The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  When she looked again, Talbot had vanished. She rushed on towards the Palace, just in time to catch a glimpse of him disappearing through the street-level entrance. So that was that, as she knew from yesterday’s experience – until she remembered Arthur’s security pass. It was worth a try, and the helmet and armband would add to her credibility. Her mouth dry, she marched purposefully towards the policeman on duty and flashed him the most dazzling smile she could muster, waving the pass in his general direction. Grinning back, he waved her through. Trying not to break into a run, she followed Talbot through shadowy Westminster Hall, up the steps to St Stephen’s Hall and along towards the central lobby separating the House of Commons from the House of Lords. And there, she lost him; for good this time.

  He went through a door she remembered Arthur once showing her, which led down to a central vault with passages radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel. Here lay the workshops belonging to the Palace’s craftsmen: carpenters and French polishers, electricians and plumbers, stained-glass artists, stone masons and seamstresses. She daren’t risk following: there were fewer people around in the workshops and a stranger would be more conspicuous. Instead, she walked slowly back into the lobby and sat on a pile of sandbags. The place felt empty and forlorn, sandbags piled against the walls and most of the beautiful stained-glass windows boarded over or blown out. The niches where statues of kings, queens and saints once stood were empty, and only a few maintenance men walked through the place that should have thronged with life. Parliament was no longer sitting at the Palace of Westminster, Arthur had said; its prominent location was considered too dangerous. Both the House of Lords and the Commons were meeting secretly elsewhere. Well, the location was meant to be a secret but most of the Parliamentary staff knew by now: Church House, close to Westminster Abbey on the other side of the street.

  ‘I say! You there!’ With a start, Nell turned to see a warden in ARP uniform marching towards her. She looked around but there was no one else in sight.

  ‘You’re the one I want,’ the man said. He walked up to Nell and loomed over her, bristling with indignation. ‘Unless there are any other firewatchers in the vicinity. What do you mean by leaving the cupboard in such a state?’

  Nell got to her feet. ‘Um, I don’t think that was me.’

  ‘Then who else was responsible? Do you think Herr Hitler sneaked into the Palace and disordered our supplies?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Nell replied, smiling.

  ‘This isn’t a laughing matter, young lady. You’re to come with me this minute and tidy everything away. Hurry up, please. Chop, chop.’ The warden turned on his heel and stalked off, not waiting for a response. Nell hurried along behind.

  ‘I know you’re tired, but so are we all,’ he flung over his shoulder. ‘And quite possibly hungry, and a little afraid. That’s no excuse for laziness. Once standards start to slip, the effect is contagious. One bad apple spoils the whole barrel.’

  He led the way downstairs, Nell following with her head lowered. The door to the engineers’ control room was shut, she was relieved to notice as they passed. The cupboard in question stood halfway along one corridor. Nell’s guide flung open the door and stood back, waving his arm at the chaos inside. ‘Disgraceful! Would your husband tolerate such a muddle in his home?’

  Nell shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. This is my first shift, you see. I don’t know the ropes.’

  The warden sighed, and pointed at each section of the cupboard in turn. ‘Fire buckets to be stacked, stirrup hoses coiled, axes and shovels leant against the wall, log book initialled after inspection and put on the shelf. Is that clear?’ Nell nodded. ‘Good. I shall expect to see this cupboard spick and span from now on.’ And he strode away, keys jangling.

  Arthur would never have left the place in such a shambles, Nell thought, as she began to restore order. In fact, the mess was probably a result of him not being here. She could picture him methodically, uncomplainingly, putting everything to rights, just as she was doing now. And there were his initials in the log book; she felt her heart would burst, looking at them. Apart from AS, there seemed to be only one other regular cupboard-tidier: the initials HC were dotted sporadically through the pages.

  When the cupboard was transformed, she stowed her haversack in a dark corner under a shelf at the very back, then sorted through Arthur’s keys to find out which one would fit the lock. She needed somewhere to store her things and it might as well be here. A plan was forming in her mind. Her husband was innocent, she knew it in her bones, which meant someone must have led him along a dangerous path for reasons she didn’t yet understand. She felt sure Lord Winthrop was involved and that was her fault, because she had introduced Arthur to him, and also – she remembered with a sinking heart – blabbed about Bill Talbot. It was too late for regrets, though. What she had to concentrate on now was finding evidence and presenting it to Detective Sergeant Davis. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to set about doing that but one thing, at least, was clear: she had to fight for her husband, because nobody else would.

  Chapter Fifteen

  London, December 1940

  Nell set about establishing a base for herself. She found municipal baths in a street the other side of Westminster Abbey and paid extra for a first-class cubicle, with soap and a towel. She should stay in the area, she decided, as the warmth of the water seeped into her frozen bones: the answer to this mystery lay buried somewhere in the Palace of Westminster, and she should dig here to find it. The siren suit and Arthur’s pass would get her into the building; she had used Arthur’s pen to add an ‘M’ to the front of his first name and smudged the final letters with a drop of water to transform herself into Martha Spelman. Provided she kept her head down and stuck to the maintenance areas and other places one might expect to find a firewatcher, she ought to be safe enough. Even if she ran into Bill Talbot, he wouldn’t know who she was.

  After her bath, she walked past the tall blocks of a housing estate in search of a shelter for the night. She found one in the basement of Caxton Hall, an imposing red-brick building that looked vaguely familiar; she’d come back later that evening and hope to bag a good spot. There was a British restaurant set up in a church hall around the corner where she bought herself lunch for ninepence: mince and mashed potato, followed by steamed jam sponge. Suitably fortified, she rang her mother from a public telephone box to tell her that everything was fine and she’d be back in a few days – probably by the weekend, or Monday at the latest.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Rose said, sounding very faint and far away. ‘It’s Christmas next Wednesday. Are you sure you’re all right, dear? Is your business finished?’

  ‘Almost. How’s Alice?’ Nell asked, gripping the receiver as she strained to hear. ‘And everyone else, of course.’

  ‘As well as can be expected. Susan’s spoiling the baby to death, lugging her about everywhere. And we’re losing Malcolm. His mother’s coming to fetch him tomorrow, she says she wants him home for Christmas. I told her—’

  But already the pips were sounding. ‘Ma, I haven’t got any more change,’ Nell cried over the frantic beeping. ‘I’ll ring again soon, I promise.’ And with that, the line went dead.

  She couldn’t afford to think about Alice; there was no point upsetting herself for no reason. Her daughter was happy and safe, for which she was thankful. Yet there was an ache in Nell’s heart that couldn’t be wished away. Passing Westminster Abbey, on an impulse she walked through the huge porch and down the nave to pay her respects at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, brought back from France after the last war. How many more corpses were lying there now? She took a seat in an out-of-the-way pew near the back of the church, curled up with her head on a hassock and the helmet by her side, and slept.

  She woke up a couple of hours later, yawned and stretched, then put on her helmet and returned to the Houses of Parliament, waving her pass with a casual air and strolling down to the vault. The door to the store cupboard was unlocked, w
hich should have alerted her, but she pushed it open anyway. The light was on, and a girl with curly blonde hair was sitting on an upturned bucket, smoking.

  ‘Well, hello,’ she said, in an unexpectedly gravelly voice. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘The new firewatcher,’ Nell replied, startled. ‘I was just coming to check the cupboard.’

  ‘How very keen of you. And in full regalia, I see. Even the helmet.’ She looked at Nell with her head on one side like a bright, naughty bird. ‘You don’t have to wear it every minute of the day, you know.’

  ‘Best to be prepared.’ Nell put her hands in her pockets and stood there awkwardly.

  The girl laughed. ‘Dyb, dyb, dyb et cetera.’ She was all rosy and gold, like a painted cherub on a chapel ceiling. ‘Fancy a cig?’ she went on. ‘I was coming to check the cupboard too. We left it in a hell of a mess last night but some good fairy seems to have tidied everything away.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nell took a cigarette, trying to act normally.

  ‘My name’s Henrietta Carmichael, by the way.’ The cherub stood, extending her hand. ‘Known generally as Hetta.’

  ‘Eleanor Spelman. Do call me Nell.’ She shook hands, and then remembered. ‘Although, actually, Martha is my real name.’

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ Hetta extracted a lighter from her pocket, lit a cigarette of her own and held the flame towards Nell. She narrowed her eyes through a cloud of smoke. ‘And where have you sprung from, Martha Nell?’

  ‘I’m Arthur’s wife. Arthur Spelman, that is. AS.’ Nell nodded in the direction of the logbook. ‘He’s had to go away so I’m taking over his duties for a while.’

  ‘Go away? That’s rather sudden.’

  ‘A family emergency, I’m afraid. But he didn’t want to let anyone down.’

  Hetta digested this information. ‘And is that your haversack in the corner?’ she asked. ‘I was about to take it to Lost Property.’

  ‘So it is.’ Nell feigned surprise; she’d never been much good at acting. ‘I knew I must have left it somewhere,’ she added lamely.

  Hetta gave her another appraising stare from round blue eyes that might have been childlike, were it not for their expression. She was tiny, a good head shorter than Nell, and although she was wearing the familiar uniform of tweed skirt, twinset and pearls, the cut and fabric of her clothes marked them out as singularly chic. Her small, shapely legs were clad in silk stockings, and she looked far too soignée to go scrambling about over roofs. If that’s what firewatchers were supposed to do; Nell wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘Why don’t I stand you a cup of tea?’ Hetta said. ‘To thank you for your sterling efforts in the tidying department.’

  Nell sensed Hetta watching her closely as she collected her belongings and they made their way upstairs. She had to confess that she hadn’t yet discovered the canteen, and indeed that Arthur hadn’t shown her where anything was, not even the fire-watching post she was meant to be manning. ‘But you’ve been vetted?’ Hetta asked. ‘You have a security pass?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Nell replied airily. ‘All that’s been sorted out.’

  Several people greeted Hetta by name; she seemed particularly popular with the various policemen dotted about. ‘Do you work here?’ Nell asked, suddenly dreading she might have crossed paths with someone terribly important. Hetta gave her sardonic smile and said there was no need to look alarmed, she was merely a secretary.

  The canteen was an airy room in an annexe beside Westminster Hall, laid out with the communal tables and self-service counter that the war had made familiar. They queued for their tea and Hetta led the way to a secluded table. She heaped sugar into her cup, cut a Bath bun into quarters and said conversationally, ‘So would you care to explain what you’re really doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nell’s heart lurched.

  ‘I might be a lowly secretary but I’m not a fool. Why are you wandering around the Houses of Parliament without a clue where you’re going or what you’re supposed to be doing? I was in two minds whether to hand you over to the custodians straight away, but you intrigue me. And you did tidy the cupboard.’

  Nell glanced around the room. ‘Looking for an escape route?’ Hetta asked. ‘Or hoping for inspiration? You might as well tell me the truth.’

  ‘All right then.’ She took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. ‘Do you know Arthur, my husband?’

  ‘I’ve met him once or twice. He’s a clockmaker, isn’t he?’

  Nell nodded. ‘Well, he’s been taken in for questioning by the police. I think he’s stumbled across some kind of wrongdoing and decided to investigate on his own. Or maybe he’s being framed. I found a Fascist badge in his jacket pocket but he wouldn’t have anything to do with Mosley’s lot. He’s partly Jewish, you see.’ Why did she always feel a desire to apologise when she said that?

  ‘He seems an inoffensive chap,’ Hetta said. ‘Why would anyone want to frame him?’

  ‘To get him out of the way, perhaps?’ Nell leaned forward. ‘There’s a man who’s always resented Arthur and he was sniffing around the workshops this morning. He’s not the only one, though. Someone else is involved, a member of the House of Lords. I’ve seen the two of them together and they’re planning something, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And you think if you hang about here in your husband’s siren suit, you’re going to magically uncover the plot? Well, good luck with that.’ Hetta took out her cigarettes.

  ‘Have one of mine.’ Nell reached in her satchel. She had become a confirmed smoker over the past few weeks; the habit helped calm her nerves, and she was sure Arthur wouldn’t really mind, given the circumstances. ‘What else can I do?’ she went on, offering Hetta the pack. ‘I’ve nothing else to go on, except—’

  ‘Except what?’ Hetta’s eyes were bluer and sharper than ever as she helped herself to a cigarette.

  ‘Arthur went to a meeting in West London, the day before he was arrested. I saw the address in his diary.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what that address was?’

  ‘Park West, I don’t remember the number.’ Nell wasn’t going to hand over everything on a plate. ‘It’s off the Edgware Road. I thought I might go there.’

  ‘And do what?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just have a look at the place, I suppose. See what kind of people live there.’

  Hetta twirled a blonde curl thoughtfully around her finger. ‘Be careful. If your husband has been framed, there’s nothing to say you won’t be, too. And if you start spreading rumours about a peer of the realm, you could end up in serious trouble.’

  ‘I have to try. Arthur doesn’t have anyone one else on his side.’ Nell hesitated. ‘Are you going to tell the authorities about me?’

  ‘I’m not sure. May I see your pass?’

  Nell pushed it across the table and Hetta took a look. She shook her head, raising her eyebrows. ‘Martha and Arthur, the conveniently rhyming couple. Hardly sophisticated, is it? Still, full marks for ingenuity.’ She passed it back. ‘No, I’m going to keep you around for entertainment value. I could do with some company and I’ve a hunch you’ll be good value. You’ll have to do your bit, though. In the fire-watching department, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I will. Thanks.’ Nell was dizzy with relief. ‘That’s jolly decent of you.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Hetta smiled. ‘I’ve rather surprised myself. Hope it’s not a decision I’ll come to regret.’

  ‘The thing is, the Palace of Westminster – or the Houses of Parliament, or whatever you want to call the place – is a world unto itself, with smaller worlds inside it. Like a continent with different countries, or a galaxy whose planets don’t communicate.’ Hetta was warming to her theme. ‘Or a country-house weekend, when the guests have each brought their own staff and there’ll be trouble in the servants’ hall.’

  Nell laughed uncertainly. Hetta was taking her on a tour of the building, introducing this new volunteer to a variety of useful people. They had started off
in the basement headquarters of the Westminster ARP, and from there she had met the ladies who ran the canteen, nurses in the First Aid post, several members of the Home Guard and, most important of all, many of the ex-servicemen who policed the whole building, known as custodians. ‘Teddy bears, most of them, although some might look a little alarming.’ Then they had walked along the colonnade, up a staircase and through an unobtrusive door onto what looked like a fire escape. ‘Hold the handrail,’ Hetta warned. ‘It can get slippery up here.’

  Nell followed her up the spiral metal steps and stepped out onto a flat roof. ‘My goodness.’ She gazed around, hands on hips. ‘What a view!’

  They’d emerged into another world: a landscape of iron and slate with gutters for paths, mountains made of tiles, and valleys that were courtyards far below. The same skilled Victorian workmanship was evident here, although few people would ever see it: carved stone ledges and pediments, domes and spires, some of them gilded, and small green crowns at the points where roofs and buildings intersected. Only a few birds wheeling through the darkening sky kept them company. Nell could see for miles in every direction – up the river to Waterloo Bridge, and across to the tall white towers of Battersea Power Station and the sprawl of St Thomas’s Hospital on the opposite bank. A mist rolling off the water had settled in the streets like a soft grey blanket, pierced by the spires of churches and chimney pots crowning rooftops, and the silver barrage balloons swayed dreamily on their cables in the dusk. Soon there would be searchlights roaming the sky and anti-aircraft guns adding their thunder to the cacophony of sirens, aeroplane engines and bombs. For now, the fairy-tale city held its breath, waiting for whatever the night would bring.