Julius and the Watchmaker Read online

  JULIUS AND THE WATCHMAKER

  Tim Hehir lives in Melbourne and writes short stories and plays. Julius and the Watchmaker is his first novel.

  Teaching notes available at textpublishing.com.au/resources

  JULIUS

  & THE WATCHMAKER

  TIM HEHIR

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © Tim Hehir 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published by The Text Publishing Company 2013

  Cover illustration by Keith Thompson

  Cover design by WH Chong

  Page design by Imogen Stubbs

  Typeset by J&M Typesetting

  Printed in Australia by Griffin Press, an Accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004 Environmental Management System printer

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Hehir, Tim.

  Title: Julius and the watchmaker / by Tim Hehir.

  ISBN: 9781922079732 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781922148582 (ebook)

  Target Audience: For young adults.

  Subjects: Time travel—Fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  For Con and Barbara

  CHAPTER 1

  LONDON

  Monday 3rd July, 1837

  3:56 PM

  Give me seven extra long seconds, that’s all I ask, thought Julius Higgins as he sprinted around the corner into Ironmonger Lane. Crimper McCready and his two henchboys were close and gaining. Julius weaved among the window-shoppers, looking for the sign at the far end of the street.

  There it was, swinging in the breeze, like a hand waving to an old friend. Higgins’ Booksellers: Rare and Difficult to Find Books a Speciality. Only two seconds away.

  Julius collided with the brass doorknob, giving his ribs a sharp punch. He slipped inside, and the shop bell tinkled violently as he slammed the door.

  Made it. Julius slumped against the frosted glass, as he fought for breath. The triple fusée mantel clock ticked disapprovingly, its second hand flicking across its face like a wagging finger.

  From behind the counter, Mr Higgins adjusted his spectacles. ‘Good afternoon, young Caesar,’ he said.

  ‘Goo…good,’ said Julius. His face was squashed into a grimace, and he clutched his aching side.

  ‘Lost the first round, I see,’ said the shop’s only customer.

  Julius stopped trying to breathe and looked up. The customer, a gentleman wearing a bright red cravat, sniffed disinterestedly.

  Just as Mr Higgins opened his mouth to speak, there was a hammering at the window. Three fat faces pressed themselves against the glass panels and six hands slapped out a tattoo.

  ‘Come out, ya poncy toff,’ called Crimper McCready. His small eyes, like currants in a bun, searched the shop for his quarry.

  ‘The natives giving you gyp?’ asked the gentleman.

  ‘Er…’ said Julius.

  ‘Allow me,’ said the man. He snatched his walking cane from the counter and spun it through his fingers as he opened the door and stepped out. The lock spring clicked into place behind him. In the silence the clock ticked twice. Julius pulled the display table out from the window, and the third volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall fell off it, somersaulting once and landing flat on the floor with a smack.

  ‘Have a care of the stock!’ said Mr Higgins.

  Julius edged himself between the table and the window to peer though.

  Outside, the gentleman stood in the middle of the narrow cobbled street, still spinning the cane through his fingers. Crimper, Fosdyke and Grim-shaw narrowed their eyes to calculating slits. Then a flick of Crimper’s head sent his two sidekicks wide to flank the gentleman. They preferred nailing beetles to their school desks or twisting small children’s ears until they cried on their tip-toes, but they could stretch to doing down a spruced-up gent, if the opportunity presented itself. But while they weighed up their chances, the gentleman took them by surprise.

  He pulled the handle of his walking cane and out slid a long steel blade. It flicked through the air, flashing as it caught the light, and its tip poked between Crimper’s front teeth. The gentleman advanced, backing Crimper against the wall.

  Fosdyke made a whimpering sound and Grim-shaw stepped back, tripping over the kerb.

  “Ha! Ha! Ouch,” laughed Julius from the other side of the glass. Now, this is the way to deal with currant buns.

  ‘What’s the to-do, Julius Caesar Higgins?’ asked his grandfather.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Outside, the window-shoppers gawped, some of them stopping to see what would happen next.

  ‘You are dribbling on my blade, boy. That is unacceptable,’ said the gentleman.

  ‘Aagggg oorrry,’ gargled Crimper.

  The gentleman raised a questioning eyebrow in Fosdyke’s direction.

  ‘’E’s sayin’ ’e’s sorry, er…sir,’ said Fosdyke, his knees and his bottom lip trembling.

  ‘Is he, indeed?’ the gentleman pondered. ‘Well, contrition must be applauded. I suppose,’ he said at last, removing the blade and wiping the saliva on Crimper’s sleeve.

  Everyone breathed again, including Crimper.

  ‘I’ll show leniency on this occasion. But, mark this, the next time we meet, I’ll slice off your tongue for my collection, and there’ll be no preceding debate.’

  He slid the blade back into the cane and it snapped home with a metallic click. The gentleman looked up and raised an eyebrow again.

  ‘You are still here?’ he said.

  Crimper turned and sprinted down the street as if the devil himself wanted to borrow a sixpence. Fosdyke and Grimshaw ran in the opposite direction.

  The gentleman returned inside. Julius stared at him from the display table. He guessed the man to be close to thirty. A sculpted nose perfectly divided his long pale face. Black lashes bordered his dark glinting eyes and his black hair swept, like a wave of ink, over his crown and down to his crisp white shirt collar.

  ‘You deliver, I presume,’ said the gentleman, tapping one of the books on the counter.

  ‘Well, yes, that is, if you require it, sir,’ said Mr Higgins.

  ‘I do,’ he replied, pulling a calling card from his breast pocket and tossing it on the counter. ‘And if you would be so kind as to inform me if you hear anything of that, ahem…other matter we discussed?’

  ‘Harrison’s…ahem…diary, sir?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Certainly, sir, most definitely. I shall make enquiries, sir.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The man dipped his head in a bow, then winked at Julius as he walked out of the shop.

  The clock ticked. Julius took a deep breath and winced at the pain of his bruised rib.

  ‘Nice day at school, Julius Caesar?’ asked Mr Higgins.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Julius, leaning out the door to watch the gentleman strolling away, swinging his cane as if vanquishing brainless bullies was his favourite pastime.

  ‘Did you learn anything?’

  ‘School? Oh, yes.’

  ‘Apart from how to run, that is.’

  ‘We did a bit of Latin…I think.’

  Mr Higgins looked at the clock face behind him and then at his pocketwatch to che
ck they matched. He always liked to know what time it was and that the timepieces in his life were in agreement. He turned around to see his grandson standing at the counter like an eager customer.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Julius.

  ‘That, my boy, was Jack Springheel, Esquire,’ said Mr Higgins, holding his spectacles in front of the calling card.

  ‘I’ll deliver his books, Grandfather,’ said Julius, reading the spine of the top book.

  ‘Oh? They’re only books about watchmaking, you know.’

  ‘I’ll do it after dinner.’

  ‘Eager for delivery duty? Pray tell, young Caesar, what are you plotting?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I know his type, my boy. Not one of nature’s big tippers, if that is what you were thinking.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘And that cravat. My poor eyes.’

  ‘What was wrong with it?’

  ‘A real gentleman would know better. Neckwear comes in one colour and that colour is white…black is permissible if you are feeling rakish.’

  ‘I thought red suited him.’

  ‘Which proves that you are no gentleman either, Julius Higgins.’

  Straight after dinner, Julius bolted out of the shop with the parcel of books clutched tightly under his arm. If anyone could teach him how to stand his ground in a fight it would be Jack Springheel. He scurried along Paternoster Road while the pale sun shone halfheartedly through a veil of ashen clouds. The breeze from the Thames estuary chilled the summer evening, adding to Julius’s shiver of excitement. To his left, above the roofs, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral loomed dark. And the comfortingly familiar stench of the Thames tickled his nose—he liked the summer river, it was familiar.

  Turning into Warwick Lane, he stopped and took out the calling card with a trembling hand.

  Jack Springheel, Esquire

  Above No. 26, Warwick Lane

  Cheapside, London

  Julius looked down the empty street. Even this early in the evening it wore a grey cloak of danger—a place deserted and up to no good. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Higgins. He rubbed the sore spot on his side, and the pain reminded him why he had volunteered to brave the London streets at this hour.

  He swallowed hard and entered Warwick Lane, passing a dark, grimy shop window. In its reflection he saw a sudden movement. He stopped and looked across the street. There was something in a doorway. He squinted to get a better view. It was an amorphous shape, the same dappled greys and browns as the doorway. What was it? A giant lizard? An escaped bear? Then Julius saw a dozen pairs of eyes—the whites standing out in the gloom like porcelain marbles. They looked directly at him. Julius jutted his chin out and squinted as he peered closer.

  The eyes all blinked simultaneously.

  Oh, bloody hellfire.

  It was a huddle of street urchins—staring at him, their eyes now still and unblinking. He was marked. An icicle shot down his spine.

  He walked, faster this time, scanning the soot-blackened shopfronts and doorways for their numbers. Where was it? Where was Springheel’s lodgings? He could hear movement behind him, but he dared not look. He kept walking, trying not to run, looking at the shop doors. Number 24! A second-hand clothiers. That meant 26 must be next. It must.

  There! Number 26, in brass letters screwed into the lintel. It was a pawnshop. The street urchins were edging closer, like crabs on the mud flats when a cadaver washes up.

  Cripes. Julius pretended not to notice them—he peered through the window. It was too dark to see inside, and he could hear the urchins moving closer. He pulled out the calling card again. What does ‘above’ 26 mean, for heaven’s sake? He hammered on the door. Feet scampered around him.

  He spun around. The urchins had fanned out across the empty street. They froze like demonic statues, crouched low and watching him with their porcelain eyes. They breathed together, like one creature with many lungs. Julius backed away, holding their gaze and feeling his way along the wall and the window ledge as he went. The wall disappeared. His heart leapt as his hand groped the empty space. He looked around to where the wall should have been. An alleyway ran along the side of the shop.

  Julius ducked around the corner and was just about to sprint for home when he saw an open doorway a few paces along. He pressed himself into the darkness as small bare feet ran like rats across the cobblestones.

  His eyes took a second to adjust. He was at the bottom of a flight of stairs that went up into grey gloom and disappeared around a corner. Julius ran up the steps, came to the corner and looked up. A short, fat man was shambling down towards him. Julius pressed himself against the wall and held his breath as the man’s large belly squashed him, squeezing his bruised ribs. Julius opened his mouth to scream but the stale odours of sweat, cigars and brandy punched at his nostrils, making him retch instead.

  ‘Who’s there, damn you?’ said the man.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’m looking for Mr Springheel, sir.’

  ‘Be gone, foul wretch or I’ll thrash you purple,’ he said, as he strained to manoeuvre his bulk past Julius.

  Julius pushed himself past and bolted up the stairs clutching the parcel tight.

  ‘Young rascal,’ shouted the man, as he lumbered on down the stairs.

  Julius stood in front of the door at the top of the stairs. This is it. Let the anti-bullying lessons begin, Higgins. He knocked. He waited. No reply. Had he knocked too quietly? Julius knocked again—too loudly this time. Immediately the door was flung open.

  ‘Damn you to Hades, what is it now?’ shouted Jack Springheel, Esquire.

  Julius dropped the parcel.

  CHAPTER 2

  Monday 3rd July, 1837

  8:35 PM

  Jack Springheel glared at Julius and then at the brown paper parcel on the floor.

  ‘Upon my word, what a lightning delivery service,’ he said, and his face slid into a smile of welcome.

  Julius nearly collapsed with relief as he stooped to pick up the parcel.

  ‘Forgive me. I thought you were Clements come back to plague me.’

  ‘No…it’s me.’

  ‘So I see. Come in, come in.’

  Springheel stepped to one side and extended his arm in the direction of his chamber. Julius bobbed up and down in a cross between a curtsey and a bow, and he entered the room.

  There were clocks everywhere: along the mantelpiece, on every spare space on the walls, and on the large writing desk, as well as the occasional clock lying upside down or on its side on the richly carpeted floor. The combined ticking sounded like a thousand steel-scaled snakes slithering across corrugated iron. Julius’s body vibrated under the hum.

  A fire crackled in the fireplace, its heat licking hungrily at Julius’s face. Jack Springheel flicked his coat tails up and sat down in an over-stuffed armchair.

  ‘Well, thank you for your promptitude, young man,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes. Here you are,’ said Julius, handing over the parcel, then rummaging through his pockets for the bill.

  Springheel’s long fingers untied the string and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal three books. He ran his nose along the top of one of them and sat back, satisfied with the fragrance.

  ‘I love the smell of a good book, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Especially books about watchmaking. My favourite subject in all the world.’

  Julius found the bill, and his fumbling fingers unfolded it. Springheel’s eyes fell on the piece of paper. He sniffed, as if dismissing an offence.

  ‘Do you have the time?’ said Springheel, his dark eyes looking far away into the fire.

  Julius was not sure if he had heard correctly. He looked around the room at all the clocks. Without exception, they showed the same time, 8:37, even the second hands were synchronised.

  ‘It’s eight and thirty-seven, if you please, sir.’

  ‘So late,’ said Springheel with a sigh. ‘Where has the time gone?’
/>
  Julius waited. Springheel appeared to be daydreaming. The time ticked on.

  ‘Take the bill to Clements,’ said Springheel, waking suddenly. ‘He will pay.’

  ‘Clements, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Clements. He runs the tatty jerryshop downstairs. He and I are business partners, you see. He takes care of any tawdry complications.’

  ‘Oh, I see…but…I really do need to be paid this evening, sir.’

  ‘And so you shall, my young friend, so you shall. But Clements must pay.’

  Julius folded and unfolded the bill a couple of times to help him think. If he returned without the money he would have to put up with his grandfather’s disappointment over the porridge in the morning. Drats, and blooming double dead rats. Julius decided to put the payment question to one side for the moment and come to the real reason for his visit.

  ‘I was wondering, sir…’ he said, stuffing the bill into his pocket.

  Springheel placed the tips of his fingers together, forming a pyramid.

  ‘Yes?’

  Cripes.

  ‘I was wondering…how you did it, sir?’

  ‘Did what?’

  Julius felt as if ivy were coming up through the floor entwining his legs.

  ‘That…with Crimper. It was amazing. You really put the wind up them.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, it was fun, wasn’t it? Friends of yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. I can’t abide a bully.’

  ‘How do you…how do you make people fear you? It wasn’t just the blade, it was something else…something about you.’

  ‘Want to know, do you, young…?’

  ‘Julius, sir. Julius Higgins…well, Julius Caesar Higgins, to be precise, that is. That’s what I was christened. Everyone calls me Julius or just Higgins except for my grandfather. He insists on using my middle name as well…rather embarrassing…especially in company, I mean—’ Shut up, shut up, shut up—‘“Caesar’s what I christened you and Caesar’s what I’ll call you,” he says…ha, ha.’ Stop talking, Higgins, for pity’s sake.

  ‘Really?’ said Springheel, raising an eyebrow. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes…there’s not much to it. It’s simply a matter of convincing your adversary that you are mad enough, bad enough or stupid enough to carry out your threat.’