The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  There was something delightfully eccentric and old-fashioned about the system. A pile of old pennies on the pendulum tray kept the clock accurate; the clockmaker would add a coin to speed things up, or take one away to slow them down. The guide was in the middle of her explanation when a tremendous racket started: cogs and ratchets whirred and the fly fans high above their heads clattered into life as the minor bells rang out the Westminster Chimes, announcing the quarter hour. It was extraordinary to think the mechanism had been operating for over a hundred and sixty years, virtually unchanged. In the gallery that ran behind the four huge dials, they could see the original gas mantels that had first illuminated the clock, and the metal rungs which had let a workman scramble up to light them. And then at last they had climbed up to the belfry to see where Big Ben hung in state, with the smaller quarter bells arranged around him. Ellie found herself unexpectedly moved. Wars had been fought, fires had raged and people had died in the streets below, but these bells had carried on striking and the vast clock had counted the minutes through it all.

  The belfry was open to the elements, its arched Gothic windows covered only by a metal grille so the wind howled through and occasional squalls of rain splattered the bells.

  She wandered over to gaze across the river. Dusk was falling quickly, and the dark sprawl of London was pierced by a thousand pinpricks of light. She could glimpse the glowing Ferris wheel of the London Eye across the river, see the tip of the Shard.

  ‘Everyone got their ear defenders on?’ called the guide. ‘Big Ben’s about to strike.’

  They waited a little nervously as the quarter bells sounded, waiting for the seconds of silence before the great hammer, all two hundred kilos of it, dropped down to strike the bell. Ellie turned back towards the view. Someone was calling her, or so it seemed, in that quiet moment as the Westminster Chimes faded away. She sensed a distinct presence at her shoulder, so real that she might have leaned back and found herself supported, and a tremendous sense of peace washed over her. It was as though she had found something that had been missing for a long time, without her having even noticed it was gone. Her heart was full to bursting. She heard the voices of her family, in all of their complexity, and could only be grateful for the life they had given her, could think of them with nothing but love and acceptance.

  And then as abruptly as the sensation had come, it was gone. A gust of wind drove stinging raindrops into her face and she leaned back against the wall. Her ears rang as the bell’s vibrations died away and she returned to normality: faint and dizzy, and quite alone.

  ‘I can’t explain,’ Ellie told Beth on the phone that evening. ‘It was as though someone were standing next to me, so close I could reach out and touch them. Perhaps I’m going crazy. It might be just as well Dan’s coming over – he can keep an eye on me.’

  ‘Sounds weird,’ Beth said, and Ellie could tell she’d only been listening with half an ear. ‘But listen, Morgan’s waking up so I have to go. Have fun! Don’t let my brother cramp your style.’

  Ellie couldn’t blame Beth for her lack of interest; she couldn’t put the experience into words without it sounding far-fetched and ridiculous. Describing what had happened made her doubt herself.

  ‘Honestly, I thought I’d seen a ghost,’ she said to Dan a couple of days later. ‘Or rather, felt one. Do you think there’s something wrong with me?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Dan yawned, still rumpled from the plane. He’d insisted on going out for lunch before he fell asleep, but maybe the beer wasn’t such a great idea. ‘In fact, I understand better than you might imagine.’

  ‘How come?’ Dan was one of the most logical people she’d ever met. That was partly why she’d confided in him, so he could bring her down to earth with a dose of common sense.

  ‘Because I have a story like that of my own.’ He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts. ‘Do you remember that year Lisa and I went to Europe? No, of course you don’t, but never mind. We were staying in the middle of the countryside in France, and I’d got up early one morning to fetch bread from a bakery in the next village. The croissants were incredible.’ He yawned again. ‘I remember the road clearly, stretching ahead for miles through lavender fields. There was no one about, only the birds singing and the sun on my back, and this amazing scent blowing towards me on the breeze. And then, all of a sudden, someone was walking beside me. I could sense their footsteps keeping time with mine, feel their breath on the air. And … yes – the smell of French cigarettes. I’d forgotten about that! I stopped and looked around a couple of times but there was no sign of anyone nearby. Whenever I set off again, so did they, and we walked all the way to the village together.’

  ‘Were you frightened?’

  ‘Not at all. I felt he didn’t wish me any harm. I’ve always assumed it was a man, for some reason.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve got no idea why he came to me or what he was trying to say – or if he had any message at all. It was just an ordinary road on an ordinary day, with a lonely ghost keeping me company.’

  ‘Dan, that’s beautiful!’ She looked at him in surprise.

  He laughed, embarrassed. ‘I’ve never told anyone else. But since then, I’ve believed the air is full of echoes. And that sometimes if our minds and ears are open, we get to hear them.’ He drained his glass. ‘And now I’d better order coffee or your cousin will find me asleep with my head on the table.’

  Who would have thought Dan would come up with a story like that? Ellie watched him as he stood at the bar: tall and broad-shouldered, hanging back a little as he waited his turn. Yet she shouldn’t have been surprised. Dan might not have been good at small talk but he usually had something original to say when he did speak, because he was interested in so many things. She remembered laughing with Beth about the weird hobbies her brother had had at high school: astronomy, drawing comic-book characters, brewing his own beer. He’d never cared what other people thought, which she could admire now, although it had seemed a little freakish at the time. Somehow, he’d got away with it; perhaps because the guys who would have picked on him all wanted to hang out with Beth. She could imagine him alone on a road in France. He had always walked by himself.

  And there was her imagination again, leading her into places it was safer not to go. Thank goodness, Max and Nathan were arriving now. Nathan had suggested they meet as he had some information to give her, and she’d thought Dan might enjoy a Sunday-morning drink at The Feathers. Besides, it would be interesting to get his take on Max. She still wasn’t sure what to make of her cousin, although he greeted her so affectionately that she felt ashamed.

  ‘Nathan’s found out something rather interesting about our grandfather,’ he said. ‘You tell her, Nat, since you were the sleuth.’

  ‘Arthur was Jewish,’ Nat said. ‘Or rather, his grandmother was. Who knows whether he observed the faith but he definitely had Jewish blood, so it was unlikely he’d have been a Fascist. Or married one, come to that. Although stranger things have happened, I suppose.’

  What was it Eleanor had said? Her husband ‘wasn’t what she’d expected, not at all’. Well, it must have been a shock to discover she’d married a man who was partly Jewish. But in that case, why could Arthur have been arrested? Suddenly aware the others were looking at her, Ellie recovered herself. ‘I suppose it was just as well the family moved to England when they did.’

  ‘Yup. Arthur would have been classed as a Mischling – mixed blood – which was enough to have had him sent to a concentration camp.’

  ‘You’d have thought my mother might have mentioned that fact,’ Max said, ‘but she claims to have forgotten.’

  ‘Have you taken her out to lunch yet?’ Ellie asked, keen to change the subject.

  He groaned. ‘Don’t you start nagging. I get enough grief from Nathan.’ He turned to Dan. ‘So, tell us what brings you to London, my friend. Have you come chasing after the lovely Ellie?’

  Ellie felt herself blushing furiously but Dan only
laughed, not at all embarrassed. You see? she told herself. He thinks that’s a ridiculous idea. Max’s joke broke the ice and conversation was soon flowing. The four of them had plenty to talk about. Dan’s work as a healthcare journalist overlapped with several documentaries Nathan had produced, and Max, it turned out, was a fairly hilarious hypochondriac. What should have been a quick drink turned into a lazy lunch that stretched well into the afternoon. Still, at least now she knew Dan could fend for himself and wouldn’t be relying on her to entertain him all day.

  ‘There’s something I have to do tomorrow,’ she said as they were walking back to the apartment. ‘Will you be OK on your own for a while?’

  ‘Sure. I’m thinking of taking a sightseeing tour around London.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll have to look at your famous clock and see if I feel anything.’

  She was grateful he hadn’t asked her what she was up to.

  ‘This is going to be an awful waste of your time,’ Gillian said, climbing into the cab. ‘I told you, I only need someone to be with me when I’m going home. You’ll have to hang around for hours.’

  She was wearing a military-style coat with epaulettes, frogging and gold buttons, and a white fur hat that turned her head into a giant puffball. As she turned to fasten her seatbelt, the gap between her hat and collar exposed a few inches of skin, pale and powdery as marshmallow.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ellie said. ‘I brought a book. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want.’

  Gillian harrumphed. ‘It’s not a question of wanting. I might not feel like chatting, that’s all. I don’t think this will be a particularly pleasant experience.’

  She had called Ellie out of the blue a couple of days before, saying that she would like to take advantage of her kind offer of help, if it were still available. ‘I’m to have an initial round of chemotherapy to shrink the tumour,’ she announced. ‘And I’ve just been informed that someone has to collect me from the hospital after each session. They won’t let me go home on my own, which is ridiculous, but there we are.’

  Ellie could imagine how much she hated having to ask. It was such an admission of vulnerability and loneliness. Gillian in her immaculate house, with no one to turn to but a niece she hardly knew. ‘Of course,’ she’d said casually. ‘I’d be happy to.’

  So now here they were, on their way to the cancer centre near London Bridge. Ellie had scoped out the location and thought she might walk down the riverbank, if Gillian didn’t want her around, and cross the Millennium Bridge to St Paul’s Cathedral. She’d seen it from the sightseeing bus but hadn’t had time for a proper look.

  Gillian most definitely didn’t want her around. ‘I knew this would take forever,’ she said crossly, coming back to the waiting room after her initial consultation. ‘I have to wait for the results of my blood test before chemo even begins.’ She took out her purse and pressed a few coins into Ellie’s hand. ‘Go and get yourself a coffee, or a bun or something.’

  ‘I have money,’ Ellie said. But her aunt wouldn’t be dissuaded and it wasn’t worth making a fuss. ‘OK,’ she said at last, ‘see you in a couple of hours. But text if you need me to come back sooner.’

  St Paul’s stood in the ancient City founded by the Romans, once enclosed by walls that led to the Tower of London. Ellie had learned from her research that a couple of nights before Eleanor died, the Germans had blasted the area with so many incendiary bombs that its narrow streets had been swallowed up in a carpet of fire. It was one of the worst nights, not just of the Blitz, but of the whole war: the second Great Fire of London, a reporter called it later. The firemen’s hoses had run dry and the tide was too low in the Thames to supply more water, so all they could do was watch as the flames leapt from one empty building to another. Churches, offices and warehouses had burned to the ground, and St Paul’s itself had only been saved by a miracle. Had Eleanor been in London then? She must have been terrified.

  The bridge gave a spectacular view of the dome of St Paul’s. Ellie walked towards it as though pulled by a magnet. She had seen a photograph of the cathedral on that terrible night, lit up by the blaze and wreathed in smoke like some heavenly temple floating above the clouds. It must have seemed as though the world was coming to an end. Maybe that was why these old buildings were so moving, because of the history they had survived. Yet somehow the cathedral didn’t affect her in the way the clock tower had; it was on too grand a scale, marooned among the modern buildings like a holy relic. She pulled her coat more tightly around herself, and wandered on. There were a few pockets of antiquity left in the city’s financial district – a church here, an old street sign there – but they were swallowed up in a sea of concrete, steel and mirrored glass.

  When she got back to the cancer centre, a nurse told her that Gillian’s treatment was under way but she was welcome to join her. ‘She’d probably like the company.’

  Ellie wasn’t so sure. She found Gillian hooked up to a drip in a cubicle with a view over the river. ‘How’s it going?’ She pulled up a chair.

  ‘As well as could be expected, I suppose. Being pumped full of poison isn’t how I’d choose to spend my time.’ But Gillian sounded resigned. ‘Had a good walk?’

  ‘Sure. I went over the bridge to St Paul’s and then through the City.’

  ‘I haven’t been a very dutiful aunt, have I?’ Gillian sighed. ‘The least I could have done was show you around London. Especially with my credentials.’

  ‘Come on, it’s thanks to you I got to see Big Ben. How cool is that? Anyway, you have a good excuse.’ Before she could think better of it, Ellie went on, ‘Can I ask you something, though?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Her aunt looked wary.

  ‘When we first met, you said you knew the real reason I’d come to London. What did you mean?’

  Gillian frowned, shifting in the reclining chair, then spent a few unnecessary moments untangling the drip line. Eventually she sighed, looked Ellie in the face and said, ‘I seem to have misjudged you, for which I apologise. We don’t have to go into detail.’

  ‘Although perhaps we should.’ Ellie wasn’t about to let her off the hook. ‘This is the perfect time to get everything out in the open, surely.’

  ‘Now you’ve got me at your mercy? Perhaps you’re right, although I’m afraid you’ll change your opinion of us when you find out. My mother and me, I mean.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘More than I expected. One likes to think of oneself as a decent human being, I suppose. It’s easier to find the faults in other people than confront one’s own.’ Gillian glanced at Ellie, then quickly dropped her eyes. ‘And harder to ignore the way we treated Alice with you sitting next to me.’

  ‘You might be relieved to get it off your chest,’ Ellie said, without thinking. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression,’ she added hastily.

  ‘Along with the cancer?’ Gillian leaned back, closing her eyes. ‘You might have a point. All right, then, here goes – for better or worse. You asked for this, remember.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  London, December 1940

  Lord Winthrop instructed Cooke to drop Nell off on the north side of Vauxhall Bridge before they went on to his London residence, wherever that might be. He didn’t offer her a return lift or ask whether she had anywhere to stay but that was a relief; all she wanted was to escape the frosty atmosphere inside the Bentley as quickly as possible. It was dark by now, with a wintry sleet falling as she hurried along the damp pavements to the Palace of Westminster. ‘I’m coming, Arthur,’ she promised silently, catching sight of the clock tower looming above. ‘Hold on.’ The Great Clock’s familiar face was such an agonising reminder of her husband that she broke into a run, desperate to find him. So near and yet so far. Where could he be, if not here?

  Picking her way over the uneven, cratered ground of Old Palace Yard, she glanced up at the statue of Richard the Lionheart, defiantly waving his crooked sword. He represented every Londoner: bloody but unbowed. At the Parl
iament entrance, however, she came up against one of the bloodiest Londoners of all.

  ‘I don’t care who your husband is,’ the policeman said. ‘You could be married to Winston Churchill and I still wouldn’t let you through without proper authorisation. Now clear off before I arrest you for causing a disturbance.’

  He was making the most of his authority, staring down at her from under his helmet. Even Nell’s usually reliable helpless look – lowered chin, appealing eyes, quivering lip – had failed to work. He was implacable.

  ‘There’s no need to be rude,’ she muttered, retreating a safe distance while she decided what to do. Catching sight of the tube sign at Westminster underground station, she suddenly remembered the revolving door that Arthur had once shown her. Parliamentary staff could go through it to access the Palace directly from the station, via a passageway under the road. She would position herself by this door and wait to see if anyone she recognised emerged; even a sympathetic stranger might be persuaded to help. It was manned by one of the Home Guard, armed with a machine gun, who looked almost as fierce as the policeman.

  An hour or so later, after having seen no one but a couple of officious-looking wardens she was too nervous to approach, her luck changed. The very person she could have hoped to see walked through from the corridors of power into the everyday world: Arthur’s colleague, and friend.

  ‘Mr Watkinson?’ she cried, abandoning caution. ‘Do you remember me? It’s Eleanor Spelman, Arthur’s wife.’