Thomas did his best to be a good boy and to help when his dad was ill. He was quiet and cooperative, ran errands and made tea and cold compresses when his dad was running a fever. But he was powerless to help, really. His father seemed stronger, more cheerful, that Friday night when he went to sleep. Thomas grinned and laughed at his jokes. He was sure things would be all right now. They had to.
But by Saturday morning his father was gone. He must have slipped away in the night.
Thomas dropped the cup he was carrying. It shattered, hot tea spilling on the thin carpet. He didn't care. He flung himself down beside his father, panicking – seized his dad's cold hand - and realized he was too late. And yet, how could he be? How could this be?
"Come on," he begged, "come on, you were doing much better…"
But he was alone and talking to a corpse.
The thought of it was too much to bear. He broke down and buried his face in his hands.
Mrs. Miller, their neighbour across the street, had looked in on them every day that Mr. Barrow was ill. She came in later that morning and found Thomas huddled by the bed weeping. His sobs tore at him, but he could not force himself to stop, not even when Mrs. Miller approached him.
He never remembered what she said. He hardly listened to her, in fact - but he was aware of her trying to cajole him away from his dad and insist that he go home with her for a bit. At first he refused to leave his father's side. She prevailed upon him, however, as his utter powerlessness began to sink in more fully. He wouldn't let her take him in her arms – even his dear father was seldom that demonstrative – but he eventually agreed to go back to her flat with her.
"We'll write to the doctor – and to your aunt," Mrs. Miller said, putting a hand on Thomas's shoulder and steering him out of the bedroom. "We'll write to them together, and send the letters by the first post."
He'd stopped crying for a bit, though his head ached and his voice still shook when he tried to speak.
"Thanks," he managed. He kept his voice low when he said it.
"Your aunt's a good woman," Mrs. Miller continued. "I'm sure she'll be happy to take you in like one of her own."
Thomas knew more about his own aunt than Mrs. Miller did, and he was not so optimistic. He thought he must be growing even paler and colder – almost as cold as his dad lying in his room. Somehow he had not yet thought of what might become of him, or where he would go, but the future Mrs. Miller was suggesting did not seem at all pleasant.
"Perhaps you should pack some things?" Mrs. Miller suggested, oblivious to any change in Thomas. "I don't think you should be alone here, so I might keep you with us for a bit, till your aunt sends for you -"
"It's my house," Thomas said sullenly. "And my dad's shop."
Mrs. Miller stopped mid-step. She opened her mouth but said nothing for a moment. Then she seemed to shrug and collect herself.
"You shouldn't be alone at a time like this," she repeated. "Get some clothes and – well, if there are any books or something that you might enjoy and that you can find quickly."
Thomas nodded. He entered his own small room and packed some clothes into a carpet bag, moving with the mindlessness of an object more than a person – like one of his dad's clocks, or like an automaton. He stood staring at the shelf of books. He did not really wonder which ones he should take – what good would any of them be to him now? – but hesitated, staring blankly, before picking a few at random and laying them in the bag.
Then another thought struck his blank, stunned mind. There was something that was important to him – to him and to his dad.
"I left something in the shop," he said to Mrs. Miller.
The old woman sighed, though she tried to hide it.
"Well, be quick," she said, giving Thomas a little pat on his shoulder.
He ran down the stairs to his father's workshop as Mrs. Miller lumbered to keep up. But the sight of the dusty, cluttered shop, with its worn workbench and familiar metal smell, checked his step. He had spent so much time here, winding the clocks or listening to his father's kindly greetings to customers…
He hadn't been there much lately and neither had his father. Fresh tears came into his eyes. He bowed his small, black head and sniffled, willing himself not to start crying again. Anyway, there was something he just had to find.
He dragged a battered stool to the counter and got up on it. Then he reached up, groping with shaking hands for the key his father always kept hidden in a compartment of the top drawer. When he found it he climbed down again, forcing the image of his dad from his brain, in hopes of keeping his tears at bay. He was clutching that key so hard that it left a cold, red imprint on his skin. He didn't care.
Thomas sat down so that he was at eye level with one of the lower drawers, placed the key in the lock and turned it. The drawer was empty save for a wonderful gold watch. He remembered his dad wearing it to church on Sundays. They'd walk home together after, buy a hot currant bun from one of the shops that opened Sunday afternoons, then sit by the window of his dad's room upstairs. He would take the watch off to show it to Thomas.
"I made it for you, you know," he would say. "Really, I'm just borrowing it for now. Your pockets are still a bit small for it."
Thomas used to take the watch in his hand and laugh. It was awfully big for him, but somehow he always knew it was special. He knew his dad had made it for him and not for some gentleman.
Thomas's chest tightened at the memory. He scooped up the watch. The gold was heavy in his hand, though it didn't look quite as large in his palm as he remembered. Dully, he supposed that he must have grown a bit.
"Will you hurry up, Thomas?" Mrs. Miller asked, entering the room at last. Thomas scowled. He thought of the saying about the pot and the kettle – she had taken all this time just to walk down the stairs – but said nothing.
"Thomas? Where are you?"
It would have been funny, once, to make her look for him all through the shop when he was just crouching by the counter. But Thomas could not imagine anything ever being funny again. He stood up at once.
"I was only looking for my watch," he said.
Mrs. Miller drew closer to him. She squinted, then frowned at the object in Thomas's hand.
"Your watch?" she asked, blinking. "Eh, Thomas, that looks fine enough for any gentleman, and your father might have had debts, or…"
Thomas stiffened and clutched the watch tighter.
"My dad made it for me," he said. "He said it was for me. I'd get it when I was old enough."
Mrs. Miller shook her head.
"Well," she began. "Well, I don't know who your father owed money to, or what's going to happen with the shop – but I daresay no one'll miss one watch in a room full of them. Come along. And next time don't be so cheeky with a grown up. You ought to say 'please' and 'thank you,' you know…"
He hardly heard her. Instead he brushed away her hand when she tried to grasp it, and walked stiffly out of the only home he had ever known.