‘At least we’re still in one piece.’

  ‘Nip of brandy?’ Mrs Blackwell took a swig from her hip flask and held it up to Nell, who accepted it gratefully.

  Arthur scooped Alice from her arms, cradling the baby’s head with his hand. ‘I’ll sit with this little one in the chair for a while. Try to get some sleep, darling. With a bit of luck, the fun’s over for tonight.’

  Nell’s heart was still thumping, her hands shaking and clammy. ‘I couldn’t possibly sleep.’

  ‘Well, then, just lie still for a while.’

  Despite her protestations, Nell managed to drift into a restless doze. Every now and then, she would open her eyes to see Arthur sitting with Alice in his arms, keeping vigil as he waited for the dawn.

  Chapter Two

  London, November 1940

  It was fully light when Nell woke up properly. Alice was back in the basket beside her, fast asleep, Mrs Blackwell was sitting in the chair, smoking a cigarette, while Arthur and Mr Blackwell were talking somewhere outside the shelter.

  ‘Morning,’ she called, swinging down her legs.

  ‘She’s awake,’ Mrs Blackwell called to the men, which was odd. Then she turned to Nell and said, ‘Good morning, dear,’ which was odd, too. She had never addressed Nell as ‘dear’ before.

  Arthur’s silhouette blocked the shelter’s entrance for a moment; he ducked his head as he came in. Nell jumped to the ground to meet him. ‘Has something happened?’ she asked. ‘Everyone looks frightfully serious.’

  He took her by the arm. ‘You’d better come outside and see for yourself.’

  Mr Blackwell was standing at the top of the steps, surveying his garden. He turned to them, smiling uneasily, and offered, ‘No use crying over spilt milk.’

  The daylight dazzled Nell’s eyes, dull though it was, after the long dark hours in the shelter. She could hear the usual morning sounds: the rhythmic sweep of a brush and its accompanying chink of broken glass, gushing water, the clanging of shovels and distant shouts. It was a weary, pointless sort of housekeeping but one couldn’t let things slide or chaos would ensue. The acrid stench of smoke and explosives wafted towards her. A section of the fence had come down, she noticed, and a torn sandbag disgorged its damp, beige innards across the path. There were bricks and roof tiles littering the vegetable patch, shattered roof spars lying about and a large chunk of plaster which, oddly enough, was covered in their bedroom wallpaper.

  Through a gap next to the Blackwells’ house, where theirs should have been standing, she could see Mr and Mrs Jenkins’ red front door on the opposite side of the street, and a telegraph pole leaning at a crazy angle amid a tangle of cables. There was no sign of their roof, or Alice’s bedroom window underneath with the blackout blinds drawn across, or their kitchen door with the barrel beside it in which she’d tried to grow potatoes. Instead, water from a broken pipe ran in channels through a vast rubbish heap. The empty house on the right which shared the chimney with theirs had been demolished, too. She had seen houses with walls torn away to reveal the rooms inside, crockery still on the table and washing-up waiting in the sink, but there was nothing recognisable to be seen here. Her home had been reduced to a pile of dirty stone and splintered wood, and no amount of housekeeping could ever put it back together again.

  ‘Oh, Arthur.’ She turned to him, blank with shock.

  ‘I know.’ He squeezed her elbow. ‘We never liked that house, though, did we? Far too dark and poky, you always said.’

  ‘But what about our things? Our clothes, and books, and—’

  Nell couldn’t bear to continue. Nearly everything she and Arthur owned lay buried underneath the wreckage: her best frock, the one she’d been married in, Arthur’s bicycle, his suit, his walking boots, the carriage clock he was so patiently rebuilding, his spare tools, their photograph album, all the jumpers and leggings her mother had knitted for Alice and even – oh, Lord! – the Silver Cross pram Arthur’s parents had given them when Alice was born. It even had a name: the Ambassador, top of the range. Arthur was always scraping his shins on the coach-built chassis in the hall and threatening to leave it out for the rag-and-bone man, but of course he was only joking. The Ambassador was the most magnificent thing they owned. Or rather, had owned. How would she manage without it?

  Arthur put his arm around her. ‘We’re safe, and so is Alice. Nothing else matters.’

  That was easy for him to say. The house and its contents represented Nell’s whole world; without them, she had nothing to do and nowhere to be. Shaking off Arthur’s grip, she picked her way through the debris to see if she could salvage some small reminder of the life they had led.

  ‘Be careful not to touch any wires,’ Mr Blackwell called behind her. ‘Better safe than sorry! Fools rush in, etcetera.’

  Nell’s eye was suddenly caught by a burst of colour amid the dirty browns and greys of destruction. An orange – her orange – was balanced perfectly on a conical pile of stones, like the cherry on a cupcake. She picked it up and wiped away the dust. The fruit was intact, unblemished apart from a tiny mark in the peel her fingernail had made the night before.

  ‘Look, Arthur!’ she said, turning to show him the miraculous thing.

  She tore off the peel and stuck her thumb into the centre of the fruit to divide it. The flesh was plump and sweet, tasting of how things used to be. Arthur had wanted her to eat the whole orange herself so she did, cramming the segments greedily into her mouth, the juice running in rivulets down her chin. Soon it was gone, along with everything else. Nothing could be saved.

  ‘Here we are.’ Arthur passed Nell a mug. ‘Liberally sweetened, I’m afraid, before I could refuse. Apparently, people in our situation need sugar. Oh, and some custard creams.’ He took them out of his pocket.

  ‘That’s all right. Beggars can’t be choosers.’ They exchanged weary smiles. ‘Actually,’ she said, after a few sips, ‘this is the best cup of tea I’ve ever tasted. And biscuits, too. What a treat!’

  ‘Well done, darling.’ He patted her knee, his face grey with worry and fatigue.

  A couple of hours earlier, they had climbed over the rubble that had once been their home to find the street busy with wardens and policemen. Hathaway Road had escaped relatively lightly; their house and the one next door were the only two seriously damaged and there’d been no casualties, but the power cables were down and a water main had been hit, so there would be no power or water for a few days. They had walked with their neighbours in a dreary procession to an emergency relief centre in a nearby church hall, Arthur carrying Alice in his arms. A few streets away, they had passed a team of rescue workers with sniffer dogs, digging through the ruins of a three-storey tenement building that had collapsed on itself like a house of cards. The heavier beams were being delicately removed one at a time by the swinging arm of a crane and an ambulance stood by with its doors open, stretchers at the ready. An elderly couple with coats over their night clothes sat on a pile of bricks to watch the scene; not even the promise of tea could lure them away.

  The relief centre was already crowded with people in oddly mismatched outfits: curlers under headscarves, pyjamas tucked into wellington boots, evening dress and carpet slippers. Faces were dazed, dirty, uncomprehending. The atmosphere was one of weary resignation as people queued at various desks to report damage, arrange replacement papers and ask for help with urgent necessities. The woman in front of Arthur had been given five shillings and a new ration book, there and then, no questions asked. Vast urns supplied endless amounts of tea which would make everyone feel right as rain, said the ladies from the Women’s Voluntary Service, who came into their own at times like these.

  Nell and Arthur sat without talking, watching Alice try to pull herself up on one of the folding wooden chairs. She bounced up and down experimentally on her chubby legs, making hooting noises.

  ‘Look at her! She hasn’t a care in the world.’ Arthur
took their empty mugs back to the trestle table and returned to stand by Nell, his hand on her shoulder. ‘Well, we’ve done all we can for the time being. The War Damages Commission should give us some sort of compensation and the landlord’s been notified. Things could be a lot worse. We have our papers and our gas masks, and enough money to tide us over. And I know this pram isn’t a patch on the Ambassador, but it’s better than nothing.’

  Nell glanced at the rickety contraption, which had probably been used to store logs in a previous existence. She would look like a tramp, pushing her baby in that. Yet Arthur had wheeled it back to her with such a look of triumph on his face that she knew she would have to put on a brave face. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she’d said. ‘It’ll certainly be a lot easier to manoeuvre.’

  ‘So now, then,’ he began, ‘perhaps we’d better—’

  ‘Actually, would you mind keeping an eye on Alice for a moment?’ Nell interrupted. ‘I need to step outside for a breath of air.’

  He took a surreptitious look at his watch. ‘All right. But I must be getting back to work fairly soon. Talbot will be getting away with murder.’

  ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’ Nell turned quickly away. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable, but she needed to prepare herself for what lay ahead. She could guess what he was about to say and it was simply unbearable.

  Outside, she leant against the wall and closed her eyes. She’d been lucky to have Arthur at home for so long, she knew that. He’d been declared unfit for military service because of a heart condition, although his was a reserved occupation so he wouldn’t have been called up anyway. So many other families had been torn apart – in some cases forever. Her brother Harry was still missing somewhere in France. And now she and Arthur would be separated. The thought was so awful that for weeks she’d been refusing to entertain it. As long as they were together, she could survive this nightmare: the constant bombardment, the nightly terror and grim daytime reckoning. Arthur was a wonderful husband, always ready to help with the baby and bring back little treats for her, or think up ways to make her life easier. She would find her shoes polished in the morning, or the first snowdrops in a glass on the table, or a library book by her chair that he knew she’d enjoy.

  They’d been married for a year and a half by now and, until the war, Nell had been happier than she thought humanly possible. The terraced house they rented had been cramped and dark, it was true, but that didn’t matter as long as they were there together. They would tell each other tales from their respective days over supper every evening, and although the meals she produced while learning to cook were often rather odd, sometimes inedible, Arthur never complained. Afterwards, he would wash the dishes and she would dry them, and then they would listen to the wireless, or read books or the newspaper, finishing the crossword together before going up to bed. Nell’s mother had warned her that although the wedding night might come as a shock, she had to let her husband do what he wanted or he’d find someone more obliging. The whole messy business would get easier with time. Yet Nell soon discovered there were things she wanted, too, and that her pleasure was as important to Arthur as his own. Bedtimes became earlier and earlier, and occasionally they didn’t even make it up the stairs. Nell blushed to imagine what the Blackwells would have said if they could have seen the goings-on next door.

  Arthur hadn’t wanted to wait till the war was over before starting a family, which had surprised her as he was usually so cautious. ‘Who knows when the fighting will end?’ he’d said. ‘Or what might have happened to either of us in the meantime?’ When Nell found out she was pregnant, he’d said it was the happiest day of his life.

  Nell hadn’t felt ready for motherhood – and she still didn’t, not entirely – but perhaps he was right. At least now she had his child to hold on to. Alice had Arthur’s quizzical expression, his habit of looking seriously at an object from all angles, his gorgeous dimples. She had been born in March, around the time meat became rationed. So much had happened since then: Winston Churchill becoming Prime Minister, for a start, and then the war taking a turn for the worse. Holland surrendered to the Nazis, followed by Belgium, and Norway the month after that, and soon German troops were sweeping through Europe. Thousands of Allied soldiers were rescued from the beaches and ports of Western France but plenty were left behind – including her brother, Harry. No one could give them any information as to his whereabouts, and communication became impossible when France surrendered to Germany shortly afterwards.

  Britain now stood alone in the fight against Hitler and the Nazis. ‘We shall go on to the end,’ Winston Churchill said in Parliament. ‘We shall never surrender.’ That was all very well yet sometimes, in her darker moments, Nell wondered whether going on till the end was the wisest course of action. Surely any sort of life was better than none, even under German occupation? Of course, she’d never have voiced her doubts to anyone, including Arthur. They all had to be relentlessly optimistic.

  ‘Fancy a cig?’ She opened her eyes to see a middle-aged woman in a headscarf standing beside her, offering a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Nell didn’t like to smoke anywhere near Arthur, who disapproved of the habit, but suddenly she wanted to – very much.

  ‘Thanks awfully,’ she said, and then, ‘Oh! You only have two left.’

  ‘One each.’ The woman grinned. Her spectacles were held together by sticking plaster and her front teeth were missing. Bombs not sandwiches, Nell thought, and smiled too.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said the woman, passing her a cigarette. ‘I’ve plenty more at home.’

  I bet you don’t, Nell thought, but she took the cigarette anyway and bent her head to the match. They stood for a while, smoking in companionable silence.

  ‘I hate that bloody blasted Hitler,’ the woman said suddenly. ‘Hate him to buggery and back. If he were standing here right now, I’d give him a piece of my mind.’

  ‘I’d give him worse than that,’ Nell said. They spent an enjoyable few minutes discussing precisely what they would do to Hitler, by which time she felt able to go back to her husband.

  She stood for a moment in the doorway of the hall, watching Arthur bouncing Alice on his lap and clapping her hands together between his while she chortled with delight.

  ‘You win.’ She sat beside them. ‘I’ll telephone my parents and ask whether they’ll have us to stay. Me and the baby, I mean. I know you can’t leave London.’

  His shoulders sagged in relief. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Well done, darling. Your mother will be so pleased. It might take her mind off worrying about Harry. Just think, you’ll be able to spend the whole night in a proper bed instead of that ghastly bunk. There’ll be plenty to eat, and peace and quiet, and help with—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He’d been telling her all this for weeks now. ‘It makes perfect sense, except for the fact that we swore we’d stick together, no matter what.’ She dug her fingernails into her palm.

  ‘We can’t carry on like this,’ he said quietly. ‘You must know that, deep down.’

  ‘It’s just that I hate to think of you here alone,’ she burst out, although she’d resolved to make things easy. She was only human, after all. ‘What about your meals?’

  ‘That’s not a problem. I shall take them in the staff canteen.’ He patted her knee. ‘I know how hard it’s been for you, having to stand for hours in those wretched queues and worry about eking out our rations.’

  ‘And where will you sleep?’

  ‘Oh, there are plenty of shelters around Parliament – I can take my pick.’ He sounded positively jaunty. ‘Might even bag a spot in the crypt at Westminster Abbey. I’ll be safe as houses there.’

  But houses weren’t safe anymore, were they? Nell thought miserably. Alice had begun to squirm restlessly on Arthur’s lap, so she reached over to take her. He wouldn’t give the baby up. ‘I think she’s tired. Let’s see if I can get her off to sleep.’ He held Alice against his shoulder, rocking her gently to and fro.
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br />   There were a few disapproving looks from the people nearby but Arthur was oblivious. Nell loved the fact that he didn’t care about being thought soppy. So much for hurrying back to work, though. As if he could read her mind, he added, ‘A few more minutes won’t hurt. Why don’t you ring your parents while I hold the fort here?’

  There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Nell had to queue for a quarter of an hour to use the public telephone, and her mother was infuriatingly slow to understand what had happened. ‘We’re perfectly safe,’ Nell repeated, ‘but the house has been demolished. Could Alice and I possibly come to stay with you for a while?’

  ‘Of course, it would be lovely to see you,’ Rose began, ‘but we’re full to bursting with all these evacuees. They sent us another one last week so now we’re up to five. Or is it six?’ She sounded even more vague than usual. ‘Hold on a minute. I shall have to see what your father says.’

  ‘Can you be quick?’ Nell asked. ‘I’m running out of change, and there are a lot of folk wanting to make calls.’

  She smiled apologetically at the people waiting in line while a muffled conversation took place between her parents. Eventually she heard a rustle and her father’s voice echoed down the line. ‘So you’ve been bombed out,’ he began. ‘Well, I always said it was only a matter of time, although I take no joy in having been proved right.’ Nell gritted her teeth. ‘Of course you and the baby must stay with us,’ he went on. ‘You’ll always be welcome here and besides, your mother could do with the help. These children are running her ragged. When do you plan to arrive?’

  ‘Would tomorrow be all right? The first available train? I’ll try not to be too late.’

  ‘Do your best. Goodbye, then.’ Before her father could replace the receiver, there was a scuffle and her mother broke in. ‘Nell? Are you still there? We’ve had some news about Harry. He’s in a prisoner-of-war camp, in Germany, and we can—’

  But then the pips sounded, and Nell had no more change. Dazed, she walked back to Arthur. ‘Harry’s alive. He’s been taken prisoner.’ It was too much to take in, on top of everything else.