Thanks to ptbaym10 for adding this story to your Alerts

A/N: Sorry this fic is taking so long to be updated. My laptop is on its last legs so in constant need of recharging and it'll be a while yet before I can afford a new one.

***Chapter Four***

As if in fury with the world, the wind gained a terrible strength, grasping snowflakes to fist them down over the lonely earth ever faster, ever wilder, every angry throw more bitter than the last. Amid the swirling blizzard and river-flowing crowds, a few of the shopkeepers resignedly hooked poles in canopies and pulled shutters down over windows proudly displaying their wares. Snow muffled sounds as colours faded to grey; the faint streaks of light from gas-lamps shining coldly into the whispering black of night and dancing across tainted white snow.

Another anonymous face among the many, Thomas Barrow stepped into the shelter of the clockmakers doorway, struck a match against its long-silent door and cupped his hands around its wavering yellow flame to light another cigarette, watching dispassionately as seemingly all humankind passed him by, the rich, the poor, the beggars, the thieves, the young and the old, the fortunate and the downtrodden, the drunk and the sober, each with their own joys and cares, none sparing him a second glance. They might have been plucked from any town, any city, their little lives rounded with a sleep, and yet so meaningful to each.

Years had flown by like leaves in the wind since William Barrow relocated the business to London. Drawn by the rumours wealthy Londoners were tiring of identical factory-churned clocks and yearned nostalgically for the ornate hand-crafted clocks Manchester folk could ill afford, he had upped sticks and made for those mythical streets paved with gold. But for Thomas once long ago it seemed every day would be painted in golden hues.

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The rain is long gone, its puddles dried away by the marriage of the gentle sun and cooling breath of the breeze, and in complete contrast to the smoky city below, in the azure skies above large scudding clouds are playing chase.

Charmed by the quiet contentment of the day, every now and then Thomas's attention is captured by the rush of wings and he pauses from his task of chopping wood in the backyard to admire the graceful soaring flight of birds, thinking how wonderful it would be to have such freedom. He laughs inwardly at his musings. Surely he never used to be so sentimental? But things have changed since Paul Latham and he sees everything with new eyes. Colours are brighter, music brings a greater harmony to his soul, and even knowing The Monster hates him more and more barely causes him a moment's concern. But sunshine will always cast its shadows and with the death of the rain so, too,the rainbow is no more.

It had greeted him like a friend's smile in the grey of early morning while raindrops were pattering mournfully down on the rooftops,and as he gazed and gazed at its watery colours blending into one, he wondered if Paul was gazing at the same rainbow.

Because it's so easy to slip into thoughts of his friend and to lose himself in daydreams when he already occupies so much of his heart.

He squints up at a cloud that resembles a bearded man's angry face before it breaks and shift shapes into a poodle that floats leisurely through the heavens. Making pictures from clouds is one of their favourite pastimes. They like to find somewhere quiet and alone where for a short while they can sit cosily together, Paul's head resting on his chest, Thomas's arm wrapped around his sweetheart's shoulders, arguing companionably over what they thought the shapes resembled,never happier than when they can share precious moments.

Last time, in the middle of guffawing over Paul's assertion a certain cloud "definitely looked like a three-legged cat wearing a monocle and bowler hat and smoking a cigar" they had caught each other's eyes and he was sure Paul's heart was thrumming as fast as his own as they hesitantly tilted their heads towards each other...But suddenly it all seemed too soon, too new, too uncertain, and each boy backed away, laughing in embarrassment, before their lips could brush.

They have yet to speak of it. But they both know their friendship has reached a different, and somehow higher, level.

And, pondering on this and the sheer magic and beauty of the world, Thomas, having far more interesting things to think about, is paying scant heed to the murmur of conversation floating outdoors. Until Kate's voice rises.

"Dada, it must stop!"

It wasn't in Kate's nature to be angry. It wasn't even in Kate's nature to shout. No matter what the situation, even the time the family had been rudely woken by a horse and cart crashing into the shop front, she could be relied on to stay calm. But, then, there could be several reasons for the disagreement.

For one, she was always trying to persuade their father to give up, or at least cut down on, his drinking- although, in Thomas's opinion, they'd all be much happier if The Monster drank himself to death. Or perhaps she was insisting again that Dada was making himself ill with overwork. She had worriedly shown her brother another advertisement in last Saturday's Evening Echo for "inexpensive quality clocks for the discerning buyer". Because of factories mass producing cheap clocks and losing traditional clockmakers custom, William Barrow had also begun a clock repair service some years earlier, but, as Ben was still too young to learn much of the trade, Kate was fully occupied keeping house, and his father disowned Thomas and his "unnatural desires", refusing to teach him anything more about the craft, all the work fell on his own shoulders. Well, serve him right. He can dig himself into an early grave as far as his eldest son is concerned.

But most likely it's the Mrs Latham business again. There is a spark, something, between the middle-aged shopkeeper and the young widow - at least on their father's side. Once or twice a week Helen Latham might pass by, and if the clockmakers happens to be empty of customers, William Barrow, espying her through the plate glass window, will immediately step outside so enquire after her health or to omplain about the weather or on the pretext of wishing to discuss some item in the news.

The Barrow children have differing views on their middle-aged father's fledgling would-be romance. Ben, who doesn't remember their mother at all, having made her acquaintance on this Earth for just an hour before she took it upon herself to depart from it, is indifferent. Kate hates the very idea of her father being with anyone but Mam. Even though Miss Baxter tells her over and over it's harmless flirting that does wonders for both their egos, and nothing will ever come of it, she mutters darkly about how "The Black Widow's" money is no doubt running out "so she's set her silly flowered hat on her silly empty head at Dada" (which was not only rather unfair but also grossly inaccurate, as Mrs Latham gave him no encouragement whatsoever, and, unlike the young widow, Bill Barrow actually owned a cap to set at someone). Oddly enough, Thomas, however, is delighted with the status quo. Sometimes Paul will be with his mother to help her carry her shopping, and whenever he is, they will always manage to steal a glance or share a smile while their parents remain oblivious.

Thomas and Paul are fast friends now, but only Kate and Miss Baxter even know that they are. Mrs Latham has no idea of their trysts and his father truly believes he's "beating the perverted nature out of him". Ha! No, Thomas has just learnt to be more devious and his father is a dim-witted fool.

Having more interesting matters on his mind, believing the disagreement to be over something trivial, he is about to gather up the chopped wood when Kate's next comment stops him in his tracks.

"Please! Please, Dada, please you must stop thrashing Tommy!"

"Hold your tongue, lass! A man may discipline his own children in his own home how he sees fit and I will not be told what to do by a mere chit of a girl!"

"But, Dada,Tommy can't help the way he..."

"Enough!"

A surge of anger runs through him. All kids get clouted, it would be a wonder if they didn't, and being so used to it after all these years he has never thought to defend himself before, or been tall enough and strong enough to do so, but if The Monster dares raise his hand to Kate...

But William Barrow can never be angry with his only daughter for very long and he speaks in conciliatory tones. "Catherine, Catherine, you're only sixteen. You know nothing yet of the world. Your brother's ways fly in the face of God and Nature and he must be protected from himself."

Kate's voice lowers too and they must have declared a truce, for the conversation drifts back into its previous unintelligible murmur. Deciding he, too, can relax, Thomas slips into the back alley to smoke a cigarette from the packet Paul bought for him from the regular pocket money he receives, leaving the backyard door off the latch in order to sneak back inside if his father comes unexpectedly outside and discovers him smoking and idling. He has barely inhaled, however, when he hears someone approaching, and, coughing, he irritably stamps out the unfinished cigarette and hastens back.