Fiction

My Father would rap his bony knuckles against the dining room door every evening on his way upstairs to bed. He would then gasp—Goodnight A____ and don't stay up too late working will you?—as he slowly made his way up the fifteen steps to the first landing. I couldn't help but listen as he reverentially wound his beloved Grandfather clock every evening as his Father, my Grandfather, had done every evening before his demise. The same clock would always strike eleven just as his chamber door closed noisily into the jamb. Don't worry, Dear Reader, I will not bore you with ALL the details of all his nightly routines before his head was—at long last—laid down onto his pillow. I, myself, have not the stomach to describe such tedious episodes as these within my narrative.

He...my Father, had been an English teacher during his productive years. He had taught at the M________ Boys Grammar school before his ill health had forced his early retirement. In the years following his retirement, he bestowed his time to the welfare of the before mentioned clock. Had I been only half as beloved to him as that damn timepiece, I wouldn't be now writing this tale with a half-chewed HB pencil. My PC, in desperate need of electricity, stands idle whilst great blood blisters burst forth from the flesh of my index finger down onto the page—why on Earth do they make pencils hexagonal in formation? ... Sorry, I digress in view of my anguish.

If he, had sold the clock—for its type is well sought after, as my various investigations had discovered—we...he...would have had enough money to have made the Parsonage comfortable for our continued habitation. To illustrate the hardship in such a forsaken place as this, I will relate to you that my brother, Branwell, had long since been allowed to leave the Parsonage to enjoy life in a rat ridden squat with his insipid student friends.

As you may or may not have deduced from my tense—as indeed it is not conclusive in itself—Father is no longer with us...me...

"Why haven't you and your sibling, Branwell since sold the clock which you would have inherited after your Father's death and made yourself comfortable thereafter?" I hear you ask with dismay.

***

With Father barely cold in the ground, came the knock of the first dealer.

He allowed the brass doorknocker to fall with regular monotony against the great oaken door which parted me from the grey cobbled street beyond. I cautiously opened the door to be confronted by an unbecoming moustachioed face. He raised his trilby and introduced himself. I permitted him entry. It was more than obvious that he was impressed by the clock as soon as his weasel eyes fell upon its splendour, but he awkwardly feigned indifference.

"I give you it is a splendid specimen," said he as he pushed away an imaginary fluff ball from his corduroy trousers.

"However," he continued in an apathetic tone, "there is not much call for this type of clock at the moment."

"It seems you are wasting your time here then," replied I bluntly as I reopened the door.

"Don't be too hasty, I might as well take a look whilst I'm here." He smoothed his hand across the mahogany case as if caressing a Lover's cheek.

"James Sandiford made this clock," he returned, smug in his knowledge, "It was produced between 1760 and 1800."

"That is all very well, returned I, "But what does that mean to me?"

"Oh I see," He replied knowingly, "You want to know how much it is worth...how much money you could gain from its sale?" Notwithstanding the crudity of his statement, I managed to nod an abashed agreement.

"May I?" He asked, as he indicated to the little door which allowed entry to the innards.

"Of course," I replied, managing to regain some dignity from his request. He pulled at the brass door hanging and the little door swung open. He reeled backwards as if confronted by Beelzebub himself swinging from the weights therein. He staggered backwards clamping a white handkerchief across his nose and mouth. He kicked out a foot sending the door crashing back into its jamb.

"What is it?" asked I in alarm.

"The... the smell..." he mumbled through the cotton, "... has something crawled in there and died?

"I shouldn't think so," I retorted in angry response to his obvious ploy to devalue the piece. No sooner had I unceremoniously shown him out to the street, I bent to my knees and gingerly opened the little door a fraction—a handkerchief already pressed up against my nose as a precaution. I could not smell anything amiss so I removed my makeshift mask. As I suspected, he was trying to dupe me for his financial gain. I gently closed the door safe in the knowledge that the clock was indeed precious without a doubt. It struck noon.

Before it could strike one, dealer number two had arrived at the threshold. "A beautiful clock indeed," He praised, as he pushed his broad hand through his thick red thatch. "To observe the beauty of the fruitwood quarter columns alone," He continued enthusiastically, "makes my trip quite worthwhile."

I smiled my agreement.

"May I? He asked, looking towards the little door.

"Of course," I replied as before. To my relief he was not repulsed the moment the wood left its jamb. He produced a small flashlight from his inside pocket and proceeded to shine it into the guts of the piece. His head disappeared into the case. "Very good," he announced as he emerged.

"Very good?" I repeated.

"Very good indeed."

However, just as he was about to rise from his knees and stand erect, his body lurched violently forward as if some unseen hand was intent upon dragging him into the case. His large body went into a spasm and he fell heavily to the floor like an oversized puppet whose weight had broken the very strings that had held it upright. The little door slammed shut as if an uninvited draught had blown itself in from the street.

When he eventually recovered from his episode—for he lay unconscious for near on five minutes, he stumbled ashen-faced down the stairs towards the front door without another word and let himself out onto the street. How strange I thought of his unexplained behaviour.

The clock struck one and I started slightly. I laughed at my unexpected folly and retired to my study.

The last of the coals burnt fiercely in the grate and the benevolent flames soon carried me gently off to slumber as I sat in my easy chair. I awoke a few hours later chilled to the bone with the clock striking four. I poked at the ashes with the poker but they refused to be stirred into blaze. A single knock came to the door and I slowly raised myself to greet the unknown caller. The lean fellow took a sharp step back when I opened the door with the poker still in hand.

"A colleague suggested that I might call," He managed through chattering teeth.

"A colleague?" I belligerently enquired.

"A Mister ____, he called earlier this afternoon to take a look at the Grandfather clock."

"You're a dealer?" I suggested.

He nodded his accord and I beckoned him entry. He hesitated slightly as he negotiated the stone steps into the hallway.

"It is true," He ejaculated, "it is indeed a wonderful example of Sandiford's work—look how the second hand sweeps about the dial."

He drew a pocket book from his jacket and scrawled a figure into it. He ripped out the page and offered it to me for my perusal. It was easy to be overwhelmed—for the figure outreached my own expectations, nevertheless, I assumed an air of nonchalance and handed him back the sheet with a shake of my head.

"Okay," He exclaimed as he returned the same sheet with an increased figure next to the one he had crossed out. "I can go no higher," He declared through clasped teeth. I inhaled sharply to emphasis my indecision of his offer. "C'mon," He said an insolent tone, "surely anything is better than the workhouse..."

I could have ended his life then and there... what does he know about the workhouse? The poker prickled in my hand and to bring it down across his d____d skull would have brought me the greatest of pleasure. He noticed my extreme displeasure and took a step nearer to the door and therefore out of my immediate reach.

"Perhaps it might be better if I call again tomorrow?" He warily suggested.

"I think that perhaps it might." I called after him as he stumbled down onto the street.

I didn't sleep at all well that evening: the threadbare drapes, that hung forsaken at the window, were unable to shut out the awakening light of the moon at its fullness. Just after the clock had struck midnight, I took a fancy that I could hear footsteps upon the landing. The footsteps were quick and light—rather like those of a child. I allowed myself a sigh of relief, it will be Molly, the Churchyard cat, having slipped into the house again through the broken scullery window. However, despite her adeptness at mousing and the suchlike, Molly has never managed to lift the latch of my bedroom door. The door slowly swung open with a Gothic creak. I instinctively pulled the covers up to my chin and let out a silent gasp. I once again heard the same footsteps resounding against the bare boards of my chamber. Notwithstanding the brightness of the moonlight, I could not detect the owner of the steps.

"Who... who is there?" I managed through chattering teeth.

"It is I," came the brazen reply. My eyes fell to the location from where came the voice. Therein, not standing taller than the height of my bed, was a little man dressed as an undersized undertaker might.

"And who in the Dickens might you be?" I demanded as I sat up to my full height.

"I am Fear...Fear of the Workhouse," said the Lilliputian intruder with a sniff.

"What are you doing in my chamber?" Charged I.

"I've come to see you of course?"

"Me?... you've come to see me?... and why do you wish to see me in such an irregular manner?"

"What is irregular about this arrangement?"

"You'll feel the toe of my boot if you carry on in the same," I warned.

Taking his chance, as I groped about for my vestas with which to light my bedside candle, he struck me a blow to the side of the head. Before I could jump out of bed and take hold of the impudent fellow, he was off. I could hear his rapid footsteps reverberating across the landing as I quickly pulled my robe about me for decency's sake. I could only listen as he descended the stairs two at a time and by the time I was able to reach the bottom of the stairs myself, all was quiet. I picked up the poker which I had left leaning against the hat stand. I surveyed the gloomy hallway for his presence.

"Where are you?" I growled angrily, "I'll put this poker across your Bantam head if you don't show yourself before I count to ten." I added in the same tone. "One—two—three," I continued. However before I reached the count of four, I heard a childish chuckle. It appeared to be coming from the case of the clock. I tapped lightly at the wood with the poker. Fearing to open the little door in case some unpleasant surprise was awaiting me, I threatened: "Open the door, Pip-squeak, before I pour kerosene all over the wood and put a match to it."

"You wouldn't do that," retorted the diminutive voice from within.

"And why wouldn't I?" I replied fractiously.

"Because you need to sell the piece to sustain your very existence."

"Nonsense," I replied glibly, "I am quite all right."

"Really? Then why have you only one tin of baked beans in your larder and an out of date Pot Noodle in the kitchen cupboard?"

"I haven't been shopping... that's all."

"Shopping? What do you know about shopping? You haven't been out of doors in many years!"

"What do you know of my affairs?" I reacted aggressively.

"I know more than you think," He answered calmly. "I even know what is in you dreams."

"In my dreams...how could you possibly know what is in my dreams?"

"You are standing on cold flags in a spartan room..." I gasped in disbelief. "The top half of the walls are freshly painted white...the bottom, mustard. The smell of decay fills your nostrils and you hold an old rag up to your nose. Beds with straw mattresses line the walls and a small fire burns in the grate. You walk through a door into a small schoolroom. There are a number of small children sat awaiting your presence. They greet you...all but one...and her name is Maria. She is slumped in her little chair and you scoop her pathetic form into your arms..."

"Enough, enough," I screamed.

"She is cold..."

"Have mercy," I cried as I lifted my hands to my ears. I felt nauseous and a blackness swept across my brow: I fell heavily to the floor. Unconsciousness had kindly fallen over me...his wicked taunts could do no more harm. I was stirred by a loud knocking at the door much later. I wearily lifted my head from the mat and struggled to up my feet. Smoothing down my clothes and hair with the palm of my hand, I answered at the third knock—expecting the lean fellow to put himself into my face once more. However, he was not there to be seen at all as I swooned backwards in utter astonishment—a long line of people, at least four abreast, stood in an orderly line from my own doorway back down the cobbled road as far as the eye could see. A monochromatic man holding his wife by the arm lifted off his cap to greet my coming out—head gear the like I'd never seen for many a year.

"Good morning, madam." He said cordially. "We've come to see the Sandiford...if we may of course."

"The Sandiford?" I asked in bewilderment.

"The clock he means, madam...we've come to see the clock," continued his wife, pressing a gold coin into my unsuspecting palm.

With shock I pulled my hand away from hers and the coin fell to the step. "Isn't the amount agreeable?" Uttered her husband dispiritedly—his grey face registering an sudden distress—a melancholy murmur sung out from the throng.

"How can that petty amount be any good to you?" came the little voice from within. "It will never give you any release from Fear of the Workhouse." The grey fellow bent at the waist and scraped the coin up from the step. I held out my hand to receive it from his grip—happily realising his intentions. In turn his spirits lifted and he turned to the crowd: "Have your coins to the ready as you enter," he let out joyously. I turned to see the Lilliputian disappear back into the clock cavity—his dark topper caught the wood and fell to the floor to be thereafter unrecovered in his haste. I picked it up and placed it upside down onto the step.

"Please deposit your coins in here as you pass inward," I cheerfully called out to the visitors. "That will see me all right at last..."