Gabriel's Clock (10 page)

Chapter 11

Jonathan woke to find the morning sun filtering through his bedroom curtains. Gently folding back the duvet, he swung his legs out of bed and walked over to the window, then opened the curtains and looked out over the village. It was so peaceful; a faint mist hugged the ground, and over by the green he could see the pond glittering in the sunlight. The gargoyles were having a heated discussion about something, and Grimm was returning from the village shop, morning paper under his arm and a bottle of milk in his hand.

Turning away, Jonathan noticed the watch that Gabriel had given him sitting on his bedside table. He walked over and picked it up. It was plain and simple, with a brown leather strap, a steel body, and black roman numerals on a white face. But it felt comfortable in his hand. On impulse, Jonathan turned the watch over and saw that the back plate bore an inscription. It read
DEUS EX MACHINA
.

It looks like Latin,
he thought as he fixed the watch to his wrist.
I wonder what it means.
Promising himself that he'd ask Gabriel the next time he saw him, he showered, dressed, and ran down the stairs two at a time. He burst into the kitchen to find Grimm sitting at the table and munching on a huge slice of toast.

“Mumfffning, Junffun,” mumbled Grimm, spraying crumbs everywhere.

“Morning,” said Jonathan.

Sitting down next to Grimm, he buttered some toast and poured himself a mug of tea from the pot on the table. Taking a swig, he found his tongue assaulted by an awful mix of asphalt, sardines, and overcooked broccoli. He stuffed toast into his mouth, hoping it would take the taste away.

“I think I'll stick to orange juice,” he said, getting up and looking in the fridge.

“Didn't you like the tea?” asked Grimm. “It's one I found right at the back of the pantry.”

“Uh . . . no,” Jonathan replied. “It tastes like I've been licking the road!”

“Hmm.” Grimm frowned. “I thought it was just me. It really does taste awful, doesn't it?”

Jonathan nodded.

“Oh, well,” said Grimm, tipping the contents of the teapot down the sink, “I won't be trying that one again. Come to think of it, it's been hidden at the back there for a very long time.”

“What did it say on the tin?” asked Jonathan, his stomach turning over.

“Nothing,” said Grimm. “It had a nice picture of some people at a party, watching boats on a river. Here, take a look.” He picked up a square metal tin from the sideboard and handed it to Jonathan. It did indeed have a picture of people holding a party by a river. The men were wearing straw hats, and the women were dressed in smart period costume. Looking at the base of the tin, Jonathan found a tiny printed label that said
LUNCHEON OF THE BOATING PARTY,
1881:
PIERRE AUGUSTE RENOIR.

Jonathan shrugged. “It looks like an old biscuit tin to me. Oh, I'm going out for a walk with Cay today—have you got anything I can use for a packed lunch?”

“Well, there's some leftover omelet in the fridge, and there's my army water bottle and rucksack if you need it.”

More egg,
thought Jonathan, his stomach doing a queasy flip. “I think I'll get some sandwiches over at Cay's house, if that's okay. But the rucksack and water bottle would be really handy.”

“No problem,” said Grimm, patting his stomach and belching loudly. He smacked his lips. “Oh, that tea really is repeating on me!”

Jonathan nodded and bent over to lace up his boots. He was just finishing when Elgar pushed his head through the cat flap. Seeing that Grimm wasn't lying in wait with his meat cleaver, Elgar squeezed himself through and jumped onto a chair. He had several small feathers stuck in his ears.

“Oi, cat!” rumbled Grimm as he rinsed out the teapot. “No nibbling on the toast.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, old boy,” snorted Elgar. “I've already had breakfast,” he added, giving Jonathan a feral grin.

The thought of Elgar munching on some poor bird made Jonathan feel even more ill.

“Oh, you got out Renoir, I see,” Elgar noted, examining the tin sitting on the table.

“Yep,” said Grimm. “
Luncheon of the Boating Party,
1881.”

“Yes, I know what the painting's called,” said Elgar, rolling his eyes. “I'm referring to the contents of the tin.”

“Eh?” said Grimm, looking confused.

“Oh dear,” muttered Elgar, jumping down and disappearing back through the cat flap. “Ask Ignatius . . .” were his last words.

A few moments of head scratching followed until Ignatius wandered into the kitchen in his bathrobe.

“Oh, where did you find this?” he asked, picking up the tin.

“In the pantry behind all the other tea,” said Grimm, the fact that he may have made a serious error rapidly dawning on him.

“Tch, my memory!” Ignatius smiled. “Elgar did remind me I needed to send this to my mother. She forgot to take it when she moved to Devon.”

“Sorry?” said Jonathan, a feeling of panic rising inside him along with his breakfast toast.

“Renoir's ashes,” said Ignatius. “I'll pop them in the post later.”

With a cheerful whistle the vicar wandered out the back door and into the garden to catch the morning sun. Standing on the patio, Elgar wandered over and sat next to him.

“Grimm made tea out of a dead dog's ashes, didn't he?” said the cat.

“Yep,” said Ignatius.

From behind them came the sound of two people being noisily sick in the kitchen sink.

 

 

Amid a flurry of profuse apologies from Grimm and a barrage of smirking from Elgar, Jonathan finally left the vicarage. With his stomach still roiling after its unfortunate meeting with Renoir's ashes, he took deep breaths of cool morning air as he strode across the green to meet Cay.

He was dressed in jeans, walking boots, and a fleece, and slung over his shoulder was an old rucksack. Inside was a water bottle, a blanket, and a couple of apples.

As he walked, Jonathan waved good morning to the villagers who were up and about—Mr. Peters, who was sitting on his usual bench reading a book, and Mr. and Mrs. Flynn, who were taking a morning stroll.

Walking into the shop, he was greeted by Cay's head popping up from behind the counter.

“Morning,” she said breezily. “Ready for a walk?”

“Yep,” said Jonathan. “As long as we can make some sandwiches. I really couldn't face any cold omelet.”

“Already sorted,” said Cay. “You all right? You look a bit green.”

“Don't ask,” he replied.

They made their way along the hall and into the kitchen; sitting on the oak table were two piles of sandwiches.

“I've borrowed Grimm's water bottle,” said Jonathan, retrieving it from inside the rucksack.

“You'd better give it a clean,” suggested Cay. “It looks like it's not been used in a while.”

“Good idea.” Jonathan popped the cap off and shook it out over the sink. He was rewarded with a cloud of dust and two dead spiders. He gave the bottle a thorough rinse before filling it with fresh water. “Where's your dad today?” he asked.

“He's gone for his morning run,” said Cay. “We may see him when we're walking.” She looked out the window and smiled. “He loves the forest.”

Putting the lid back on the bottle, Jonathan popped it into the rucksack along with the sandwiches. “Right,” he said. “Let's go.” He followed Cay through the back door and into the garden. Mrs. Forrester was kneeling on the grass nearby, tying some pea plants to a pyramid of bamboo canes. She smiled and waved as they walked past.

Leaving the garden behind, they followed a narrow path through the meadow and into the forest. It was a glorious morning, and despite his unpleasant breakfast, Jonathan found he was in a really good mood. He and Cay had bright sunshine, a cool breeze, and plenty of sandwiches. Perfect!

“I've been thinking about Gabriel,” said Cay as they struggled up a steep rise. “He seemed so sad when he finished telling his story. Should we go and see him later? Make sure he's okay?”

“I still can't believe he's actually an angel,” said Jonathan. “We're living in the same village as an angel! And after all that's happened to him, he just wants to be ordinary. To get on with his life in peace.”

“I know what you mean. I guess I've just never known anything different.”

“Anyway, yeah,” said Jonathan, struggling for breath. “Let's go and see him, as long as you don't mention your birthday present again!”

“I won't,” said a grinning Cay. “Hey, can we stop for a minute? I could do with a rest.”

Jonathan nodded. Leaving the path, they sat down on the mossy
remains of a fallen tree.

“How did your dad end up as a werewolf?” he asked, handing Cay the water bottle.

She took a drink and paused. “Well, Mom and Dad don't like talking about it; they keep saying it's not important. Anyway, Dad was just born that way. His parents used to keep him locked up like an animal because they were scared of him. When he got old enough, he escaped and went traveling across Europe; that's when he met Mom, who was teaching at a school in Austria. His being a werewolf doesn't bother her, any more than her being deaf bothers him. He can change shape whenever he wants to, and when he's a wolf he's not savage or anything; he's just my dad in a wolf's body—except he has a better sense of smell!”

“How did they end up here?”

“The same way everybody else does—they just arrived out of the blue. It's like the village calls to people.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Jonathan. “Do you think you'll take after your dad, given that you're half werewolf?”

“Dunno.” Cay shrugged. “No point worrying about it. I haven't developed the urge to pee up trees yet!”

Jonathan laughed. “I'm surprised Elgar hasn't teased you about it.”

“Oh, he has,” said Cay. “He said that at a full moon I'll turn into an annoying, pint-size wolf with hearing problems. I told him that if he ever said that again, I'd mention it to Dad and that Elgar would end up as a morning snack.”

“Do werewolves eat cats?” asked Jonathan.

“I doubt it,” said Cay. “And certainly not my dad. But Elgar doesn't know that for sure.” She grinned and bounced her eyebrows up and down.

“Were you born here, then?” asked Jonathan.

Cay shook her head. “No, I was about two or three when we arrived, but I can't remember living anywhere else. Hobbes End has always been my home, although it can get a bit lonely at times. I'm scared of asking someone from school to come round to visit in case they see something that freaks them out.”

“Yeah, that would be awkward,” said Jonathan, remembering his own first reaction to the gargoyles and Elgar. “So, does anyone outside Hobbes End know what the village is? Do they know an angel crash-landed here?”

Cay shook her head. “No, I don't think so. People know the village exists, the postman delivers letters, and a man comes to read the gas meter, but it's like they don't see the real Hobbes End. Only people who live here do. It's funny, but the village knows who should be here and who's just visiting, and after a while it gently nudges visitors toward the exit.”

Jonathan nodded. “It kept me here,” he said, remembering. “I wasn't well enough to leave when I tried, so it stopped me. Anyway, what's your school like?”

“It's good, I enjoy it. I cycle there 'cause it's only five miles away. I go round to visit my friends' houses sometimes, but I guess they think I'm a bit weird for never asking anyone back here. They must think I'm either a snob or a slob!”

“Nah!” said Jonathan.

“I don't know what they think, really,” said Cay. “I'm just the girl from that little village in the forest, and sometimes I think people would be amazed to learn that we have electricity, running water, and everything!” She chuckled to herself. “It can be boring during the holidays, though. There's only so much you can do on your own.” She looked at Jonathan and smiled. “That's why I'm glad you're here, strange boy. There hasn't been anyone my age in the village for a long time.”

They both fell quiet as they ate one of the sandwiches Mrs. Forrester had made for them.

“Where did you go to school?” asked Cay.

“I've never been,” said Jonathan, staring out over the forest. “We moved house all the time because of Dad's job, so Mom tutored me at home. I learned a lot, but it means that I know what it's like to be lonely too.”

“It must have been exciting having a spy as a dad!”

“I don't know what he does, really; he would never say. I suppose if he is a spy, he wouldn't be able to tell me anyway. And then those . . . things came. I just see them as monsters, but I guess that's because I hit my head. I don't know who they were or why they attacked us either.” He bit his lip and added sadly, “It's been over two weeks, and I still don't know where my parents are or why I'm here. I don't really know anything.”

He hung his head. He liked being here in Hobbes End, he liked Cay and Elgar and Ignatius and Grimm; he liked everyone. But every time he started to feel happy, he remembered that he had a list of questions as long as his arm, and nobody could give him any proper answers. He wondered if Gabriel could help him find his parents—he was an angel, after all . . .

Seeing that Jonathan was starting to brood, Cay resorted to throwing a handful of dead leaves at him. Jumping up, she shouted, “Last one to the lake carries the rucksack home!” and sprinted off into the trees.

By the time Jonathan got the leaf mulch out of his mouth and eyes, Cay had completely disappeared.

“Wait!” he cried out, getting to his feet and stuffing the water bottle into the rucksack. “I don't know which path goes to the lake . . .
Cay, wait!
”