Attica

chapter 20

Attack of the Music Makers!

‘I hope you haven’t come to steal my watches.’

Alex turned and was surprised to see a short stocky girl, in the rags and tatters of a board-comber. This one was quite different, however, to the board-comber who collected Inuit carvings. For a start, the mask she wore was quite attractive: a gold-dusted carnival mask which hid only the top half of her face. There were three scarlet feathers protruding gaily from the top of the mask. Her dress was even more flamboyant, with outrageous colours and lots of tassels and hanging ribbons. There were reds and purples, greens and blues, yellows and oranges. All these were happily mixed in together, making a spectacle more suited to a fairground. Instead of a bat hanging from one ear, this board-comber had a small owl on her shoulder. The owl regarded Alex steadily with round serious eyes.

‘Watches?’ asked Alex. ‘What watches?’

‘Don’t think I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know what?’

‘Why you’re here. No one comes here. You must’ve come to steal my watches. There’s no other reason.’

When the board-comber stepped in closer, Alex could see that in physical age she was not much older than himself. Probably about Jordy’s age. However, her eyes contained the promise of more wisdom than was owned by Alex, Jordy and Chloe put together. Her skin was like a smooth parchment, with a whole life history written upon it. Alex would guess she had been up in the attic many years and had learned its seasons, its cycles, its myriad quirky rhythms and tides. No doubt she had witnessed the moon locked in every glass in the roof and had seen the sun roll from one window to the next a hundred times.

This was a veteran of the attic: an ancient of days.

‘You’re wondering how long I’ve been here.’

‘Yes,’ said Alex.

‘A hundred years.’

Alex said, ‘You just made that up.’

‘No,’ she replied earnestly, ‘I’ve been here a hundred years. Don’t you know real time doesn’t move for us humans in the attic? It seems our bodies are caught in some kind of time-limbo between the two worlds. Have you seen the clocks and watches here?’

‘They go backwards.’

‘And in our old world, they go forwards.’

Alex realised he was supposed to see something significant in that and finally the answer came to him.

‘Oh, I see,’ he cried, ‘they oppose each other. They keep real time at a standstill.’

‘That’s it,’ replied the board-comber. ‘Just for us intruders. Now, what are you doing here? You’d better tell me, because I’ll find out sooner or later. It’s to steal watches, isn’t it? You want my treasures. Did the Organist send you? He did, didn’t he?’

Alex decided to be truthful. ‘I – I just want one of your watches.’

‘One is everything, one is all.’

‘You can spare just one. It’s for a good cause. Where are they anyway?’ He looked around. ‘Do you keep them locked up?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, little boy?’

‘I’m not a little boy. I’m a bortrekker,’ said Alex, drawing himself up in a dignified manner. ‘Don’t you know a bortrekker when you see one?’

She looked him up and down contemptuously.

‘Dressed like a bortrekker, but all shiny and new.’

Alex was huffy. ‘Got to start somewhere. Bet you had to start somewhere. You can’t learn everything in one day.’ He paused and pleaded with her. ‘See, the reason I want this particular watch is because it would help an old man. He threw it in the attic many years ago, in a temper, but he’s – well, he’s going to die soon – and he wants to make his peace with his memories. You can understand that, can’t you? I’ve got a letter here,’ Alex patted his pocket, ‘which will help, but I really came up to get the watch.’

‘Then you’ll go down again?’

Alex drew a deep breath. ‘No, no, I don’t think so. I want to pass the letter and the watch on to my brother and sister, so they can deal with it. But I want to stay up here.’ He looked around him and waved a hand. ‘I like it here. You do too, or you wouldn’t stay. And all the other board-combers and bortrekkers. The attic’s a great place, isn’t it? You can almost feel it liking you back, once it knows you want to be here …’

She walked around him, looking him up and down, and studied him from every angle.

‘Are you sure you want to stay up?’

‘I – I think so.’

‘Hmmm, think so don’t get it done.’

‘Will you give me the watch?’

She stepped back from him, shuddering. ‘I couldn’t. Those watches are the wheels that run my heart. If I lost just one, my heart would stop beating. They’re my treasures. I need them all. If one went, I’d pine for it, I know I would. The other watches would pine for it. We’d all be terribly upset. I don’t like being upset. Give it up, this quest. Tell the old man you couldn’t find it. Say it’s lost for ever.’

‘I’ll tell you what, let me look at your collection?’

She screwed up her face and seemed about to refuse. Then she must have changed her mind, because she brightened, her face breaking into the most wonderful smile Alex had ever seen, the corners of which almost reached her ears. ‘Oh, I love showing it off. I do. I really do. I love showing my collection to those who haven’t seen it before. It’s a magnificent collection of watches, the best in the attic. Here, let me put this on you.’ She tied a scarf over his eyes, then cried, ‘Come on, come with me.’

‘I can’t see you,’ he said, feeling the air. ‘How can I follow if I can’t see?’

He felt a small, slim, warm hand slip into his own and his blood turned to warm olive oil in his arteries.

The board-comber seemed very excited. Of course, thought Alex, she would be. There’s nothing a collector likes better than showing off his or her collection to an interested stranger. Someone to go ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at prize possessions and say ‘aren’t you lucky?’ and ‘isn’t that fabulous?’ and ‘where on earth did you find it?’ – things like that. Someone to whom the collector can explain how difficult certain pieces were to come by and, in this case, someone to point out highly prized movements and tiny hairsprings, escapements, and other delights of the internal workings of watches.

He was taken, he knew not where, and the blindfold removed.

There before him was one of the great supporting pillars, but this one was covered in wrist-watches and pocket-watches. Hanging from nails by their straps or chains, they covered the pillar to a depth of three watches and a height of two metres. They were all ticking away madly, creating a terrible din, all showing the correct time, all going backwards. There were silver ones, gold ones, black ones, white ones, every other colour you could think of. In the burnished light from a distant window they glinted, they flashed, they glimmered, they burned. Snakeskin straps, golden chains, expanding silver bracelets. There were those which proudly announced they had ‘17 Jewels’ on the face. Others were ‘Waterproof’. There were watches with Roman numerals and there were watches with Arabic numerals. Some of the makes he knew to be very expensive, others quite cheap, and a thousand he had never heard of before. Some pocket-watches had their face-covers open, others had them closed. One or two had perspex cases and you could see the brass-toothed wheels turning, the flysprings quivering inside.

He thought of something.

‘No digital watches?’

The look on her face told him she had the same opinion of digital watches as he did.

‘How do you wind them all up? There are at least a thousand here,’ he gasped. ‘Do you do it all yourself?’

‘I spend two hours every day winding those that are running down.’

A thousand second hands sweeping, a thousand minute hands ticking, a thousand hour hands crawling.

‘Wonderful,’ Alex breathed, stalling for the hour, which was fast coming up. ‘Any of them chime?’

‘A few,’ she said. ‘This one, and this one, and others. Do you like chiming watches?’

‘I love ’em.’

Finally watch fingers flicked at the hour. Of course the chimes didn’t all come at once. Some came and went before others even got started. Some just tinkled tunelessly, a few had a definite melody. But nowhere, nowhere among those several chiming watches could Alex detect Frère Jacques. Perhaps Mr Grantham’s watch was there but the chiming mechanism had long since given up the ghost? It was a very old watch, it was true. Perhaps the chimes had seized? How rotten, to get so close and not be able to identify it. In any case, even if it could chime out its little French air, finding it among its peers would be the devil’s own job. It was like looking for a single ant in a nest of ants.

Alex went for broke. ‘Did – did you ever have a watch that chimed the tune of Frère Jacques?’

A frown appeared on the board-comber’s face.

‘Frère Jacques. No, never.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I would know, wouldn’t I?’ she exclaimed hotly.

‘Yes, sorry.’ He was morose. ‘All this way for nothing.’

At that moment the owl’s head swivelled backwards.

‘Eeerch!’ it screeched. ‘Eeerch, eeerch.’

The board-comber began running back towards the wall of pianos, not staying to blindfold Alex again.

‘Attack!’ she was crying. ‘Big assault on the border!’

‘Oh, right,’ replied Alex, having no idea what was going on, but following her anyway.

‘Here’s a chance to earn your spurs,’ she told him as he caught up to her. ‘Help me fight the Organist’s Music Makers.’

‘Music Makers?’

‘The enemy. You’ll see. Quick, grab these.’

Alex was handed a sword and shield, the kind knights carry into battle or at tourneys. The girl armed herself likewise. Then she leapt in a very agile manner up on to a piano, urging Alex to do the same. Indeed, he found he had to clamber up, but he joined her nonetheless. The pair of them stood side by side, armed and ready for conflict, staring out into the darkness. Naturally, the owl was with them, staring hard too. It kept making chattering sounds in the back of its throat, as if it were keeping the board-comber appraised of what was happening out there in the beyond.

‘Are you sure there’s an enemy coming?’ asked Alex, putting on Makishi to protect his face. ‘It’s awfully quiet out there in the dark interior. Who are these Music Makers anyway?’

As if in answer to his question an arrow came hurtling out of the inky blackness beyond and struck Alex’s shield. Except that once it fell away from him, Alex could see it wasn’t an arrow at all. It was a violin bow. Then another, a larger one, swished by his ear: a cello bow.

Now came a horrible sound: the kind of noise cats might make if burned alive. Alex was startled and not a little terrified to see giant spiders coming out of the darkness, racing towards him, with riders on their backs. The riders were mercenaries, village children. And these hostiles, hired by the Organist, weren’t riding spiders, but mechanised bagpipes.

The pipes of these long-legged steeds raced the riders towards the border of pianos. The riders on their inflated tartan bags were archers using violins, violas and bass viols to shoot their arrows. Violins had become bows, bows had become arrows. A flute whizzed past Alex’s ear, puffed like a blow-pipe dart from the horn of a trombone. Panpipes came humming past, crashing into the pianos. On the edges of the charge were nimble drum-riders on rolling bass drums and snare drums. Trumpets blared in rage, drums rolled out thunder, piccolos piped shrill anger. This really was a serious attack by the so-called Music Makers: the air was full of missiles and the noise level could not be louder if they had elephants and horses.

‘Look out!’ cried Alex.

A rider on his bagpipes tried to climb one of the pianos to get at the board-comber but the girl reached forward and thrust with the point of her sword. Her weapon pierced the bagpipe bag. It gave out a flarrpping sound and immediately deflated. Its rider fell off it, letting out a loud curse. The girl laughed and shook her sword at her enemy. Then another tried to mount the barrier and the colourful board-comber dealt with this attempt in the same way. Soon Alex found he was having to defend himself, piercing bagpipes with his sword and warding off ‘arrows’ with his shield.

‘Watch out for the lurs, serpents and crumhorns!’ cried the board-comber. ‘They’re trying to sneak up on our flanks.’

Alex turned to see snakelike instruments whizzing through the air at him. He swept them aside with his sword-blade, sending them back into the bouncing ranks of hurdy-gurdies. Massive cymbals rolled with knife-blade edges and sliced into the pianos. Ceramic ocarinas, thrown like hand-grenades, exploded on the piano tops, sending deadly shards of pottery flying around Alex’s feet. An oboe spear was aimed at his head but he managed to chop it in the air as it flew towards him.

‘Look out!’ cried the girl.

The enemy had taken an upright piano and sent it rolling at speed towards Alex. However, its castors must have been loose because it veered off course and slammed into one of the big oak pillars. The pillar juddered violently with the impact and bits of debris fell from the rafters above. Alex looked up, alarmed. However, the support was only shaken loose in its joints and remained fast. It didn’t fail in its job of keeping heaven and earth apart, though there had been a moment …

‘You have to watch those pillars,’ Alex yelled at the board-comber. ‘If one of them comes down, the whole world will collapse.’

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ she laughed, warding off a flute-arrow.

‘I’m not. Don’t you believe me? If one comes down, they’ll all go, one after the other. The pressure will be too much for them.’

‘If you say so,’ she called back grudgingly. ‘Now watch your flank – there’s a sneak attack coming!’

He turned to face the danger.

Finally, Alex and the board-comber routed the attack. They had a good defensive position which was difficult for the enemy to surmount. They also had the owl whose swivelling head and keen eyes helped to warn of any sneaky tactics. Alex and the girl stood back to back. They cut this way and that with their swords, protecting themselves with their shields. In the end the two warriors of the boards sent the enemy running.


While his rival was thus engaged, warding off attacks, the Organist crept forward towards the great pillar. In his hands was an object wrapped in brown greaseproof paper. In his pocket was a crudely printed pamphlet dated 1917, with the title A Simple Explosive Device. The grammar and spelling on the pamphlet were poor, it having been written by some anarchist group whose main concern was the destruction of property and not the correct use of the English language.

The Organist was a tall, sly, sallow youth, dressed all in black capes. He had on a long mournful mask which he had worn for so long it had fused with his face. Now he could not remove it. His pale long-fingered hands were the only parts of his body visible in the dimness of the interior. Those hands were engaged in carrying the home-made bomb he had fashioned. Home-made it might be, but it was very powerful, having enough explosive to rip the pillar apart and blow the watches to pieces.

The Organist was aware that the Removal Firm would hear and investigate, but the bomb would go off on her territory, not his, and he was sure that she would get the blame for the explosion.

Once he got to her collection he quickly scooped away watches from the base of the pillar and strapped the bomb to it, covering it again. He was sweating profusely. Those beautiful hands shook violently. He’d never done anything like this before, nothing so heinous, but then he was at the end of his tether. If he did not get rid of the girl he would surely go mad with frustration. She was the bane of his life. He had been before her and she had simply settled here without his permission. He hated her with venom. Why wouldn’t she go away? It was her fault he was driven to such desperate measures. She had forced him to do it.

It had been different once. When she had first arrived in this part of the attic they had been friends. Good friends. But after a while she turned funny on him, started rejecting his friendship, told him he was not respecting her privacy, her right to solitude. He had argued with her, put his point of view, but she just kept saying she would prefer it if he left her alone. Then no matter what he did, what he said, she would not listen. She would have nothing to do with him. Well, damn her! He would be noticed. He was a genius. Who did she think she was, ignoring such a great musician? Was he nobody? Was he nothing? He would have the last word!

He set the timing device, a pocket-watch, so that the bomb would explode at noon in several days’ time.

It would go off on the very last of its final chimes.


Finally, out of the depths of hinterland Attica came a single, long, deep, resonating note which made every stringed instrument vibrate. A hastily formed charge halted at once in its tracks. Spidery bagpipes turned and limped away. Twice more the bass notes came, without doubt from a great chapel organ. This seemed to be the signal to the musical instruments and their riders to return whence they had come. All those which had not been broken or injured trickled away into the gloom. Some of the mercenaries dismounted and picked up their wounded, turning to shake their fists at the amazon girl standing on the piano wall, her rags and ribbons flapping like victory banners in the draughts from the interior.

She laughed at their creaked curses and waved her sword.

‘You’ll never get me to go away,’ she cried, delighted at her triumph. ‘Tell your master I’ll be here until doomsday!’

The owl hooted in derision at the retreating enemy.

Alex climbed down from his piano and removed Makishi. He wiped the sweat away from his forehead with a rag.

‘What was all that about?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it’s the Organist. Selfish brat. Just like a boy. He wants the whole of this corner of the attic for himself, for him and his musical instruments. Well, he can’t have it, because I’m here now and I’m not leaving. You give some people a little room and they want it all! He won’t listen to reason. I choose to live here and no one is going to chase me away, so there. And no, you can’t have the watch. I need all my watches.’

Alex let the ‘Just like a boy’ go without an argument, though he was wrinkled with annoyance.

‘You’re wondering if you can steal my watches, now that you know where they are, aren’t you? It’s no good thinking crafty thoughts. I’m on to you. You won’t get halfway across the lake. I’ll be after you like a shot.’

Alex said haughtily, ‘I wouldn’t steal from anyone.’

‘Not even a girl over a hundred years old?’

‘Not even you.’

Alex wanted to get back on her good side again, though, and needed to flatter her.

‘Your collection is superb,’ he said, dredging up a few Chloe words from his memory. ‘Those watches are simply exquisite!’

‘Yes,’ she squealed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands, making the owl sway dangerously, ‘that’s what they are. Oh, I’m so glad you came. I just knew there was a word which would describe them exactly. Exquisite. That’s what they are, aren’t they? Simply exquisite. Superb and exquisite.’

That he had pleased her was beyond doubt. But he still had to try to find Mr Grantham’s watch. That’s what he’d come for.

‘A hundred years old,’ he said, looking into her clear blue eyes. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘More than,’ she replied. ‘I came up here when I was at a Board School. But they used to tease me a lot, because I didn’t know who my father was, so I stayed up here. Been here ever since.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘I could go back. It would be as if I never came in the first place. But I don’t want to be teased again.’

‘But a hundred years!’

‘I know.’ She sighed, adoring him for his sympathy. ‘I know you think it’s horrid. A hundred years in a dusty attic. But it’s my home and I love it here. You wouldn’t understand.’

Alex blurted, ‘But I do.’

‘I might go back, one day.’

‘You should. Your mother will be missing you.’

‘Not really. That’s the beauty of it. I’ll only have been gone a few seconds. Strange isn’t it, this time stopped. You think there would be a great hue and cry the length and breadth of the land.’ Her voice suddenly changed to a falsetto. ‘Where is Amanda? Oh, where has she gone, my darling girl?’ Then back to her normal tone, ‘But no one calls, no one knows, because no time has passed since I left. Here we are in a place stuck between two minutes, not moving, still as dust in a box.’

‘Amanda. That’s a very nice name.’

She hugged her knees. ‘And what’s yours?’

‘Alex. Alexander.’

‘Alexander, don’t you miss your parents? Why do you want to stay up here?’

He shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Will you stay? Will you?’

He became almost as deflated as one of those bagpipes he had pierced earlier with his sword.

‘I really don’t know. I think I want to. I thought I did.’

She smiled. ‘It’s not all magic dust and moonbeams, you know. It’s very, very lonely.’

‘I’m beginning to learn that.’

‘Loneliness can gnaw away at you, or come up on you suddenly and suck all the spirit out of you, so you feel hollow and wasted.’

He shuddered and nodded. ‘I guess it can.’

‘You should think about it very carefully. If you wait too long to make a decision, it becomes so that you can’t go. The attic increases its hold on you. It grips you with soft unseen hands. Firm hands. You’re speaking with one who knows, Alexander. It seems to me I’ve been here almost as long as the dust. If it weren’t for my collection …’ Her voice had grown very dreamy. ‘… I might go home tomorrow.’

The pair of them spent the next few hours together. Amanda said there would be no attack from the Organist’s regiments for some time to come, because of the heavy defeat the pair of them had inflicted on them. Thus they had time to enjoy each other’s company, which was wonderful for the board-comber and would be remembered forever by the novice bortrekker.

‘Can you sail?’ she asked him.

‘Sailed all the way here,’ he answered.

‘Yes, but on a raft you said. Can you sail a small boat?’

‘Never tried.’

‘Come with me.’

She took him out on the waters of the tank in a small sailing boat. Probably in order that Amanda could move about swiftly and without hindrance, the owl left her head for once and perched on the bowsprit. Once on the great lake, however, Amanda became a tyrannical captain, yelling at Alex to pull this sheet or reef that sail. He might have guessed he would become a slave to her commands in such a situation. When he complained that he was being treated like a drudge, she explained that unless he obeyed orders to the letter and very quickly, they might capsize.

‘You are the deck hand. You have to learn to react quickly. Now jump to the jib …’

He jumped, wondering what the heck a jib was, but Amanda was not a girl to be ignored.

Nevertheless, Alex enjoyed her company, and so far as he could tell, she enjoyed his. But as the days progressed he began to seriously consider whether this attic life was for him. Even though it was a thousand times better than being completely on his own, he grew bored. He was not content within himself. It was no wonder the bortrekker he had met and who had influenced him kept moving. Just as all bortrekkers were restless souls. They had to be in order to interest themselves. New landscapes, new adventures, new horizons were necessary to ward off that corrosive boredom.

‘There are those who’re born to the attic and those who hope to grow into it,’ she told him one day, after looking into his eyes and seeing emptiness there. ‘You are the second kind. Oh, I do not doubt you’re sincere about wanting to stay, and perhaps if you did you’d come to grow into it. But you’re not like me. I can spend a thousand years up here and still not lose interest. I am one of those people happy in my own company. I have my owl of course, and he’s enough for me.’

The owl blinked and climbed down from her head, to walk up to Alex and stare him directly in the face. Alex found this very disconcerting and tried to ignore the bird, but it was difficult when you were the sole object of some-one’s attentions. The owl continued to peer at him with unwavering intensity.

‘Look somewhere else,’ he muttered at the owl. ‘Go on, shoo!’

The three of them were sitting together on the edge of the water tank, looking out over the wavelets that had gathered purple light to themselves. Technically the bird was standing, but it seemed as if he were squatting, since he was all hunched, with feathers fluffed.

‘A hermit,’ Alex stated, continuing their conversation. ‘Is that what you want to be?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t like that word. It sounds old and stuffy. I’m not old and stuffy.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said bravely, ‘you’re the most exciting and interesting person I’ve ever met.’

The owl nodded, as if satisfied, then climbed back on to his perch on Amanda’s head.

Amanda glanced at Alex quickly. ‘Oh, dear – Alex.’

‘No, no – I’m not saying I want you for a girlfriend,’ he added. ‘I just think you’re – you’re really cool.’

This was not the first time he had used phrases or words which meant very little to her.

‘I hope I am your friend, even though a girl.’

‘Well, yes, I didn’t mean that …’

‘And I don’t mean to be cool towards you, but you must understand a young woman like myself has to maintain some distance, some decorum. The Organist didn’t understand that.’

‘What I meant was,’ he said desperately, ‘is that I like you and I think you’re great company.’

She gave him an elfish grin. ‘Thank you, that’s a very nice compliment.’

A fresh draught suddenly caught Alex unawares. It ran its invisible fingers over his face. On its back it carried many scents and fragrances, as well as a few less pleasant odours, but one in particular made him sit up and take heed. There. There was a faint whiff of curry. Was it curry? Yes, surely it was. All of a sudden he missed his mother’s cooking. Dipa could whip up a curry that would have you drooling before a single mouthful was taken. If he stayed in the attic he would never taste his mother’s curries again, would he? And with the thought of that loss a thousand others came crowding in, things he missed about home and family, things that would be out of his reach for eternity if he remained a bortrekker. He loved his mother and sister, was growing fond of Ben and Jordy, and he needed Marmite on toast for breakfast like people needed to breathe air.

‘Will you ever go home, do you think?’ he asked Amanda, as the owl turned a complete circle on her head. ‘You might want to one day.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I cannot. I have been here too long.’

‘Does it hold you then?’

‘In a strong grip – of which I approve,’ she added hastily. ‘This was my choice, to stay up here. You are not yet in its thrall, but the longer you stay, the less likely it is you will be able to go back. You must make your choice soon, you know. To remain, or to return. Ah, I see a new light in your eyes, Alexander the Great, you have made up your mind.’

‘Yep.’ He stared out over the waters of the tank. ‘I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t. I need to go home. I know you say time has stopped for me and them, but I’ve got this image in my head, of my mother crying, putting notices in the newspapers, searching for me. I can’t get hold of the idea that nothing is moving down there. It’s got to, somehow or other, and when it does I won’t be there. I can accept that time has stopped for me, but I can’t get the idea that it’s stopped for them. It just doesn’t work in my head, no matter how many times you tell me it’s true.’

‘It is a difficult concept to grasp,’ she admitted. ‘It doesn’t hold with the science we’ve learned in the schoolroom, does it? Well, if you have to go, Alexander, you should do so very soon. I know of a way to get you back quickly and easily, without a great deal of danger.’