to stimulate just this sort of creative activity in North Kensington. What
“I. Weatherall” was printed beneath the title of the course, after the words “Offered by.”
It didn’t seem possible that there could be more than one I. Weatherall in the area. To make certain, however, Joel dug around in his rucksack and found the card that Ivan had handed to him on the day he’d broken up the scuffle with Neal. There was a phone number on the bottom of the card, and it matched the number that followed the words
“For Questions and for Further Information Please Ring” on the orange handout.
Joel was reminded from the card that Ivan Weatherall lived in Sixth Avenue. He himself was that moment near the corner of Third. That coincidence was enough to prompt him into his next move.
LOGIC SUGGESTED THAT the street in question would be just a bit farther along from Third Avenue, but when Joel set off to find it, he discovered that this was not the case. Five streets separated Third from Sixth, and when Joel got there, he found a neighbourhood of terrace houses quite unlike any he’d seen since coming to live with his aunt. In contrast to the looming estates that comprised so much of North Kensington, these houses— curious remnants of the nineteenth century— were small, neat structures of only two floors, and most of them had stones imprinted with “1880” sunk into the lintels of their tiny, gabled porches. The buildings themselves were identical, differentiated from one another by their numbers, by what hung in their windows, and by their front doors and miniature gardens. Number 32 had the additional feature of a trellis attached to the wall between the front door and what would be the sitting-room window. On this trellis, four of the seven dwarves were climbing to reach a Snow White who sat at the apex of the woodwork. There was no actual front garden to speak of. Rather, a rectangle of paving stones held a bicycle chained to an iron railing, which surmounted a low brick wall. This wall ran along the pavement, marking the boundary of the tiny property.
Joel hesitated. All at once, it seemed absurd that he had come looking for this house. He had no idea what he would say if he knocked on the door and found Ivan Weatherall at home. It was true that he’d continued to meet with the mentor at school, but their meetings had been professional in nature, all about school itself and help with homework, with Ivan throwing in the occasional attempt at a probing life question and with Joel parrying that question as best he could. Thus, aside from “Any further problems with Neal, my lad?” which Joel had answered truthfully with, “Nah,” nothing personal had passed between them.
After a moment of staring at the front door and trying to decide what to do, Joel made up his mind. What his mind told him was that he really needed to get back to Toby. Joel had left him at the learning centre for his regular session, and he’d be expected there to fetch him home soon enough. He hardly had time, therefore, to pay a visit to Ivan Weatherall. It would be best to be on his way. He turned to go, but the front door opened suddenly, and there was Ivan Weatherall himself, peering out. Without preamble, he said, “What a godsend. Come in, come in. Another pair of hands is needed.” He disappeared back inside the house, leaving the door standing open in confi dent expectation.
Outside, Joel shuffled his feet, trying to make up his mind. Put to the test, he couldn’t have said exactly why he’d come to Sixth Avenue. But since he had come and since he knew Ivan from school and since all he had to show for his efforts on this day was a pathetic sign that announced “It’s a Boy” . . . He went inside the little house.
Directly within, there was a tiny vestibule, where a red bucket lettered with the word “Sand” held four furled umbrellas and a walking stick. Above it, the smallish head of a wooden elephant with its trunk curled upward served as a coat hook, and from the animal’s single tusk hung a set of keys.
Joel eased the door closed and was immediately aware of two sensations: the scent of fresh mint and the pleasant ticking of clocks. He was in a place of regimentally organised clutter. Aside from the elephant, the walls of the tiny vestibule held a collection of small black-and-white photographs of antique vintage, but not a single one was askew in that way framed pictures become when they get knocked about by the inhabitants of a house. Beneath them on one side of the vestibule and extending into the shoe-box-size sitting room that opened off it, bookshelves acted the part of wainscoting and they held volumes that filled them to bursting. But all the books were arranged neatly, with their unbroken spines facing outward and right side up. Above these bookshelves, more than a dozen clocks hung, the source of the ticking. Joel found it soothing.
“Come along. Step in.” Ivan Weatherall spoke from a table that had been pressed into the bay window of the sitting room, which explained to Joel how he’d been seen hesitating at the front of the house. He joined Ivan and saw that within the small space of the room, the man had managed to fashion a study, a workshop, and a music room. At this moment, he was using the space in workshop mode: He was attempting to empty a large cardboard box into which something was packed tightly in a block of Styrofoam. “You’ve appeared at just the right moment,” Ivan told him. “Give a hand, please. I’m having the devil of a time getting this out. It was, I assume, packed by sadists who even as I speak are having a wonderful laugh at the thought of my impotent struggles. Well, I shall have the last laugh now. Come along, Joel. Even in my own demesne, you shall find I don’t bite.”
Joel approached him. As he did, the scent of mint grew stronger, and he saw that Ivan was chewing it. It wasn’t gum, but actual mint. There was a shallow bowl of leafy sprigs at one side of the table, and Ivan dipped into it for a stem, which he held in his lips like a cigarette as Joel joined him.
“It appears we shall have to dance this out. If you’ll be so good as to hold the box down, I believe I can manage to jiggle everything else loose.”
Joel did as he was asked, setting the “It’s a Boy” banner on the floor and going to Ivan’s assistance. As Ivan jiggled, Joel said, “Wha’s in here, anyway?”
“A clock.”
Joel glanced round at the timepieces that already showed the hour of the day—and sometimes the day itself—in numbers large, numbers small, and numbers not at all. He said, “What d’you need wiv another one, then?”
Ivan followed his gaze. “Ah. Yes. Well, it’s not about telling time, if that’s what you mean. It’s about the adventure. It’s about the delicacy, balance, and patience required to see a project through, no matter how complicated it looks. I build them, in other words. I find it relaxing. Something to think about rather than thinking about”—he smiled— “what I would otherwise think about. And beyond that, I find the process a microcosm of the human condition.”
Joel frowned. He’d never heard anyone speak as Ivan spoke, even Kendra. He said, “What’re you on about anyways?”
Ivan didn’t reply until they had the block of Styrofoam released. He lifted the top piece off the lower three-quarters of it, and he gently laid this to one side. “I’m on about delicacy, balance, and patience. Just as I said. The communion one has with others, the duty one must fulfill to self, and the commitment required to attain one’s goals.” He peered into the Styrofoam container, which Joel could now see held plastic packets bearing single large letters, along with small cardboard cartons with labels affixed to them. Ivan began to lift these out and he laid them lovingly on the table, along with a pamphlet that appeared to be a set of instructions. Last to come out was a packet from which Ivan drew a pair of thin white gloves. He laid these gently on his knee and twisted in his chair to go through a wooden box sitting at one side of the table. From this he unearthed a second pair of gloves, and these he passed to Joel. “You’ll be needing them,” he said. “We can’t touch the brass or we’ll mark it with our fingerprints and that will be the end of it.”
Joel obediently put on the gloves as Ivan opened the pamphlet, spread it on the table, and pulled an ancient pair of wire spectacles from the breast pocket of his tattersall shirt. He looped the wires over his ears and then ran his finger down the first page of the pamphlet till he found what he wanted. He donned his own pair of white gloves and said, “The inventory first. Crucial, you know. Others might foolishly forge ahead without making certain they have everything they need. We, however, shall not be so foolhardy as to assume we’re in possession of all items necessary for completion of this journey. Let’s have the bag marked
Thus the two of them set to work, comparing what had been sent to what was on the list. They ticked off every screw and minuscule bolt, every gear, every column, and each piece of brass. As they did so, Ivan chatted away about timepieces, explaining the origin of his love affair with clocks. Upon the conclusion of this expatiation, he said suddenly,
