The morning sun crept through the window of my room, slipping through a gap in the curtains and finding its way onto one side of my pillow where it lay in wait for me. I must have rolled over in bed, for a beam of light stabbed my eye, ambushing me and waking me instantly. I covered my eyes with my right hand and sat up, blinking away the dazzling images that floated in front of me. Gradually my sight returned, and I saw Mistress James standing just inside the door, wearing a dressing-gown over her night-robe. Her hair, nut-brown and glossy, was hanging over her shoulders. She must have come straight from her bed and climbed the stairs to my attic room without delaying to attend to her toilet.
'It's nine o'clock! You're late! Why are you still in bed? There're hundreds of things to do. Come on, get up you lazy creature!' She was clearly not at all happy.
'But Mistress, it's still early…'
She seemed not to hear me. 'Mason, I have heard quite enough of your excuses. Get up this minute!' And then I understood. If I hadn't been so befuddled with sleep I'd have realised it sooner. I was seeing a time-ghost, from perhaps ten years ago. Mistress James' hair, which was grey now, had once been brown, I remembered.
I heard Carrie's voice briefly; apologising for lying in and missing the alarm before the vision faded and I found myself alone again – except for Viola, of course. She was feeling every bit as dozy as me, and we lay together for another few minutes before we got up.
Was that a ghost from my past, or the past of another Peter Joyce? I could not tell – there was no way of telling unless the vision showed me an event which I remembered. Even then, it might have been a shared event; one which both I and one of the myriad of other Peters who existed in the past, or who may yet exist in the future, held in common.
I could not tell, and it made little difference to me whether Carrie had overslept ten years ago. So I got up, and washed, and dressed, and went downstairs to the dining-room where Emily was already up and about, setting out the breakfast plates and filling the toast-rack.
'Hello Peter,' she said, sad-eyed and tired.
'Morning, Miss Emily,' I replied. By rights she should have addressed me as Mister Joyce, but I couldn't bring myself to correct her. Of us all, she was having the worst time of it, I thought. It seemed unfair to insist that she should speak formally, when she looked so sad and downcast. I wanted to hug her and kiss her on the cheek and tell her what Lyra used to say to me – Don't worry, Peter. Everything will work out for the best in the end – but that would not have been right, she being only fifteen and my employer's daughter. Instead, I smiled at her, and she coloured a little and went out of the room and downstairs to fetch the kaffee pot.
Mistress James joined me presently and helped herself to toast and kaffee. It was all too obvious to me now; the difference between the way she looked in my room and her appearance now. There were more – many more – lines on her face and her hair had gone almost completely grey. Even without those outward signs, her posture gave her away. It was tense and strained; like a piece of wood that has been bent as far as it can be before it cracks. I wondered how much more stress she would be able to withstand before she gave way and collapsed. If that happened, I was sure that the house of James and James would fall with her.
Neither Mistress James nor I spoke very much. We both knew where things stood. At eight fifty-five we heard the key turn in the lock of the street door. Elias Cholmondley had arrived and the shop would open for business in five minutes. It was time for me to go down to the workshop.
There was, as I have said, not very much work on hand. I hate having nothing to do so, to keep myself busy, I had started to build a clock using some materials that we had in stock. I had wanted to make a clock of the kind known as a Vienna Regulator, but I was not sure whether I would be able to gather together enough bits and pieces from the metal that we had in the workshop to do that. A true Vienna Regulator is a weight-driven wall clock that keeps especially good time. A well made and adjusted one can be relied upon to remain accurate to within a few seconds a week. It's the kind of project that I might have expected to have been taking on as part of my Mastery training at Moore's, if I had stayed there. I'd had the thought that if I could make a clock that could be sold for a good price it would help with the shop's debts.
It looked, though, as if I would have to settle for making a cheaper clock with a spring-driven movement. Frankly, this was a better idea. Who would want to pay three or four hundred pounds or more for a Vienna Regulator, however well made, from an unknown maker; especially one who had not achieved his Mastery? Although I believed I had the skill to make a respectable clock, it would be over-ambitious for James and James to attempt to sell it at the sort of price that would be commanded by the work of a Master.
So I had gathered together some brass plate and steel bars and found a pattern book on the shelves behind the small furnace. The book contained a number of plans, including one for a "Bijou Vienna-style Wall Clock", which was a good place to begin. It was nice and simple to build; with two trains, a Graham escapement and a simple striking mechanism in a plain walnut case. There was no fusée, and only a straightforward compensating pendulum (rather than a full gridiron). I was sure that somebody would be happy to pay, say, fifty pounds for such a clock to hang in the hall, or at the top of the stairs. I wished I had an apprentice to set to work on making the cabinet, but there was no question of that. We could not take on a boy – as I had been taken on before – because there was no Master in the house to sign his indentures.
I was trimming the spring for the going train when there was a knock on the workshop door. I assumed that it was Elias Cholmondley, with an enquiry from a potential customer or a repair to pick up. A couple of alarm clocks, and the carriage clock from the previous week, were ready on the shelves. I called out, 'Come in!' without looking up from my work.
'Mister Joyce.' I did look up then. It was the first time, so far as I knew, that Mistress James had entered the workshop since her husband's death.
I got up from my stool. 'Mistress?'
'Would you come to the office, please? I have something that you should see.'
Puzzled, I put down my work and followed her out of the workshop (locking the door behind me) and up the stairs to the office. I sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs by the door. Mistress James went over to the desk, took a manila envelope with a Kaestershire postmark and handed it to me. She stood by the desk, silently looking out of the window over the yard behind the shop.
The envelope had already been opened so, without asking, I took out the letter that it contained and read it. Jim would say that I ought to tell you how an icy hand clasped my heart, or the air froze around me, or something like that. Perhaps that's the way he'd have described it in his generation-spanning saga, but that was all made-up stuff, romance and excitement and all, while this – my story – is real. So no, there were no icy hands or frozen air. Just awful, awful despair.
Dear Sir, (the letter said. It was addressed to Master James, even though the sender knew that he was dead)
We are in receipt of yours of the 20th inst. We note your request for an extension and reschedule of the mortgage granted on the premises known as James and James, Shoe Lane, Oxford.
We beg to inform you that, having given careful consideration to the points that you raised in your letter, we are unable to grant the special terms which you have requested. You will understand that we have a responsibility of good stewardship to our shareholders which precludes our taking risks of such a nature as you describe. It is with regret, therefore, that in the absence of a resumption of your regular premium we shall have to yield to the necessity of taking steps this day towards the recovery of our assets, as represented by our lien on the aforementioned premises and their contents.
Assuring you of our best attention at all times,
Yours sincerely,
Geo. Burden
pp. H. Mitchell, director.
'Its contents? They can't do that!'
'They can, Peter. It's in the original terms of the mortgage.'
'But… but the shop is worth far more than we owe the bank! Never mind the contents!'
'Even so. If we don't make the repayments, they're entitled to recover everything that was secured against the original loan. If you had been a partner in the business, rather than an employee, then all your property would have been liable to recovery by the Middlewich Bank as well.'
I was standing up too, although I don't remember when I rose from my chair. 'That's not fair!'
'Nobody said it was.'
'Oh, Mistress!' I couldn't help it – I threw my arms around her and pulled her to me. Viola clung to my shoulder and looped her tail around the back of my neck. Mistress James stood stock-still and rigid and presently, feeling that I was giving her no comfort nor receiving any myself, I let go of her and returned to my chair.
'Thank you, Peter.' Had I, in some small way, helped her? I don't know. I'm hopeless when it comes to understanding people, especially women. Ask Jane Phipps.
'What shall we do?'
'We can do nothing. We cannot sell any of the contents of the house to pay the mortgage, obviously, as they already belong to the bank. It is possible that they may be merciful creditors. They may allow us to keep a few personal possessions, so long as they are not too valuable. They will probably grant us the clothes we stand up in, if only for decency's sake.' Mistress James sat at the desk, put her head in her hands and slumped, defeated. 'You'll be all right, Peter. The bank may even take you on as manager of the shop, to keep it as a going concern. Mister Cholmondley too.'
Manager! I, a craftsman hoping to achieve Mastery, was going to be a manager! If it had been anyone else but Mistress James who had made such a suggestion I should have swallowed my anger somehow and walked away.
'Thank you, Mistress. May I go now?'
'Yes, Peter.'
I walked back downstairs to the workshop and unlocked the door. Everything in there was waiting for me – neat and tidy and organised and ready. I could resume fettling the mainspring of my new clock. Perhaps, one day, it would be finished and fetch a good price. Perhaps it would be displayed in the window of James and James (Under New Management). But I would not be there to see it.
Elias Cholmondley suddenly appeared in the doorway. Damn! Why hadn't I locked it behind me? 'Bit of bad luck for the Missus, eh?' he smirked. You're expecting me to tell you how I leapt to my feet and stabbed him in the neck with an auger for his presumption, aren't you, Jim? I didn't, though. I was past all that. And there's another thing. I was asking myself, how did he know?
'Piss off, Elias, there's a good chap,' was the best I could come up with.
We closed the shop at lunchtime. I went to my room and, for the lack of anything else to do, picked up one or two of my things and put them in a small bag. Then I went out again. You know where I went and why. I had the hope – now that I was seeing the time-ghosts again – that I might see her. If there were any place that I might catch a glimpse of the Professor it would be in Jordan College or the Botanic Garden. Jordan was closed to me – Lyra's rooms were occupied by someone else now – so I walked down the long slope of the High to Magdalen Bridge, and the Garden, and the place where she lay, and the bench next to it.
There was somebody sitting there, eating sandwiches, so I wandered off and sat on the grass, near to the waterside . 'What shall I do?' I said to nobody in particular.
'Ask the alethiometer,' said Viola.
'It doesn't work for me.'
'Ask anyway.'
'It won't help.'
'There's nothing to lose by trying.'
There wasn't, so I slipped the alethiometer out of its pouch and held it out in front of me.
'Go on,' said Viola. I framed the question: What must I do to save the shop? and set the pointers as best I could. The needle spun and twirled back and forth, widdershins and anti-widdershins. That part of my abilities had never left me. The instrument still responded to my enquiry. The oracle spoke, but I lacked the training, or the intelligence, or both, to divine its meaning. Lyra could have helped, if she had been there. She would have made mental notes of the positions at which the needle stopped and, perhaps, she'd have been able to decode the answer the instrument gave right there and then, without having to resort to the Books. I had never had a set of my own, as they were hard to find. Lyra had been hoping, I think, that I would be able to read the instrument by instinct – or Grace, as she called it – so she had not left me her books when she died.
I was thinking of Lyra's death and that of her sister Elizabeth who had died also, only a month or two later, and so I lost my concentration. The needle spun, as I've said, and I watched it move, but I paid little attention to it. After a minute it came to rest and I found myself none the wiser as to the oracle's message. 'It's hopeless!' I cried out aloud and, hardly knowing what I was doing, I got to my feet, ran down to the river, the alethiometer clasped in my upraised hand. It was useless; this compass made of fool's gold, this worn-out antique, this false guide…
'No!' said Viola, and she sunk her teeth into my neck.
'Ouch!'
'Stop, Peter. Think!'
'It's no good. Nothing's any good now.' I sank down onto my knees by the bank of the river and wept. Presently, Viola licked the tears from my cheeks with her soft tongue (I tasted their saltiness through her).
'Don't despair, Peter. Remember what Lyra said.'
'"Things will work out for the best." Yes, I know.'
'Did the alethiometer tell you nothing?'
'No. Nothing at all.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, of course! You know that.'
'Yes, I suppose so.' Viola paused. 'Peter, there's one thing we can do.'
'What – to stop the bank repossessing the shop, you mean?'
'Yes. How much money do we need?'
'Two hundred pounds. No, wait. There's this month's premium to pay as well. Two hundred and fifty pounds, then.'
'Can you think of anyone who would give us two hundred and fifty pounds?'
I laughed. 'No. Can you?'
'Mum and Dad?'
'Are you really my daemon? Or some kind of impostor? You know they haven't got that sort of money to spare.'
'That's true. What about us?'
'What?'
'Have we got two hundred and fifty pounds?'
'No, of course we haven't.'
'Or anything we could sell for two hundred and fifty pounds?'
I thought. 'My tools, no. My clothes – hardly! Oh – do you mean the twonkies?'
'Maybe.'
'Well… not the books. They're certainly rare. I don't suppose that there are any other copies of The Collected Works of William Shakespeare or The Wonders of Urth and Sky in this world, but who would want to buy them? They're not leather-bound or gold-blocked or marbled, or anything like that.'
'The Swiss Army penknife? Yodatm? The photo of the Parrys?'
'Might get a pound for them, I suppose.'
'The Sony?'
'Maybe… But who'd buy it? We need the money now. This afternoon, probably. The bank won't want to wait any longer.'
'The gun?'
'Oh good grief! Daemon, are you mad?'
'Only if you are.'
'Right.'
'So, we can't sell any of the twonkies because nobody in this world could put a price on them…'
Oh. I looked directly into Viola's eyes. 'I know where this is leading.'
'Good. At last.'
'But I can't. No! It was… it was Lyra's. It's all I've got left of her…'
'You said it was useless.'
'I didn't mean it!'
'Yes you did. You can't read it.'
'No…'
'So why not sell it? Any antiques dealer would recognise its value. You could get thousands for it.'
'Oh, no, no, no…' I rocked on my heels. This was impossible. Was that the choice I had to make – have the shop taken away from us, see Mistress James and Emily disinherited and thrown onto the mercy of the Middlewich Bank; or sell the alethiometer? Lyra's alethiometer – the only remaining link between me and her memory?
'They're depending on you, Peter.'
'I can't!'
'You must.'
'There has to be another way…'
'Not in this world.'
I stood up. 'Yes, there is. Come with me.'
'Oh, all right. If you insist.'
Three golden balls. We'd made jokes about them when I was a kid. Meet me outside the pawnbroker's and kiss me under the balls. Ha-ha, very funny. It didn't seem so funny now, as Viola and I stood outside the window of Chas Hurst, Jewellery and Securities, looking in at a confusion of necklaces, musical instruments, fishing tackle, bicycles, firearms, brooches, board games, old books and more assorted bric-a-brac than I had every seen in my life. There's a special way of entering a pawnbroker's shop, I'm told. It consists of looking in all directions first; to make sure that you're not observed going in to see your uncle, as the proprietor is usually called. We didn't observe this tradition, but opened the door and strode in. A bell sounded deep inside the shop.
The interior was crowded, not with people, but with household objects of all kinds. Some of them I recognised, some I didn't. Here was an apparatus for taking photograms, mounted on a tripod of mahogany, bound with brass. Over there was a hand-cranked washing-machine, made from what looked like a brewer's cask and an autobus starting-handle. The walls were crammed with prints and paintings, together with a few old and battered-looking clocks. I would have liked to have taken a closer look at them. Perhaps I would be able to buy one or two and refurbish them for sale in the shop. However, there was other business for me to do first. I threaded my way through a maze of tables, chairs and massive Carolinian sideboards to the counter, where (I presumed) Charles Hurst stood waiting for me.
Mister Hurst shared the shop's general air of shabby antiquity. He leaned against his counter and looked up as I approached, tucking a stray lock of once-ginger hair behind the sidepiece of his spectacles. His otak-daemon stood on the counter next to him. 'Yes, Goodsir? What can I do for you?'
'You lend money?' Ah, I could almost hear him thinking. A first-timer. He was not looking directly at me when he spoke. I supposed that this was part of the etiquette of being a money-lender; that you didn't embarrass your clients by seeming to take any notice of them.
'Yes, Goodsir.'
- 'I have an instrument…'
'Let me see. Put it down on the counter.' I did as he asked. The alethiometer, still in its velvet bag, rested on the oaken counter top.
'If you would just take it out of its little bag for me…'
Slightly puzzled, I undid the cords at the bag's neck and removed the alethiometer. It lay there between us, glittering in the oil lamps which stood on either side. The otak-daemon scurried forward and started to examine it closely.
'My Christina, as you can see, is an expert in these matters.' And then I understood. He was blind.
'Yes,' Chas Hurst seemed to read my mind. 'It was an accident. When I was just a boy, you know.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Sorry? But it was not your fault. You were not there. You are a young man.'
How many times had he said those words? Christina, his eyes, turned the alethiometer over with a deft movement of her paws and closely examined its underside.
'So.' Mister Hurst fiddled with his useless spectacles. 'You appear to have an alethiometer, or a good copy of an alethiometer.'
'It's genuine.'
'Is it, now? Does it work?'
'Yes, it does.'
'Can you prove it?'
'Ask it a question.'
'If you knew anything at all about alethiometry, you would not say that.'
'Then ask me, and I will ask it. Your daemon can watch.'
'Very well.' He asked me the question: How may I regain my sight? I set the pointers to the Owl (for Night, or Darkness), the Hourglass (for Change) and the Sun (for Day, or Light).
'Now watch.' I concentrated on the question and the needle immediately sprang to life, spinning and halting, halting and spinning. The otak's eyes followed its movements while I tried as hard as I could to memorise the places where it stopped.
'Well?' The blind man's eyes flashed behind the lenses of his glasses. 'What is the answer?'
'I cannot tell you,' I answered truthfully. 'I cannot read the oracle.'
'But you can work it?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sure you cannot read it? Do you perhaps seek to sell me the answer to my question?'
'Mister Hurst, I am not a charlatan. Do you think I would be bringing this alethiometer to you now if I could read it? I would keep it for myself instead and use it to my own advantage. Don't you see that?'
'Yes,' he reluctantly agreed. 'Then,' he went on, 'how do I know that you are the true owner of this instrument, and not a common thief? Perhaps, fifteen minutes after you have gone, I will receive a visit from the constables and lose my pledge.'
'I am not a thief. Would I be able to work the alethiometer if I had only just stolen it?'
'No, I suppose not.'
'And besides; this instrument was bequeathed to my in her will by Lady Lyra Belacqua, sometime Professor of English at Jordan College in the University of Oxford, and my dearest friend.'
Christina looked sharply at me. She climbed onto Mister Hurst's shoulder and whispered in his ear. He nodded twice.
'Goodsir…?'
'Joyce.'
'Mister Joyce, I apologise for impugning your character. How much do you want me to advance you against this pledge?'
I drew in my breath. 'Five hundred pounds.'
'Five hundred pounds! That is a great deal of money, Mister Joyce. You will understand that this alethiometer is, quite literally, priceless. My Christina informs me that it is one of the original six which were made in Prague by Pavel Khunrath. Although its value is very great, it cannot be readily translated into pounds, shillings and pence. Let us suppose, for example, that you were to fail to redeem your pledge. To whom could I sell the alethiometer? What provenance could I show for it?'
'You just told me that it was one of the original six.'
'Yes, so my Christina tells me.' He stroked the otak's fur. 'But where is the evidence for this? Paperwork, Mister Joyce. It's so important in my line of work. Do you understand what I am saying to you?'
Unfortunately, I did. I could almost hear Master James saying exactly the same words to someone who came to the shop with an old clock to sell.
'Yes, I see, Goodsir. How much could you advance me, then?'
'One hundred and fifty pounds, two hundred maybe.'
Oh no – was all this to be for nothing? 'Mister Hurst, I shall be forthright. I am depositing this instrument with you so that I can save myself, and a family to whom I owe a very great debt of kindness, from ruin. If you cannot offer me at least two hundred and fifty pounds against the alethiometer than I must, with regret, leave your shop now and seek help elsewhere. You see the advantage you have over me.'
'Hmm…' Mister Hurst spoke to his daemon briefly. 'Mister Joyce, what is the name of the family whom you seek to save from… ruin?'
I hesitated. Why should I tell this man all about our troubles? Then: 'James, sir. James of Shoe Lane.'
'James and James, the clockmakers?'
'Yes, sir. I was Master James' apprentice.' I swallowed hard.
'I see. Would you wait a minute, please?' Mister Hurst and Christina picked up the alethiometer, replaced it in its bag, and disappeared into a room at the back. A door closed behind them and Viola and I were left alone in the shop. A minute later they returned, Mister Hurst carrying a leather wallet and a small account-book. 'Mister Joyce?' His sightless eyes were looking straight towards me now.
'Would you sign here, please?' Christina indicated the place in the book where I should write my name. I took a quill from the inkwell on the counter and signed.
'Thank you, Goodsir.' Mister Hurst blotted the page and closed the book. He passed the wallet over to me. 'Here are the five hundred pounds you requested. Master James was a good man, and well known for his acts of kindness in the town. I should not wish to be the cause of any further distress to his widow and dependants. I shall keep the alethiometer safe until you are ready to reclaim it. There will be no interest charged. Farewell, Mister Joyce.'
I gulped. 'Goodbye, Mister Hurst. And thank you.'
'Don't thank me, sir. Thank Christina. She sees so much, you know…'
Afterwards, I returned to the Botanic Garden. Lyra's bench was free this time, and I sat there with Viola, clutching the precious wallet and shaking with the grievous knowledge of the terrible thing that I had done. The shop was safe now, but at what cost? Suppose Lyra's time-ghost were to appear before me now, what would I say to her?
Again I cried out aloud, 'Oh Lyra, Lyra. I have betrayed you!'
This time, Viola let my tears fall unimpeded.