The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  ‘Hey, you,’ she said as they hugged, inhaling the clotted milk and baby-powder smell that clung around her friend these days. ‘How’s it going?’

  Beth sighed. ‘Apart from the fact Morgan’s sleeping all day and partying all night, just fine.’

  The baby was sprawled fast asleep in the middle of her activity mat, surrounded by squeakers to press and Velcro tabs to pull. A mobile of brightly coloured ducklings dangled over her head and a padded book lay close at hand, ready to have its cloth pages turned.

  ‘She’s getting so big,’ Ellie said. ‘All that hair! Do you think we should wake her up so she’ll sleep later?’

  ‘Let’s chat first while we have the chance.’ Beth eyed Ellie’s glass avidly. ‘I’d kill for a drink. Can I have a sip of yours? One mouthful won’t hurt.’

  Ellie handed it over. ‘You look great.’

  Beth laughed. ‘Oh, sure. I haven’t washed my hair in days and you could pack your groceries in the bags under my eyes.’

  ‘No, I mean it. Motherhood suits you.’ Beth had put on weight and she was dressed in a pair of baggy sweat pants but she radiated peace and contentment. She’d lost that nervy, strained expression that had hung over her the past couple of years.

  ‘Are you OK with this whole baby business?’ she asked Ellie in a rush, as though she might lose her nerve. ‘It doesn’t have to change anything between us, not really.’

  ‘Oh, Bee!’ Ellie flushed. ‘How could I be anything but happy for you and Michael? Besides, now you’ve given me someone else to love.’

  Life had had a habit of falling into place for Beth Scardino: she’d sailed through school and college, played basketball, qualified as an attorney and married her childhood sweetheart on a beach in South Carolina. The only thing that hadn’t come so easily was having a baby. Ellie was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, but at first she couldn’t help feeling – not pleased exactly, but reassured somehow, that for once Beth might have to struggle rather than getting whatever she wanted at the click of a finger. Ellie had been a gawky teenager with skinny legs, big clumsy feet and braces on her teeth, while Beth had sailed through adolescence with hardly a spot. Her dark blonde hair streaked with gold in the summer and her olive skin tanned without burning, but you couldn’t hate her for that because she was funny and didn’t take herself too seriously.

  Despite her annoying perfection, she was a great friend to have. When Ellie’s father died, Beth was always there at the end of the phone, ready to listen and drop everything to come around if required. Yet over the past couple of years, it had been Ellie’s turn to console her, as weeks and then months had gone by without the longed-for pregnancy. Several of their friends were starting families, and Ellie could see what torture it was for Beth and Michael to congratulate them. Ellie had only asked Fate for a temporary hiccup in the effortless trajectory of her best friend’s life, not this terrible, gnawing grief which was renewed every twenty-eight days with heartless regularity. When Beth had at last conceived, Ellie was almost as excited as if she’d become pregnant herself. The first few months had been an anxious time but now that Morgan had arrived, safe and well, those dark days seemed part of another existence.

  ‘It’ll be your turn next.’ Beth passed her back the wine. ‘Maybe sooner than you think.’

  ‘Oh, I think that ship has sailed. But actually, I’m fine with the way things are.’ Ellie meant what she said. She was too rootless, too unsettled, to imagine bringing another life into the world. ‘Just as long as you promise to visit me in the old folks’ home.’

  Beth pretended to think about it, then shook her head. ‘Nah.’

  At that moment, Morgan opened her eyes and started to cry. ‘Let’s leave her for a while,’ Beth said. ‘Sometimes she goes back off by herself.’

  ‘Where is Michael, anyway?’ Ellie asked, looking round the room as though he might have been hiding behind the couch.

  ‘He has the flu, or so he says. I think he just wants a rest. He was up with Morgan half the night.’ The baby started to wail, so Beth reached under the mobile to soothe her. ‘Now, quick. Tell me about your love life. Anyone promising on the scene? There’s a new copywriter in Michael’s office who’s just your type.’

  Ellie groaned. ‘No, seriously,’ Beth assured her. ‘He’s cute. The right amount of stubble, glasses, great taste in clothes, kind to his mother.’

  ‘You mean he’s gay.’ Ellie took another sip of wine. ‘It’s OK, I’m taking a break from dating. So much effort and it never goes anywhere.’

  For the past few years, she’d been drifting into relationships and falling out of them equally casually. ‘You have a problem with intimacy,’ one boyfriend told her as they were breaking up. ‘I know less about you now than I did when we first met. You should find a therapist and work through your issues.’ But Ellie must have been the only person in Manhattan to feel self-conscious talking about her feelings. When the latest man had dumped her that summer, all she’d felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. She couldn’t summon the energy to squeeze into tummy-control pants and plaster on make-up, choose an alluring but tasteful outfit and listen to some unshaven guy talk about the top speed of his car or moose-hunting or once, God help her, the effect of carbs on his colon. Now she was thirty-eight and single, living in a rental apartment and working seven days a week. That morning, she’d discovered a hair growing out of a mole under her chin.

  Morgan was crying in earnest now so Beth picked her up for a feed. ‘How’s your mom doing?’ she asked. ‘Still not back in her apartment?’

  ‘She seems much happier in the home, though who knows how long she can afford to stay there.’ Ellie sighed. ‘I’m kind of worried about her, truth be told. She’s forgetting all kinds of stuff – it’s like she’s losing sight of who she is, and there’s nothing to remind her.’ She glanced around the room, its walls and shelves crowded with family photographs and mementoes; even a framed copy of a record showing the exact day Emilio Scardino, Beth’s great grandfather, had arrived from Italy at Ellis Island. ‘Did I ever tell you that my biological grandmother – my mom’s real mom – died when she was a baby?’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ Beth said. ‘Here, why don’t you cuddle Morgan for a while.’

  The baby was handed over, her eyes round in surprise. She looked like a small indignant coconut. ‘How’s my favourite god-daughter?’ Ellie asked, tickling her under the chin. Morgan fixed her with an intent gaze, as though considering the question, then screwed up her face and began to cry.

  ‘Sorry, she’s getting super clingy,’ Beth said. ‘Hand her back if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. We’ll go for a little stroll.’

  Ellie walked around the room, humming softly until the baby quietened down. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’ she said, turning to Beth. ‘Could we swing by Mom’s apartment on the way to the station? She mentioned some photographs in a hatbox I’d like to find. If you’re going to give me a lift, that is. I can always take a cab and ask the driver to wait.’

  ‘Of course I’m giving you a lift to the station! It’s on my way home.’ Beth took another cheeky sip of wine. ‘And sure, we can look for these photos.’ She smiled. ‘You have the magic touch. Look, Morgan’s asleep. Sit down and we can have a proper talk. How are things at work?’

  ‘Not so great,’ Ellie confessed. ‘Business is kind of slow.’

  Those early days when she’d had such high hopes for the store seemed a long time ago, and recently she’d caught herself wondering why she’d opened it in the first place. She’d always been more interested in cooking than Beth, so Kathleen had taught her how to make pastry, cakes and fresh pasta, how to fillet fish and roast a leg of lamb. As much as cooking, though, Ellie loved kitchens: clusters of saucepans hanging from racks like shiny silver fruit, dressers full of colourful china and pots crammed with strange utensils. She was fascinated by meat tenderisers, garlic crushers, potato mashers, sieves, spatulas, fish slices, egg timers in assorted shapes and
sizes, chopping boards of olive wood or slate. And whisks! Who knew there could be so many different types? Airy balloon whisks, whisks with revolving handles like tiny unicycles, whisks made from tunnels of coiled wire. Seeing customers browsing these utensils gave her a sense of security and purpose.

  Of course she wanted to make a profit, but she also wanted to sell things that were useful. No one who lived in the Village seemed to cook anymore, though; instead, the winding streets were crowded with bikes and mopeds, delivering takeout meals in recycled cardboard containers. People who still used their kitchens must have been living on protein shakes and smoothies; she hadn’t sold a potato peeler or a carving knife in years, while sales of blenders had gone through the roof. It was dispiriting. And now, after Thanksgiving, would come the horror of Black Friday, when customers would desert her store and descend on the malls like a herd of disgruntled bison, fighting each other for bargains.

  ‘Maybe it’s time for a change,’ she told Beth.

  Yet the thought of starting again made her stomach churn with nerves. How would she make a living, for a start? Her father had left her some money, which she’d invested, and although she’d dipped into the pot occasionally, about half still remained. That would keep her going for a while, but she would have to earn something. Her outgoings were small: she was lucky enough to live in a rent-controlled apartment and didn’t have a car or a taste for expensive clothes, which was just as well. Going back to work in a professional kitchen was one option, yet she was too old now to put up with the long hours and stress, the humiliation of being yelled at by someone nearly half her age.

  Looking back, it seemed her life so far had been a series of impulsive wrong decisions about almost everything, from her choice of career to her taste in men. She had ricocheted from one near-disaster to another, like the pinball in a slot machine. Her first boyfriend, Jake, had been charming and funny, but lazy, stumbling around in a haze of weed and alcohol while she studied and waited tables to pay the rent. She’d wasted five years on him, only to end up with Elliott – charming and funny, but a compulsive liar – then Wilf, who had too many faults to list and wasn’t even charming. Or funny, come to that. All these men had seemed to end up disliking her, no matter how hard she worked or how many times she forgave them. What was wrong with her?

  ‘Maybe you just need a vacation,’ Beth said. ‘You haven’t had a proper break in years. That assistant of yours can look after the store, can’t she? What’s her name again?’

  ‘Shania,’ Ellie replied, absent-mindedly. The idea had come to her in a blinding, unwelcome flash that a possible option – one that might even be expected of her – would be to look after her mother. Alice might feel differently about going back to her apartment if Ellie were installed in the spare room. It might not be so bad. Life was peaceful in the suburbs, Beth would be closer at hand and she’d probably make new friends one way or another. She could get a dog, perhaps, or join a book club. She’d miss her runs along the Hudson River in the misty early morning, her yoga classes and late-night dinners in pop-up bars, but there would be other compensations. Wouldn’t there?

  ‘You’d go mad!’ Beth said, when Ellie told her what she’d been thinking. ‘And so would Alice. Cooped up in that tiny apartment? You’d be at each other’s throats by the end of the week.’

  She was right, of course. ‘But I have to do something,’ Ellie sighed. ‘Mom’s so alone and I can’t bear it.’

  It was a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner, they all decided, one of the best – although Kathleen had cooked for an army and the four of them plus a baby had hardly made a dent in the turkey. ‘Plenty of leftovers for the sandwiches tomorrow,’ Kathleen said, wrapping chunks of meat in foil for the girls to take home. ‘I might drop some off to Dan and Lisa.’

  ‘Give them a ring first,’ John said, with a significant look. ‘Just to check it’s convenient.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ Ellie asked, after they had made their farewells and strapped Morgan into her car seat.

  Beth started the engine. ‘Mom and Dad are worried about Dan. They think he and Lisa are going through a sticky patch, and them not turning up for Thanksgiving is a bad sign.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Ellie fastened her safety belt. ‘But things are usually pretty tense between those two, aren’t they? That seems to be how their relationship works.’

  ‘Or doesn’t,’ Beth replied. ‘I don’t know how Dan puts up with it.’

  They waved goodbye to John and Kathleen, standing on the doorstep, and Beth pulled the car away. ‘Give Michael my love,’ Ellie said. ‘I was sorry not to see him but it was great, wasn’t it, just the two of us? Like old times. Coming to your house makes me feel like a kid again.’

  ‘Me too. A kid and a mom at the same time, which is confusing.’ Beth looked at Morgan in the rear-view mirror. ‘Family is everything.’ She patted Ellie’s knee. ‘That includes you, of course.’

  ‘Sure you don’t mind the detour?’ Ellie asked, looking at the roads they used to travel by school bus. Beth lived forty minutes’ drive from her parents now. Just the right distance: close enough to drop by, but not so close they were in each other’s pockets.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ she replied. ‘You know how I love a treasure hunt.’

  Alice’s apartment was only a mile or so away. The hall smelt musty when they unlocked the front door, and the place was deathly cold.

  ‘Feels like we’re intruding, doesn’t it?’ Beth whispered, setting the baby down in her car seat. ‘As though your mom is going to appear all of a sudden and ask what we’re doing.’

  Although Alice had done her best to make the place homely with cushions, plants and throws, it had never had a particularly welcoming feel. The rooms were blank and characterless, rugs skidded over the laminate floor and the bathroom suite was a dingy pink, the colour of liver sausage. Ellie knew she should have decorated the apartment or arranged for someone else to do the work, but Alice had insisted it wasn’t worth the effort. ‘I don’t want the upheaval and besides, who knows how long I’ll be here?’ She’d always had a gloomy streak.

  There was no mahogany wardrobe, of course; when she thought about it, Ellie knew her mother’s closets were fitted, with white louvred doors that had never closed properly. Alice’s few clothes hung in mute reproach. A ‘capsule wardrobe’, as the magazines called it. Her shoes were even more poignant, waiting in pairs with matching handbags arranged beside them. A couple of baskets on the bottom shelf contained gloves, neatly-rolled scarves and berets, but they couldn’t find a hatbox anywhere.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Ellie said. ‘This box must be a figment of Mom’s imagination.’

  ‘I’m not giving up yet, not if there’s a chance of finding some photos of your mysterious grandmother. You go check on Morgan.’ Beth pushed her out of the room. ‘I’ll have one last sweep on my own.’

  Which, amazingly enough, was successful. Ellie was sneaking a last cuddle with the baby when Beth emerged from the bedroom. In her arms was a round brown-leather box, about the size of a large cake tin. ‘Tada!’ she announced. ‘I found it under the bed, just where we were sitting.’ She laid the box on the hall chair and took Morgan from Ellie’s arms. ‘You should have first look.’

  It’s only a hatbox, Ellie said to herself. Yet for some reason her heart was pounding as she prised off the tightly-fitting lid. Inside, she found – a hat. Which for some reason, felt like an anti-climax. The hat must have once been elegant, with its broad ribbon band and sweeping brim, but now it was misshapen, the felt faded and discoloured like an overripe plum. ‘Try it on,’ Beth urged, yet Ellie was reluctant. She examined the hat for clues – a hair, maybe, caught under the band – but found nothing, only the faint smell of mothballs. She reached into the box again. Beneath the hat lay a brown-leather handbag with long double handles. This was surely more promising. The metal clasp had rusted shut but eventually she managed to force it open. The bag contained a small, thick envelope and a mustard-yellow bus tick
et, marked ‘2d’ on one side and ‘London Transport Buses’ on the other. There was a hip flask, too, black with tarnish but possibly silver underneath, and a silver St Christopher medal that also needed a polish. Her fingers shaking a little, Ellie opened the envelope and took out a buff-coloured booklet with the word ‘National Registration Identity Card’ on the front, in the name of Eleanor Spelman.

  ‘My grandmother,’ Ellie said, showing Beth. Even saying the words made her shiver.

  There were also three photographs of the same woman. The largest was a studio shot in which she was posing in pearls and a strapless evening gown, looking fixedly into the distance with her hands clasped as if in prayer. The other two snaps were more natural. One showed her sitting on the top rung of a gate, smiling as she squinted into the camera, both hands around her slim knees. She was wearing a rose-printed sundress with a boned bodice and narrow shoelace straps. Behind her stretched a field dotted with conical haystacks like tiny cottages. In the third photograph, Eleanor was holding a child of around six months old who must have been Alice. The baby was bundled up in a knitted jacket and bonnet, while Eleanor wore the hat, tipped stylishly over her dark curly hair. She looked excited and happy, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

  Beth craned over Ellie’s shoulder. ‘Oh my God, you look so like her. See? She has your family dimple. Or rather, you have hers.’

  Both Ellie and her mother had a single dimple on their left cheek: another thing for Ellie to feel self-conscious about when she was younger. She thought it made her face lopsided. The sight of her grandmother’s dimple now, though, was extraordinarily moving. She took the picture back from Beth and sank into a chair. Eleanor was a real person; her blood ran in Ellie’s veins. What else had been passed down through the generations?