Mathias Ardizzone - The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart

Made to sit on a sofa, I await my turn. I’m the smallest model; you could almost squeeze me into a sock box. When the prospective parents turn their attention to me, they always start off with fake smiles, until one of them pipes up: ‘Where is that tick-tock-tick-tock coming from?’

At which point the doctor sits me on her knee, unbuttons my clothes and reveals my bandage. Some shriek, others just pull a face and say:

‘Oh my God! What on earth is that thing?’

‘If it had been up to God, we wouldn’t be talking now. This “ thing “, as you call it, is a clock that allows this child’s heart to beat normally,’ she answers drily.

The young couples look embarrassed and go off to whisper in the next room, but the verdict is always the same:

‘No, thank you. Could we see some other children?’

‘Yes, follow me, I have two little girls who were born during Christmas week,’ she suggests, brightly.

At first, I didn’t understand what was going on. I was too young. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve become frustrated with my role as the mongrel of the kennel. How can a simple clock put people off me so badly? It’s only wood, after all.

Today, after I’ve failed to be adopted for the umpteenth time, one of the doctor’s regular patients approaches me. Arthur is an ex-police officer turned alcoholic tramp. Everything about him is crumpled, from his overcoat to his eyelids. He’s quite tall. He’d be even taller if he stood up straight. He doesn’t usually speak to me. And curious as it may sound, I enjoy our habit of not talking. There’s something reassuring about the way he limps across the kitchen, half smiling and waving his hand.

While Madeleine is looking after the young, well-dressed couples in the adjacent room, Arthur waddles around. His spine creaks like a prison gate. Finally, he says:

‘Och, dinnae worry, pet. Nothing lasts for ever. We always get better in the end, even if it takes a wee bit o’ time. I lost my job a few weeks before the coldest day on earth, and my wifey kicked me oot. To think I agreed to join the police just for her. I used to dream about becoming a musician, but we were skint.’

‘What happened to make the police want to get rid of you?’

‘A leopard dinnae change his spots! I used to sing the witness statements instead o’ reading them aloud, and I spent more time on my harmonium than the police station typewriter. Plus I drank the odd drop o’ whisky, just enough to give us a husky voice . . . Och, but what dae they ken? They asked me to leave in the end. That was when I had to explain to my wifey . . . So I spent my wee bit o’money on whisky. And that’s what saved my life, ye ken what I mean?’

I love his habit of saying ‘ye ken what I mean?’ Solemnly, he explains to me how whisky ‘saved his life’.

‘On 16 April 1874, the cold cracked my spine: the only thing to stop me freezing through was the warmth from the alcohol I’d forced down, after those dark events. I’m the only tramp who survived. All my cronies froze to death.’

He takes off his coat and asks me to take a look at his back. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t say no.

‘To mend the broken section, Dr Madeleine grafted on a wee bit o’ musical spine and tuned its bones. So I can play different tunes if I tap my back with a hammer. It sounds nice, but I walk sideways like a crab. Go on, play something if ye like,’ he says holding out his little hammer.

‘I don’t know how to play anything!’

‘Dinnae worry, pet, we’ll sing together, ye’ll see.’

He starts singing ‘Oh When the Saints,’ accompanying himself with his bone-o-phone. His voice is as comforting as a crackling fire in the hearth on a winter’s evening.

When he leaves he opens up his pouch, which is full of hen’s eggs.

‘What are you carrying all those eggs around for?’

‘Because they’re full o’ memories . . . My wifey used to cook them wonderfully. When I cook them just for me, I feel like I’m back wi’ her again.’

‘Can you cook them as well as she did?’

‘Nae, they always turn out mingin’, but at least it’s easier to keep our memories alive. Take one, pet, if ye like.’

‘I don’t want you to be missing a memory.’

‘Och, dinnae worry, pet, I’ve got plenty. Ye won’t ken what I mean yet, but one day ye’ll be content to open yer bag and find a memory from when ye were a bairn.’

For the time being, as soon as the minor chords of ‘Oh When the Saints’ start to play, my worries fade away for a few hours.

After my fifth birthday, the doctor stops showing me to her customers, the prospective parents. There are more and more questions in my head, and every day the need for answers grows stronger.

My desire to discover the ‘ground floor of the mountain’ becomes an obsession. I notice a mysterious rumbling when I climb up on to the roof, alone with the night. The moonlight tinges the streets of the town centre with a sugary halo, which I dream of tasting.

Madeleine keeps on reminding me that there will be time to confront the reality of the city soon enough.

‘Each beat of your heart is a small miracle, you know, so don’t get carried away. It’s a fragile, makeshift repair. Things should get better as you grow up, but you’ll have to be patient.’

‘How many times will the big hand have to go round?’

‘A few . . . a few. I want your heart to become a bit more robust before I let you out into nature.’

There’s no denying that my clock causes me a worry or two. It’s the most sensitive part of my body. I can’t bear anyone to touch it, apart from Madeleine. She winds me up every morning using a small key. When I catch a cold, the coughing hurts my gears. It feels as if they’re about to poke out through my skin. And I hate that sound of broken crockery they make.

But mostly I’m worried about being always out of kilter. By evening, the tick-tock that reverberates through my body stops me from sleeping. I might collapse with exhaustion in the middle of the afternoon, but I feel on top of the world in the dead of night. I’m not a hamster or a vampire, just an insomniac.

Then again, as is often the case with people who suffer from an illness, there are a few advantages. I love those precious moments when Madeleine glides into my bedroom like a ghost in her nightgown, a cup of hot choc olate in her hand, to calm my insomnia with haunting lullabies. Sometimes she sings until dawn, caressing my gears with her fingertips. It’s a tender moment. Love is dangerous for your tiny heart , she repeats hypnotically. She could be chanting from an old book of magic spells, to help me get to sleep. I like to hear her voice ringing out under a star-filled sky, even if there’s something strange about the way she whispers love is dangerous for your tiny heart.

On my tenth birthday, Dr Madeleine finally agrees to take me into town. I’ve been pleading with her for such a long time . . . Even so, right up until the last moment, she can’t help trying to postpone the big event, tidying things instead, walking from one room to another.

While I’m down in the cellar, stamping my feet im patiently, I discover a shelf lined with jars. Some are labelled ‘Tears 1850–1857 ’, and others are filled with ‘Apples from the Garden’ .

‘Who do all those tears belong to?’ I ask her.

‘They’re mine. Whenever I start crying, I collect my tears in a flask and store them in the cellar to make cocktails.’

‘How did you manage to shed so many tears?’

‘When I was young, an embryo got lost on its way to my womb. It became stuck in one of my tubes, causing me to bleed inside. Ever since that day, I’ve been unable to have children. I cried a lot, even though I’m happy to bring other people’s children into the world. But things are better now that you’re here . . .’