The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  Arthur would laugh if he could see me being told what to do by a ten-year-old, Nell thought – and there it was again, the dreadful ache of missing him. She wanted to ask his advice about what she’d just seen, and the right way of dealing with Brenda. Letters weren’t much good; it was so hard to convey what she meant, and by the time he’d written in reply, she was usually preoccupied with something else entirely. He had rung the house a few times but their conversation had been stilted; her parents’ telephone was on the hall table and everyone could hear what she was saying. Still, it would be Christmas in a fortnight and while he might not be able to get away for the day itself, he was hoping to join them on Boxing Day and stay until New Year’s Eve. Surely she could last until then? Stop being so feeble, she told herself. Think what other women have to put up with and count yourself lucky.

  Chapter Eleven

  Oxfordshire, December 1940

  Nell and her parents drove to Millbury Manor, although it would only have taken them fifteen minutes to walk. It was important to make the right impression, despite the fact that the family car was a shabby Austin 7 and petrol was in short supply.

  Lady Winthrop herself opened the door, resplendent in a full-length crimson gown and a fringed Chinese shawl. ‘The Roberts family!’ she exclaimed in her deep, melodious voice. ‘How lovely to see you. Welcome to the Manor.’

  She looked startled at the sight of Nell, which was disconcerting. Nell had made her outfit from a length of blue-and-white flowered cotton her mother had bought in the latest village jumble sale: an empire-line frock and matching bolero jacket which she’d pinned with a brooch to hide the uneven neckline. She tugged discreetly at the hem, in case by some awful chance she’d tucked it into her knickers, and ran her tongue over her teeth. Yet who knew what unconventional thoughts might be running through Lady Winthrop’s mind. They were ushered through to the drawing room, where the vicar and his wife were talking to His Lordship. A small fire burned in the huge hearth, large enough to seat two people on each side – the only spot they might have conceivably felt any warmth – and the furniture was all heavy oak and fusty cretonne. Still, the sherry decanter was full and the cigarette boxes well-stocked.

  ‘And how is your merry band of evacuees?’ Lady Winthrop asked. ‘I see the plump red-headed one running about in the wood sometimes.’

  Poor Brenda: she was far too conspicuous to be a decent spy. ‘That would be Brenda,’ Nell said. ‘I hope she isn’t trespassing on your land.’

  Lady Winthrop looked puzzled. ‘Is that our land? I’m not entirely sure. I shall have to ask Lionel, he’ll know.’

  Lord Winthrop was handing round glasses of sherry. ‘The wood, darling,’ said his wife. ‘Does it belong to us?’

  ‘We rent it out,’ he replied briefly. Nell would have liked to ask to whom, but he took her by the elbow and drew her aside.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this husband of yours. Tell me about his duties, Mrs Spelman. On a day-to-day basis, I mean.’

  What a strange man he was; Nell would far sooner have been talking to Lady Winthrop. She wasn’t sure whether Hermione Winthrop knew what had taken place between Hugo and herself; Her Ladyship had always treated her with absent-minded good manners.

  She tried to recall Arthur’s routine. ‘Well, the clocks have to be wound first thing every morning and checked for accuracy. There’s a workshop at the Palace for running repairs, and the men can take away the clocks that need more complicated restoration at their company workshop. Of course, the Great Clock occupies most of their attention. They have to make sure the mechanism is running smoothly, oiling it and so on, and checking that it keeps perfect time.’

  Was this really the sort of information Lord Winthrop was after? Apparently not: she was losing his attention. ‘I was certain Talbot ran the show. He never mentioned anything about colleagues in situ at the Palace.’

  He wouldn’t though, would he? Nell thought. Talbot had locked horns with Arthur from the moment he had started work at Saunders and caught the boss’s eye because he was so conscientious and patient. When he’d managed to fix a clock that Bill Talbot had claimed was beyond repair, he’d made an enemy for life. Talbot was one of those sour people who like to feel hard-done-by, and Arthur seemed to have become the focus of his resentment.

  ‘Mr Talbot might not be quite as important as he thinks he is,’ Nell said – and immediately regretted her indiscretion. Arthur would have been appalled.

  Lady Winthrop called over, ‘Lionel, please offer that poor girl a drink before she dies of thirst.’

  ‘Oh, how remiss of me. Do have a sherry.’ He splashed some into a glass. ‘I’d like to meet your husband, Mrs Spelman, and talk clocks with him. As a matter of fact, the House is sitting this week and I’m off to Westminster tomorrow. I could look him up.’

  Poor Arthur, Nell thought. Could she really inflict Lord Winthrop on him? And yet she’d just finished knitting a balaclava, and the post was so unreliable. She could parcel up some bacon, too, and perhaps a jar of honey; it was draughty up in the belfry and Arthur usually had a cold at this time of year.

  ‘Actually, you could do me the most enormous favour,’ she said. ‘Would you mind taking him a small package?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Lord Winthrop looked surprised. ‘But I’m leaving at nine o’clock sharp. You’ll need to drop it off here by then.’ He seized the decanter and left her alone at last.

  ‘You two were deep in conversation.’ Rose had come to stand beside her. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure.’ Nell took a long-overdue sip of sherry. ‘But His Lordship’s going to meet Arthur at the Houses of Parliament and deliver his balaclava.’

  ‘Is he, indeed? Well, I wonder what they’ll make of each other.’ Rose looked around, ill at ease in her tweed costume and best shoes. ‘At least that blessed parrot’s been shut up somewhere.’

  ‘Are my clothes all right?’ Nell whispered. Lady Winthrop was staring at her again.

  Rose took a quick glance. ‘As far as I can see. You look very smart.’

  And now Lady Winthrop was bearing down on them. ‘Ladies, do you know about my classes in the village hall?’ She was an enthusiastic member of the Women’s League for Health and Beauty. ‘Tuesday evenings, at seven o’clock. We love to have mothers and daughters exercising together. Our oldest member is seventy-four!’

  Nell and Rose stared at her, equally appalled. ‘Well, bear it in mind,’ she said. ‘Exercise is so tremendously invigorating. By the way, my dear’ – she turned to Nell – ‘your frock is so pretty. The pattern seems familiar somehow but I can’t think why.’

  It was the most ridiculous thing, Nell wrote to Arthur the following week. When I called at the Manor to drop off your parcel (so glad the balaclava’s coming in handy, by the way), nobody answered the front door so I went around to the back, and would you believe it – I saw through the window that their kitchen curtains are made from the same material as my frock! Lady Winthrop’s housekeeper must have given the leftover fabric to the jumble sale, where Mother bought it. I nearly died when I found out.

  Hardly the most thrilling anecdote. She sucked the top of her pen, hoping for inspiration. She could hardly tell him about Alice and the hand grenade; he’d have had forty fits. Ah, yes. The other splendid news is that we’ve had a letter from Harry, giving us his address. Apparently he’s safe and in good shape. The Red Cross are delivering parcels to the camp and we can also send supplies, although they may take a while to get through. So now I’m busy knitting another balaclava!

  How trivial her life had become. Of course, it was wonderful to get a good night’s sleep and see Alice so settled and happy, but she couldn’t help missing the excitement of London, the sense she was living at the very heart of things, at a time when history was being made.

  Well, not much more to report, she wrote. And it’s nearly time for the highlight of our social diary, the children’s Christmas party. I’m in charge of the
evacuees, plus Alice, of course, and hoping they won’t let the side down. It’s good of Lady Winthrop to carry on with the tradition, especially since now she won’t have any grandchildren of her own. (Nell had never managed to tell Arthur about her encounter with Hugo Winthrop; it was too shameful, somehow.) Sad, isn’t it? Although after a couple of hours with the rampaging hordes, she may count herself lucky. Sorry to hear His Lordship took up so much of your time, he is rather a bore. Can’t wait to see you, dearest. Only another week to go! Mother has hopes of a goose for Christmas and we shall make sure there are plenty of leftovers on Boxing Day.

  ‘Nell?’ her mother called, from the kitchen. ‘Are you ready? You’d better not be late.’

  ‘Coming.’ She signed off with the customary kisses and sealed her letter, scooped Alice out of the playpen and went to call the other children, who were meant to have been resting upstairs after an early lunch to prepare for the excitement ahead. The telephone rang almost as soon as she passed it, making her jump. When she picked up the receiver, Arthur himself spoke to her.

  ‘Hello, darling!’ she said, her heart leaping. ‘I’ve just written to you.’

  ‘Listen carefully, I haven’t got long.’ His voice was high-pitched and breathless, the words tumbling over themselves. ‘There’s been some ridiculous misunderstanding. I can’t explain now but they want me to answer some questions, and there’s a chance I may be—’ A crackle and splutter on the line muffled his next few words.

  ‘What sort of misunderstanding?’ she asked sharply, his fear infecting her. ‘And who’s “they”?’

  ‘Just listen, darling,’ he repeated urgently. ‘I might have to go away for a little while, so don’t worry if you can’t get hold of me for a few days. But everything will be all right, I promise.’

  He wasn’t making any sense. ‘Go away where? And what about Christmas?’ was all she could think of to say, sinking into the chair with Alice on her lap.

  ‘I’ll try—’ He broke off, adding abruptly, ‘Sorry, I can’t say any more. I shouldn’t even be—’ There was some sort of commotion in the background and then she heard a clatter, as though he had dropped the telephone receiver.

  ‘Arthur?’ But there was no reply, only the sound of scuffling footsteps, followed by a thump and voices raised in some sort of altercation. She heard Arthur say, in the same panicky tone, ‘There’s no need for that sort of—’ And then a click as the call was ended.

  ‘Who was that?’ Rose asked, coming out of the kitchen with her hands covered in flour.

  ‘Only Arthur,’ Nell replied, as calmly as she was able. ‘Such a terrible line, I could hardly make out a word he was saying before we were cut off.’

  The evacuees were assembling by the front door, fizzing with excitement. ‘Can I push the pram?’ Susan asked. ‘Please, I’ll be ever so careful.’

  Nell busied herself strapping Alice into the Ambassador. There was nothing she could do immediately; she needed time to think, and she didn’t want to worry her mother until she knew more. Nell put on her hat in front of the mirror, her fingers shaking, and unhooked her coat from the stand by the door.

  ‘If there’s the slightest misbehaviour from anyone, I’m taking you all straight home,’ she warned the children, and there must have been a new note of authority in her voice because they nodded meekly, even Brenda.

  She ran through the telephone call in her mind as they walked to Millbury Manor. Something was terribly wrong; she’d never heard Arthur sound so flustered. Yet what could she do from a distance? She would just have to wait in the hope he’d ring again, or maybe that he’d send a telegram as soon as the misunderstanding – whatever it was – had been resolved. Unless she could telephone the workroom herself to find out what had happened? Ralph Watkinson was back at work; with a bit of luck, he might answer, and be able to tell her more. If Talbot picked up the phone, she could make an excuse. She would wait till the party was over and sneak out to the telephone box on the village green for privacy – except there was little of that in the centre of Millbury. Better to ring from home and choose her words carefully so as not to cause alarm. Until then, she would just have to think about something else.

  Other groups of women and children were walking up the drive towards the Manor. Nell pulled her small party to one side and went over their orders one last time. ‘No pushing or shoving, absolutely no swearing, only speak if you’re spoken to and remember to say please and thank you. Understood? Timothy, stop picking your nose and Malcolm, tell me at once if you need the lavatory.’ The village mothers would be watching the evacuees closely in the hope of misbehaviour.

  A holly wreath tied with red velvet ribbon adorned the front door, and the hall was festooned with paper chains made out of newspaper. A tall spruce tree leaned in its pot, decorated with more holly berries and brightly painted wooden ornaments.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Brenda whistled, gazing up in awe. ‘Did you ever see anything like it?’

  Nell gave her a swift thump.

  ‘Mrs Spelman, how lovely!’ Lady Winthrop was advancing towards them. ‘And this must be your troupe of waifs and strays.’ She smiled encouragingly at Malcolm, who was blinking behind his glasses. ‘Don’t be afraid, little boy. We’re all going to have the most splendid time.’

  Alice had fallen asleep in the pram so Nell parked her beside the Christmas tree and took her charges through to the dining room, cleared of its table, where the games of Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs would take place. The vicar’s wife was already sitting at the piano behind a screen. A circle of chairs had been arranged in the middle of the room while the mothers and grandmothers were sitting on stools and benches against the wall, ready to pounce at the first sign of naughtiness. When the room was full, Lady Winthrop clapped her hands, told a story about a Christmas mouse looking for crumbs – Brenda shot Nell a sardonic look over her shoulder – before announcing the fun would begin as soon as photographs had been taken. A reporter from the local newspaper was there to record the festivities and he spent some time arranging the children (by now virtually hysterical) into rows, their parents standing at the back and Lady Winthrop smiling benevolently from a chair in the middle.

  Nell was desperate for the party to be over; sitting still with nothing to do but think made her more tense than ever. She couldn’t bear to think of Arthur in trouble. He hated any sort of conflict or rudeness, couldn’t bear even to raise his voice in an argument. What could have happened? Suddenly tearful, she got up and hurried out of the room under the pretext of checking on Alice. The baby was still fast asleep, her cheeks flushed. Nell tugged off her pixie hat, hoping she’d wake up, but Alice didn’t stir.

  ‘Such a dear little thing.’ Lady Winthrop had appeared from nowhere and was standing beside her, looking into the pram. Nell nodded and tried to smile. ‘My dear, are you all right?’ Lady Winthrop asked. ‘Has something upset you?’

  Her long, powdery face was creased with such concern that Nell found herself unable to speak. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’ Lady Winthrop put an arm around her shoulders. ‘The kettle’s just boiled. Things always look brighter after a cup of tea, especially with a drop of something fortifying in it.’

  The housekeeper was filling beakers with lemon barley water, and tea had just been made in a giant urn. Nell noticed the curtains but hardly registered them; it seemed ridiculous to have spent a moment worrying about something so trivial. And how could she inflict her fears on a woman who’d recently lost her only child?

  Lady Winthrop poured the tea and produced a silver flask from the folds of her smock. ‘Care for a splash of brandy?’ She added a slug to both cups without waiting for an answer, and Nell was glad, because she’d have felt she ought to refuse. She began to stammer her condolences but Hermione Winthrop cut her short. ‘Please, my dear. We shan’t speak of such things now. Tell me what’s troubling you.’

  ‘I’m a little concerned for my husband, that’s all. It’s hard when we’re so far apart.’ Nell to
ok a sip from her cup and let the brandy warm her. ‘He’s still in London, you see, and I can’t help but worry.’

  ‘Of course. London is a dangerous place at the moment. I’m always relieved to see Lionel home in one piece from the House of Lords. The Palace of Westminster is such an obvious target. All the Germans have to do is fly along the Thames to find it.’

  ‘I know.’ Nell bit her lip.

  ‘But of course, your husband works there, too. How tactless of me.’ Lady Winthrop poured some more brandy into their cups, to make up for it. ‘The barrage balloons will stop any bombers getting through, never fear.’

  Neither of them mentioned the fact that the Palace had suffered already, although they were both probably thinking about it. In September, a high-explosive bomb had fallen in Old Palace Yard, causing the statue of Richard the Lionheart to be lifted bodily from its pedestal and then dropped back into place. Extraordinarily enough, only the King’s sword had been bent. Several Palace staff had been injured, however, and it was sheer luck no one had been killed.

  Lady Winthrop patted Nell’s hand. ‘I gather Lionel met your husband the other day, and they had a most interesting talk.’

  ‘So I hear.’ Nell did her best to smile. According to Arthur, Lord Winthrop had bearded him in the clockmakers’ room and insisted on being shown around the clock tower. He’d been particularly interested in the Ayrton light, for some reason, even though it had been switched off since the start of the war.

  Lady Winthrop drained her tea and splashed another slug of brandy into the empty cup. ‘As a matter of fact, Lionel’s off to Westminster this afternoon – against my advice, I might add. Cooke’s driving him there once our festivities are over. Perhaps he could take Mr Spelman a quick note from you, or even a small parcel? Some mince pies and a slice of cake might be cheering.’

  Nell’s heart had begun to thud. ‘What a kind gesture. His Lordship was good enough to bring Arthur a balaclava the other week. I wonder—’ she hesitated, then continued in a rush, ‘Do you think he might consider giving me a lift to London? You see, I need to talk to Arthur urgently and I’m having trouble contacting him by telephone.’ She paused, half-appalled by her own cheek. ‘Forgive me, Lady Winthrop. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.’