Thompson

Thompson

Anyone passing the open French windows that led from the library at nine o’clock last Friday morning might have noticed Thompson staring at the telephone. If they’d been inclined to look closely, they might have reported that he was actually sneering at the instrument. This discovery would probably not have caused consternation as Thompson tended to sneer at most things ­­– an admirable trait in a butler.

At one minute to nine Thompson had been preparing to wind the mahogany, longcase clock that had been in the Earl’s family for over a hundred years. The old Earl had bestowed this honour on Thompson when he was a young footman, and he had never once missed this weekly ritual. After he became butler, almost thirty years ago, Thompson had seen no reason to relinquish responsibility for the clock to a more junior member of the household staff. Not one of the footmen seemed to have had quite the substance to do justice to the ceremony.

Thompson had already retrieved the winding crank from the small drawer at the bottom of the clock case and was about to start the thirteen clockwise turns when the telephone rang. Its sound was barbaric in this peaceful room where only the hollow tick of the clock could be heard until the gentlemen entered after dinner. The telephone rang three times and then stopped in the middle of the fourth. The incomplete ring convinced Thompson that this indeed was an invention with appalling manners of the first order, not something that people of breeding should be trifling with. It was this train of thought that had brought out Thompson’s withering sneer, the one he kept for ringing telephones and uppity new socialist politicians – one of whom he had had the misfortune to have served recently during a dinner in this very house.

He had a foreboding about this new instrument that the Earl recently had installed in the house. He believed that it would lead to a further breakdown in etiquette than he had already witnessed since the end of The Great War a few years before. Only the previous week Thompson had been dismayed to observe Lord Alexander talking on the telephone to his dowager aunt without his jacket. When Thompson himself had had to answer a ringing telephone he felt quite ill-at-ease not being able to judge the voice on the line without its clothes and other accoutrements, especially if the voice had had a decent education. Once, he had found himself being mistakenly ingratiating to the Earl’s accountant!

Thompson completed the winding of the clock, ensured that the weights were correctly positioned and replaced the crank in the drawer. He adjusted the time slightly to accord with his own pocket watch, and then gently wiped away all the places his fingers had touched with the soft duster he always brought for the occasion. He stepped back to admire this extraordinary piece of English craftsmanship, as he’d done countless times, content in the knowledge that the young Earl also appreciated its worth. He had mentioned to Thompson just a few days before that the clock was a valuable piece of the family’s history.

Turning to make his way out of the library, his mind on the wines he was to decant for that evening’s dinner, Thompson lost his balance and brushed into the Bouillotte Gueridon table that sat beside a faded but still elegant Queen Anne armchair. Not so many years ago the old Earl’s after-dinner brandy would be waiting for him on this very table – it now held the telephone and a small notebook for the taking of messages. Thompson never deigned to write in the infernal notebook, relying on his perfect ability to pass messages from one person to another, verbatim.

The table did not topple over completely, but the telephone receiver was knocked out of its cradle nevertheless. Thompson was mortified. Not about his clumsiness with the table, although the giddiness was rather disquieting, but that he found himself sitting in the old Earl’s armchair. Never, in fifty years service to the family had he ever sat on any piece of furniture in the house except that designated for the staff. Even then, he was careful not to bring about a lack of decorum understairs by sitting on anything other than that recognised as being suitable for such an activity. He’d once or twice caught a parlour maid perching on the edge of the servants’ dining room table.

He tried to rise from the chair but found himself quite unable to do so. Worried that he might be caught in this unbecoming position he checked his watch. The time told him where all the servants and the family members should be at that particular time. He noted that no-one would enter the library until the parlour maid came to check the fire at twelve o’clock.

Over the next few minutes Thompson reflected on his delicate situation. He did not want his impropriety to be discovered, but he had important duties that needed tending. Guests, and their staff, would begin arriving at one o’clock for the shooting weekend. Thompson coughed gently to draw the attention of the new footman who was passing the closed library door while taking dishes to and from the breakfast room. Although unhelpful at that precise moment, he was proud that the young man had held fast to Thompson’s oft-repeated advice to only see and hear what was directed to him in the capacity of his work – all else that went on in the house was to be discreetly ignored.

At seven minutes past nine, according to the longcase clock that Thompson was again admiring from the old Earl’s armchair, he heard voices. They were distant, but oddly, close by at the same time. It took only a few seconds for Thompson to comprehend that they were coming from the telephone receiver. The moment that he realised he was overhearing a private conversation he did what any well-trained English butler would do – he changed his expression to one of ultimate nonchalance and reached for the receiver in order to put it back in its place. Unfortunately, at that precise second one of the voices on the telephone mentioned Francis Perigal of London. As if guided by a malevolent spirit, Thompson brought the telephone receiver to his ear.

The voice that had uttered the venerated name of the eighteenth century clockmaker was none other than the young Earl himself. He was discussing the value of the longcase clock that Thompson had diligently tended to for thirty-eight years, even forgoing taking any holiday longer than six days to ensure he would not miss the weekly winding. The person at the other end of this conversation was assuring the Earl that it would fetch a handsome price at auction. This person added that it would probably realise far more than its actual worth as English clocks were extremely popular in the United States of America where it no doubt would go.

The remainder of the unpleasant conversation had the unexpected affect of giving Thompson a fillip. He replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle and rose from the armchair feeling quite light in his limbs. He had not felt so for many years. The next half hour saw him examining carefully the inside of the clock, safe in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed.

The rest of the day was a whirl of activity in the house. No one appeared to have noticed the butler’s short absence, and Thompson himself showed no outward sign that anything out of the ordinary had transpired.

The weekend shooting party was a huge success. The Earl and Lady Emily thanked Thompson profusely on Monday morning as the last guest was driven away. As usual, their generous gift to the staff for all their efforts was three hours off the following day. Thompson never joined the other staff in their jaunts to the nearby market town - he considered it to be a frivolous waste of time. Instead, he would always make use of the quiet to check the wine cellar, much depleted after so many lunches and dinners, to see what needed ordering from London.

This Tuesday was no different. All the staff left, dressed in their Sunday best, to spend a little money in the tea shops, and drapers of Great Baddow. Thompson, once he was assured that the family were safely resting in their rooms, walked into the library and closed the door after himself. He proceeded to remove the weights and pendulum from inside the clock. An unpleasant silence settled over the room and made Thompson uncomfortable. But he continued the work he had to do. He removed the clock face and set about carefully taking out the mechanism found behind. He replaced the clock face before putting the mechanism, along with the weights and pendulum into a large leather bag that he had brought for the purpose. He polished his beloved clock one last time and took the bag to the wine cellar that extended far beyond where the Earl’s wines were stored.

The next day was like every Wednesday except for the arrival of a large black motor van that had drawn up to the back of the house in the afternoon. Thompson had been told to expect the van the previous evening. He showed the driver and his two assistants into the library. He left them there, in their brown coats, planning how best to take out the clock. He returned to them only when he heard them shutting the doors of their motor van with much noise. They were invited into the kitchen and given a cup of tea and some of cook’s Madeira cake before they made their way back to London.

Sotheby’s returned the clock two days later. There were some questions, but the police were of the idea that thieves were disturbed at Sotheby’s warehouse before they could completely dismantle the longcase clock and send it out of the country amongst less valuable items.

The clock was put into the furthest reaches of the attic, much like a shameful relative, and never spoken of.

Thompson spent his final working years a very content man. Every evening after the House was quiet and his duties discharged, he would go to the attic and work on returning the clock to full order. He was satisfied that the old Earl, and Francis Perigal would have approved of his unscrupulous behaviour to ensure the clock stayed in its rightful home.