***chapter 8***
As they eat their meagre evening meal in silence, the ticking of the clocks all around the shop seems to grow ever louder, sentinels of all that has passed and all that will come to pass, telling their story in their relentless march, we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait... And he knows now is not the time for humour – ha! Time! He laughs inwardly at the anomaly - but since when did he care for convention? It hurts him to see Kate so tired and miserable and that's all that matters. Their little brother is dead, her friend and confidant Miss Baxter has gone, Fred Lacey has another love. Small wonder she is so sad. Thomas wants her to smile again.
"Whip!"* he cries suddenly. But Kate doesn't smile. She merely gazes at him reproachfully and it angers him that she's still treading on eggshells around their father, who has done nothing to deserve her compassion.
"Do you think..." He begins conversationally, hell bent on driving a runaway coach and horses over the edge of a cliff now. But he's damned if he's going to pander to The Monster's whims any longer; "they say whipwhen they find a bit of meat in their food in the likes of Blackpool or Liverpool or Yorkshire, or is it just Manchester? And why do we say it, anyroad? Do you think they say anyroad in..."
"Enough!" William Barrow thuds his fist down on the table, making Kate jump.
Thomas smirks. Aha, reaction, you fatbuffoon! "Not nearly enough," he says blithely, deliberately scraping the metal spoon against the bowl to set teeth on edge. "I'm still bloody hungry, I am. Sorry, Silly Sis." He grins at Kate, who only presses her lips together.
"It makes me sick just to look at you, you twisted piece of filth" the clockmaker spits in anger. "Get out of my ****ing sight!"
But things have changed since Ben's death. Thomas knows he's dicing with his own, but for the first time in his life, he eyeballs his father. "No," he loudly enunciates the small but powerful word. "Why the hell should I?"
For a second, William Barrow has no words. For just a second. Then, snarling like a wild beast, he pushes himself up. But he twisted his ankle, leaving it weak, the day of Ben's funeral in his desperation to touch his young son's coffin one very last time, and the small amount s off alcohol he drank earlier has, too, taken its toll. His balance is awry and he stumbles once, twice, catches hold of the chair in an effort to steady himself, knocking the table. His half-finished mug of tea topples and rolls and spills its contents over the floor.
Thomas sneers. "You are nothing more than a bloody stupid drunken old..."
"Tommy, stop it, please!" Kate interjects hastily.
He shakes his head in amused pity at his sister. But he stops the taunts. For Kate's sake. Not for the sake of that drunken b*****d sitting (whether he meant to or no, William Barrow has dropped heavily into the chair, panting with the recent exertion of standing) not a million miles away. He feels a heady sense of triumph. So the tide has turned at last. Because, no, he had not imagined, and nor does he imagine now, that flicker of fear in William Barrow's eyes.
He can't think of him as The Monster any more, not when he, Thomas, is taller, broader, stronger. He is nothing! A coward. A drunk. A pot-bellied oaf. Not worth the dirt on his shoe. Those years of being beaten by his father have passed, just as the ticking of the clocks predicted and still predict whatever may come tomorrow...we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait, we watch, we wait…
"Tommy, will..." Kate begins. But what she might have said next to dissuade him from the new power game he is thoroughly enjoying playing, he would never know. A sudden frantic hammering on the door of the shop startles all three out of the drama.
It is not the first time someone has knocked so fiercely at the clockmakers. Yesterday, accompanied by loud demands to know whether the shop is open for business or not, despite the pulled down shutters and the notice firmly declaring not, and despite it being the early hours of the morning, the inebriated caller had eventually given up when nobody troubled to answer after twenty minutes or of drunken ramblings about anything and everything, the evil wiles of those who conspired against him buying a new pocket watch; the incompetence of the Prime Minister; the danger of motor-cars and even the inferior taste of the plum pudding he ate at luncheon.
This voice is different.
Not the inane ramblings of some intoxicated fool, but a banshee-like wail repeating the same plea over and over. "Mr Barrow! Mr Barrow, oh, open up, please!"
Kate and Thomas exchange baffled glances. But neither is particularly alarmed. They have long come to know Helen Latham has a history of over-reacting to matters of little importance. Thomas often laughs at the tales Paul regales him with, and had himself borne witness to the high drama of the afternoon the widow didn't have enough hat pins.
Had she not still been unwell – she had complained again only this morning of her sore throat and shivering - no doubt Kate, always calm in a crisis, would have gone to see whatever was the matter. Or perhaps, Thomas suspects, it's her deep-rooted dislike of Helen Latham, for she stubbornly refuses to be swayed from her conviction the pretty young widow is plotting to take the place of Mam. Thus it is the clockmaker who moves first. Entertained by his unsteadiness in his haste to reach the woman he is besotted with, Thomas clicks his tongue mockingly to provoke him.
If he hears, his father pays no heed, concentrating only on keeping his balance. His son guffaws at his struggle. Wait until he shares news of his victory with Paul! His heart leaps suddenly at the thought.
"Tommy, that was cruel," Kate chides, unamused. She is busy now mopping up the spilled tea. She never stops working, he reflects. Sometimes he thinks he should help her with her many chores, but looking after a home is woman's work and not for a man unless he happens to work in a toff's grand residence and is paid to do it. Come to think of it, he wouldn't mind a bit wearing the same get-up as their snooty servants, he could just picture how impressed Paul would be to see him swanning around dressed up to the nines.
.
"But didn't you see him, Kate? Afraid of me at last!" He snaps himself out of his daydream.
She rinses out the floorcloth and throws it into a bowl, frowning as she wipes her hands on her pinny. "I know Dada beats you and it's wrong, but..."
"Well, he bloody well won't be doing that in a hurry again!"
"...he's old," she continues, as if he hasn't spoken. "And The Bible says to honour thy father and thy mother."
He snorts. "Like I care what The Bible says! Sodom and Gomorrah and all that bloody rubbish!" He knew the story well because William Barrow was particularly fond of referring to it with regard to his son's "perversions". Some nonsense from the Old Testament about a vengeful God destroying ancient cities supposedly because of their homosexual acts. He didn't believe in any God or any Bible fairy stories, he told his father, sarcastically emphasising the word "fairy" whilst well aware he was lighting the touch paper to his anger.
Kate would know of Sodom and Gomorrah, of course. She had never missed attending church or Sunday School, not even when Thomas began being conspicuous by his absence, no matter how many times he was caned at school on Monday mornings for it. But whether she believes the story or not, she chooses never to mention it. She has never quite understood his preference for males, but she has never quite judged him either. If she would only "lift the scales from thine eyes", as he recollected being another of the Bible's favourite quotes, she would surely see all the fault lay with William Barrow. Though it's hard for her, he realises, when she loves both her father and her brother.
She gathers up the used supper dishes, clattering them noisily to signify her disapproval. "You ought to be more concerned about Mrs Latham than scoring points off Dada."
"Well, so I am," he replies merrily. And truthfully. Well, concerned about Paul anyroad. Paul's Mam will be in a tizzy over summat daft as usual, can't find her best bonnet, or forgot to pay the baker's bill, or thought someone had slighted her. Whatever it is, she knows that lovesick idiot will come running just as he has done. They can hear him frantically unlocking the heavy bolts and his murmurs of reassurance in between Helen Latham's wails. In the unlikely event it actually is something worth worrying over this time, though, that might mean Paul being upset and Thomas cared about that. "And don't pretend like YOU give a damn, Kate!" He adds, with a sly grin.
She huffs, caught out, and opens her mouth to protest, but the return of their father puts a stop to any further conversation. And two things surprise Thomas. One, Mrs Latham, sobbing heartily, as is her usual custom no matter how trivial the matter, and although she had never subscribed to the fashion for widow's weeds, is dressed from head to toe in black. Two, the clocksmith seems to be no longer the cowed bully he was but moments ago…
And that very unsettling fact catches Thomas off guard, giving William Barrow time enough to swing his fist as he hobbles toward him. But his son is faster. He swifty dodges the forthcoming blow with ease, and as he does a crumpled piece of paper flutters from his father's grasp. He catches a glimpse of his own fancy looped handwriting on the back of one of the shop invoices and recognises it instantly.
It's the poem about star cross'd lovers that he painstakingly copied out of Kate's poetry book to give to Paul. He had decorated it with a heart, an arrow shot through it, and their names entwined, wrapped it in a discarded scrap of cloth he found next to his sister's sewing box and hidden a square of chocolate for him in one of its folds. They often exchanged such small gifts for their "pillow dreams" hoping by placing them under their pillow they might dream of the other, and someweeks before, with a smile, he had slipped it into the inside pocket of his friend's jacket, which made Paul giggle – oh, that boy tickled so easily! - as his fingers brushed against his chest. Fighting to keep a straight face himself, Thomas told Paul there was a sweet surprise hidden too and he must promise not to open it until he was home. The cloth and the chocolate were long gone – knowing how much Paul loved chocolate, Thomas suspected he had broken his promise immediately by devouring it the moment he was out of sight - but how has his father come by the poem?
The question is answered almost before he finishes forming the thought.
"I found the note you gave him! I found it inside the pillow-case when I changed Paul's bedsheets! Boys loving boys, it's not natural, it's the work of the devil!" Mrs Latham points a trembling finger at Thomas, her voice rising to a hysterical crescendo. "You killed him! You killed my little boy!"
He stares at her in confusion. Paul can't possibly be dead! He can't! He saw him a week or so ago and apart from his cold everything was as it had always been.
William Barrow attempts to swing his fist at Thomas again. As ineffectually and half-heartedly as he did before, torn between his desire to impress the widow and his new-found terror of his son. "You sick perv..."
"No, Dada!" Looking tired and worn since their argument, Kate has been standing, or rather, leaning, to one side all the while, resting her hands on the table top as if for support, breathing rapidly, perhaps, Thomas thinks, in fear of what might happen next between him and his father. But now she hastily puts herself between them although the barrier is unnecessary. Thomas is too agile and already stepped aside and Barrow is still too wary to deliver any blow. A second time, his fist connects with nothing but air.
And it isn't Thomas who falls. It's Kate.
*I had a very elderly relative who was brought up in Lancashire. Apparently, when he was a boy it was quite common to shout "whip" when finding meat in a meal – although he had no idea about the origin of the custom either!
