Mathias Ardizzone - The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

‘For psychological reasons, I expect. To protect you from her own demons, as many parents do, one way or another.’

‘Look, you don’t understand this kind of medicine, it’s as simple as that. At least now I realise why she always insisted I got my heart looked after by clockmakers and not doctors.’

‘I know it’s a shock to wake up to this. But if you plan to live a real life at all, then you’ve got to stop getting wound up – if you’ll forgive the pun – by all this nonsense.’

‘I don’t believe you for a single second.’

‘And that’s a perfectly normal reaction. You’ve believed in this cuckoo-clock heart story all your life.’

‘How do you know about my life?’

‘I’ve read about it . . . Méliès wrote your story down in this book.’

The Man Who Was No Hoax, it says on the cover. I leaf through it quickly: our epic journey across Europe; Granada; meeting up with Miss Acacia; Joe’s comeback . . .

‘Don’t read the end right away,’ she admonishes me.

‘Why not?’

‘First, you need to get used to the idea that your life isn’t linked to your clock. That’s the only way for you to change the ending of this book.’

‘I could never believe that, let alone accept it.’

‘You lost Miss Acacia because of your iron belief in your wooden heart.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

‘You might have realised what was going on, if the story of your heart wasn’t anchored so deeply inside you . . . But you must believe me now. Right, now you can go ahead and read the third section of the book, if you like, even though it’ll be painful for you. One day, you’ll be able to put all this behind you.’

‘Why did Méliès never tell me?’

‘Méliès said you weren’t ready to hear it yet, psychologically speaking. He deemed it too dangerous to reveal the truth to you on the evening of the “accident”, given your state of shock by the time you’d made it back to the workshop. He blamed himself dreadfully for not having told you before . . . I think he got seduced by the idea of your cuckoo-clock heart. It doesn’t take much for him to believe in the impossible. It cheered him up to watch you becoming a grown man with such complete belief . . . until that tragic night.’

‘I don’t want those memories dredged up for the time being.’

‘I understand, but I do need to talk to you about what happened immediately afterwards . . . Would you like something to drink?’

‘Yes, please; but not alcohol, my head still hurts.’

While the nurse goes in search of something to help me recover from my emotional overload, I look at my battered old heart on the bedside table, then the new clock under my crumpled pyjamas. A metal dial, with clock hands protected by a pane of glass. A sort of bicycle bell sits on top of the number twelve. The clock feels scratchy, as if somebody else’s heart has been grafted on to me. I wonder what that strange woman in white is going to try and make me believe next.

‘While Méliès headed off into town that day, to find a clock that would temporarily calm you,’ she says, ‘you tried to wind up your broken clock. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes, vaguely.’

‘From what Méliès described to me, you were virtually unconscious and bleeding heavily.’

‘Yes, my head was spinning, I could feel myself being dragged down . . .’

‘You suffered internal bleeding. When Méliès realised this, he suddenly thought of his old friend, Jehanne d’Ancy, and came in great haste to find me. He might have forgotten my kisses all too quickly, but he always remembered my nursing talents. I was able to stem your haemorrhaging just in time, but you didn’t regain consciousness. He still wanted to carry out the operation he’d promised you. He said you’d wake up in a better psychological state if you had a new clock. Call it an act of superstition on his part. He was terrified of you dying.’

I listen to her tell my story; she could be giving me news about somebody I once dimly knew. It’s difficult to connect these wild imaginings with my own reality.

‘I was terribly in love with Méliès, even if it was unrequited. That was why I chose to take care of you at first, to stay in touch with him. Then I grew attached to your character as I read The Man Who Was No Hoax. I’ve been immersed in your story ever since, in every sense. I’ve watched over you from the day of your accident.’

I’m completely taken aback. My blood is pumping strange lighthouse signals into the right side of my brain. It could be true. It could be true.

‘According to Méliès, you destroyed your heart in front of Miss Acacia. You wanted to show her how much you were suffering, and at the same time how much you loved her. It was a rash and desperate act. But you were just a boy then – worse, a young man with childish dreams, who survived by muddling dreams and reality.’

‘I still was that childish teenager, until a few minutes ago . . .’

‘No, that stopped when you decided to let go of your old heart. And that’s precisely what Madeleine was frightened of: you growing up.’

The more I repeat the word ‘impossible’, the more ‘possible’ it sounds inside my head.

‘I’m only telling you what I’ve read about you in the book Méliès wrote. He gave it to me just before setting off for Paris.’

I open the book again. I read how, while I was sleeping, letters arrived for me from Edinburgh. That Méliès wrote to Dr Madeleine to explain everything that had happened. But the letter that came back was penned by Arthur. Then I read the news that, secretly, I had always been half dreading:

The morning that wee Jack left us, Luna, Anna and I returned to the top o’ the mountain to find the door to the house half-open and no one in sight. Madeleine’s workshop was destroyed, ye’d think a storm had just swept thro’ it. All o’ her boxes had been opened and even the cat had gone.

We set off in search o’ Madeleine, finally tracking her down to St Calford’s prison. During the few minutes we had wi’ her, she explained that the police had arrested her just after our departure, but that we shouldnae worry, it wasn’t the first time she’d been banged up, and everything would sort itself out in the end.

I’d like to be able to write that she was released, I’d like to be able to tell ye that she cooks with one hand while mending somebody with the other, and that, even though she misses wee Jack, she’s bearing up. But later that same day Madeleine left us. She set out on a journey from which she’ll never return. She left her body behind in prison and set her heart free.

I know this news will hit wee Jack hard. But, dear Méliès, I must ask you to let him know that even in the depths of sadness, he must never forget that he gave Madeleine the joy o’ being a real mother. That was her life’s dream. Ye ken what I mean?

We sent the news by Luna’s pigeon, but when the letter got lost our nerve failed us. Bloody bird! That wee Jack still believed Madeleine to be alive was too much for us to bear, but we weren’t yet strong enough to tell him the truth. And now Jack is also sleeping . . . Och, Méliès, I’ll try not to reread this letter, otherwise I might never have the courage to send it to you.

Anna, Luna and I wish wee Jack all the strength he needs to recover from his ordeals, and hope that he will one day understand Madeleine’s – and our – need to shield him from the wicked world.

Arthur

PS—Dinnae forget to sing ‘Oh when the Saints!’ to wee Jack.

Silence.

‘When is Méliès coming back?’

‘I don’t think he’ll ever come back. He’s the father of two children now, and he’s working hard on his idea of photography in motion.’