Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

31

Purpose

As their last two dates had ended with Joseph being locked up in the dark, it didn’t augur well for a third try. Jerry wondered if he had come to the Gates home to say good-bye. He stood in the doorway before her. “How’s your hips?” he asked.

“And good morning to you. I have a bruise the size of Belgium.”

“Well.” He looked around. “I could stay here on the doorstep, but in this neighbourhood someone will call the police if they see a black guy hanging about.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Come in. I’m having a bad day.”

“Coming from you, that’s one omen I’d take notice of.” He entered the foyer, marveling at the domed ceiling above the entrance hall. “Nice place. What days do you open it to the public?”

“Around here, we are the public. In this neighbourhood the carolers sing in descant and get a tenner for their troubles.” She was smoothing back her hair and smiling too widely. The effort might kill me, she thought.

Still, she was very pleased to see him. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas, does it? Can I pour you a seasonal toast?” She led the way through to a large, light kitchen adorned with outsized copper saucepans. “My mother had all this installed, but she can barely boil an egg,” she said, removing a bottle of whisky and two tumblers from the cabinet.

“You never have a kind word for her.”

“Defence reaction. How are your war wounds?”

“I’ll live.” He gingerly touched the plaster below his left eye. There were two more, one on his chin and another across his forehead. “I feel like I had an incredibly bad dream.”

“She really had a go at you, didn’t she?” Jerry passed him a glass and raised her own. “Merry Christmas.”

“I hear you handled the bike pretty well.”

“So well that the Met are going to press charges. Listen, I think I’m going to need your help again.”

“You’re out of your mind. Forget it, Jerry. You don’t need me. I came by to tell you that I’m going back to San Diego.”

“You can’t do that!” She turned on him angrily, betrayal on her face. “You’re the only friend I have! The only one I can trust.”

“You know, I felt sorry for you when I first met you. Poor kid, I should make an effort to be friendly – ”

“I didn’t realize it was an effort,” she said, bridling. “I was right, though, about the murders and everything.”

“Okay, I admit it’s been very weird since I met you, but you’re just trying to stay involved to bug your parents.”

“I thought you were on my side.”

“It’s not a matter of sides, Jerry.” He was losing his temper with her. “I can see how you live. You’re bored and searching for the next game, and I’m not going to play.”

He sat down at the breakfast bar with his drink. “Why did I listen to you? I’m living in a bug-infested room in Earl’s Court. I’ve no money left. I can’t find a job. I don’t have a future. I don’t even have the fare to get home. Give me another whisky.” He held out his empty glass.

She poured his drink, then opened the refrigerator.

“Want something to eat? There’s cold pheasant, foie gras, roast veal. Us rich folk have everything.”

“That stuff’ll kill you. Got any eggs?”

Jerry made them cheese omelettes. “How are you going to get anywhere if you don’t have any money?” she asked.

“I’m figuring this out as I go along,” he told her through a mouthful of toast. “I threw my clothes into a bag and slipped out of the boardinghouse without paying the bill. Considering the amount of insect life in my room, I don’t feel bad about it. The BBC could have shot a wildlife documentary on the bedroom carpet. I’ll manage – I always do.”

“Maybe you could stay here while I get some money together.”

“No, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll take a few bartender jobs, get some money together. I’m sorry, Jerry. It’s been fun in a perverse, self-torturing way, but I have to figure out what I want now.”

She took a mouthful of omelette, petulance masking her desperation. “Come on, you could help me and I could help you. I can’t do it by myself.”

“And I can’t do it for you.” He pushed back his plate and rose to leave.

“All right, but I really want to give you some money, just to tide you over. Take what you need.”

“I’m still not going to help you, Jerry.”

“So you said.”

“It’s disadvantageous to my health.”

“Please, Joseph, just give me ten minutes.”

He gave her a suspicious look. “You’re not going to explain another one of your whacked theories, are you?”

“No,” she replied. “I promise.”

Ten minutes later, he sat on the floor in her father’s study while she sorted through the contents of the desk’s lower drawers.

“Suppose your father comes back?”

“They won’t be home until later. I found this when I was looking for Jack’s contracts with the Whitstable family. I was fourteen when they were sent.”

She unfolded a sheet of white vellum and passed it across. He studied the handwriting for a moment and began to read:

Dear Gwen,

You said not to use the phone. I barely know what to say to you about Geraldine. Naturally, I am horrified by what has happened. If only there was some way to undo the harm that has been caused. As her mother, you must decide what is best for all of us.

“Christ, what did you do, murder somebody?” he asked, handing back the letter.

She passed him another. “This is dated a few days after, also unsigned.”

Dear Gwen,

Everything has been arranged as you requested. She can start on Monday. She’ll be entering during mid-term, but that can’t be helped. No one will ask questions. It is unsafe to visit her. I am only thinking of Geraldine’s welfare. I only pray she remembers nothing of what has transpired.

Jerry sat back, carefully smoothing the envelope. She looked up at Joseph, waiting for him to comment. “You don’t remember any of this? Who are they from? What the hell happened when you were fourteen?”

“I told you, I had a breakdown. Gwen had a Steinway piano that belonged to her mother. I took a chisel and carved my name in the top, then cut all the wires. They put me in therapy, and then when I got too violent they sent me to a special school. I was tranked up for weeks at a time. I’ve blocked most of what happened.”

“From the tone of these letters there’s something else you’ve blocked. They’re so incriminating, why would anyone save them? What made you hate your mother so much?”

That year had passed in a blur of pain. Jerry never spoke of it to anyone. Wayland, her therapist, was in her mother’s pay, and her father avoided any kind of emotional commitment.

“Gwen was always concerned about my behaviour,” she explained. “Once she had to cancel a lunch date because I threw up in the living room. I can’t remember the first time I did it, but I was surprised how easy it was. She’d drop everything and come home. Make me soup, put me to bed. But she never stayed for long. Motherhood hadn’t turned out to be as satisfying as she’d expected, so she went back to social climbing. She watched families like the Whitstables getting all the respect, and was eaten up with jealousy. She never got the social standing she felt she deserved. This isn’t about money at all, it’s about breeding. My mother makes the right moves, but she’s still shut outside with her nose pressed against the glass. That’s my fault. Just when she started receiving the right invitations, I began to behave badly.

Soon people started turning down my mother’s charity luncheons. They never knew what they might find when they got here. I took a somewhat theatrical stab at cutting my wrist in the middle of one of her little soirées. That’s why she sent me to a therapist. Even then, she couldn’t resist showing off. He was the most well-connected doctor in town. She could tell everyone I was being treated by Lady So-and-So’s shrink.”

“You sound almost as bitter as you make your mother out to be.”

“Why not? That’s where I get it from.” She hunched herself forward, dark hair falling into her eyes. “There’s something else, though. The letters prove it. I could ask Gwen, but if it’s as bad as it sounds, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“What makes you think you can change anything? The past can’t come back.” Joseph climbed to his feet and picked up his backpack. “I’m leaving all my designs in storage. I won’t need them now. I can’t stay any longer. I need to get on the road.”

“Joseph, you can’t just go.” She had really believed that he would stay with her. She had never been denied anything before.

“Jerry, how can I say this?” He smiled awkwardly at her.

“The Savoy suits you. It’s not my style. There’s too much of a gap between us.”

“No, there isn’t,” she said, wanting to add, Not when you’re in love with someone. “Please, I’m scared of what might happen. I don’t want to stay here alone.”

“You’re not alone. Leave the investigation to the police. You could have been killed the other night.”

“Why won’t you help me any more?” she asked him again, standing at the open front door.

“Because,” he said, embracing her, “now you have a reason to help yourself.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then stepped out into the falling rain. “I’ll call you.”

“You won’t,” she called back. “People always say that but they never do.”

He raised his hand in salute, waving without turning back.

He’s gone, she thought. I’m on my own. But as she closed the door on him, her sadness was replaced by a growing sense of purpose.