Angola Gaffletter Chapter 6.

Chapter Six.

 

No Romance for Angola.

 

Botswana’s thoughts about Zambezi Lollingfolly arrived like quiet little birds, landing briefly, hopping around, and flying off again.

Angola’s thoughts about boys, however, did not arrive at all.

Boys noticed Angola. It was impossible not to. She had immaculate posture, a sharp eye for detail, and a spine so straight it looked as though an architect had designed it with a ruler. At eighteen, she was considered handsome rather than pretty, the sort of young woman who made people stand straighter without knowing why.

Her parents were quietly concerned that she showed no interest in meeting suitable young men.

“After all,” her father often said, “she would make any man an exceptionally fine wife.”

Boys admired her from behind rain barrels. They tried to impress her by lifting heavy sacks of flour (usually dropping them). They leaned casually against walls, hoping she might notice them, only to snap upright when she looked their way, feeling as though they were being inspected by a very strict bishop.

Angola noticed none of it.

Romance simply did not fit into her timetable. Her world consisted of domestic order, moral tidiness, impeccable deportment, and running the drapery counter. Romance was messy. Romance caused unsteadiness. Romance, in Angola’s firm opinion, was an inefficient use of a Tuesday afternoon.

If she had ever paused long enough to consider the matter, she might have admitted that boys were not entirely useless. They carried parcels. They fetched coal. They held doors. But as potential suitors, they ranked somewhere below polished teaspoons and slightly above jam‑stained children.

The village boys did not know this. They admired her with total devotion.

Edwin Pottle once tried to impress her by lifting a sack of barley with one hand. He managed three inches before dropping it on his toe.

Timothy Blench attempted to lean casually against the drapery window. Angola’s passing glance made him snap upright so fast he resembled a startled lamppost.

And then there was Albert Arthur Cyril Gaffletter.

Albert Arthur Cyril had been apprenticed at twelve to a clockmaker in Upper Wintle. By the time he finished his training, it was clear he had a remarkable talent for timepieces. He could coax life back into clocks that had given up hope, persuade stubborn gears to behave, and adjust a pendulum so precisely that the church clock chimed correctly for the first time in living memory.

Villagers spoke of him with gentle awe.

“He’s got the touch,” said Mr Pottle, whose mantel clock had been sulking since 1869.

“He’s a marvel,” said Mrs Trillbury, whose musical box now sounded “almost respectable.”

“He’s very polite,” said Botswana, who liked the way he bowed at things even when they weren’t people.

Albert Arthur Cyril’s growing reputation did nothing for his confidence. If anything, it made him more shy. He approached clocks with reverence and girls with terror. Whenever Angola passed his workshop window, he stood so straight he resembled a grandfather clock, then immediately dropped whatever tool he was holding.

Angola saw only a young man with clean boots, tidy habits, and a sensible trade. She approved of clockmaking; it was orderly, precise, and involved small parts that stayed where they were put. But she did not, for a single moment, consider Albert Arthur Cyril as a suitor.

If he bowed, she assumed he had a stiff neck.

If he blushed, she assumed he had a fever.

If he dropped a cogwheel, she assumed he was clumsy.

Romance was a distraction. Clockmaking was useful. Boys were… present.

That was the full extent of her opinion.

Their paths did not cross often. Angola was far too busy to attend the village’s social gatherings. Nether Wintle was divided neatly between Church and Chapel, and both held regular teas, suppers, lantern evenings, and discussions about hymn choices.

Angola attended none of them.

Her evenings were spent balancing accounts, polishing the umbrella stand, reorganising shelves, and ensuring her siblings did not bring mud into the parlour. If the Church held a lantern evening, Angola was busy. If the Chapel held a tea, Angola was busy. If both held events on the same night, Angola was doubly busy.

Albert Arthur Cyril, meanwhile, attended everything, not because he enjoyed socials, but because his mother insisted that “a boy with three names must be seen.” He sat quietly at Chapel teas, bowed nervously at Church socials, and repaired clocks for both sides with perfect neutrality. He was liked everywhere and noticed nowhere.

Until the drapery shop clock stopped.

The drapery clock did not merely tell the time; it told Angola’s time.

So when it stopped abruptly, Angola felt a cold jolt of alarm. She tapped the glass. Nothing. She tapped again. Still nothing.

Botswana, passing with flannel samples, suggested gently, “Perhaps it’s thinking.”

Angola produced her sharp sandpaper sound, the noise that conveyed her exact opinion without needing words.

“Clocks do not think,” she said. “They show the time. And when they cease to mark the hours, they must be repaired.”

Her mother suggested winding it.

Her father suggested leaving it until tomorrow.

Angola ignored both.

There was only one person in Nether Wintle who could be trusted with such a task: Albert Arthur Cyril Gaffletter.

She sent a message at once.

Albert Arthur Cyril arrived within the hour, toolkit in hand, posture straight, expression earnest. He bowed, far too deeply, and nearly collided with the counter. Angola stepped aside briskly.

“The clock has stopped,” she said. “It must be corrected.”

Albert Arthur Cyril nodded, ears turning pink. He opened the casing with reverence, examined the mechanism, and murmured something about “a reluctant escapement.” Angola approved; it sounded tidy.

Inside, the clock had collected an impressive amount of wool strands, as though it had been quietly spinning its own yarn. Albert Arthur Cyril removed the fibres with delicate precision.

After ten minutes, the clock ticked again, a firm, confident tick.

“There,” he said softly. “It will work much better now.”

Angola listened, nodded once, and said, “Your work is satisfactory.”

For Albert Arthur Cyril, this was the highest praise imaginable. He walked out glowing like a lantern.

Without realising it, Angola added his name to a quiet list in her mind:

People Who Do Things Properly (and have clean boots).

Vera Muppert had never been robust, but her cough had grown sharper in recent months. The doctor called it “a chest complaint,” which meant very little. The neighbours called it “a weakness.” Angola called it “inconvenient.”

Vera tired easily now. She sat behind the counter with a shawl around her shoulders, her breath shallow and her cheeks pale.

Angola took over everything, the counter, the accounts, the stock, the household, and ensuring Vera rested whether she wished to or not.

During one of Vera’s bad days, Albert Arthur Cyril appeared with a small parcel and an earnest expression.

“I heard your mother was unwell,” he said. “I thought her sewing‑room clock might need attention. Clocks should not fall behind when people are resting.”

Angola blinked. It was the closest thing to sentiment she had ever heard him express.

He repaired the clock in ten minutes, polished the case, set it precisely to match the shop clock, and bowed again.

Botswana whispered, “He’s very kind.”

Angola replied, “He is punctual.”

Albert Arthur Cyril blushed so fiercely he resembled a piece of pink blotting paper.

Word spread that Angola was running the drapery almost single‑handedly. Mrs Trillbury declared she had “the backbone of a duchess.” Mr Pottle said she had “the efficiency of a railway timetable.”

Albert Arthur Cyril passed the drapery window twice a day, toolkit in hand, hoping she might need something else repaired. She did not. But she noticed his boots were always clean.

And without realising it, Angola added a second line to her mental list:

People Who Are Useful When Mothers Are Unwell. 

People Who Do Not Create Additional Work.

It was not a romantic list. Angola did not make romantic lists. It was simply an orderly ledger in her mind, and Albert Arthur Cyril had earned three entries without fuss.

Botswana noticed, of course.

One afternoon, as Angola adjusted the window display for the third time, Botswana leaned against the counter and said, “You like him.”

Angola did not look up. “I appreciate efficiency.”

“He’s kind,” Botswana said.

“Kindness,” Angola replied, aligning a spool of thread, “is merely efficiency of the heart.”

Botswana considered this. “I think hearts are meant to be messy.”

Angola produced her sandpaper sound.

Outside, Albert Arthur Cyril passed the window, toolkit in hand. He glanced in, just once, and nearly tripped over a loose paving stone. Botswana waved. Angola did not.

But she did notice that his boots were clean.

She noticed the shop clock had not lost a single minute.

And she noticed, though she would never admit it, that when he bowed, he did so with absolute sincerity.

Angola Muppert had no time for romance.

But she had time for clocks that kept perfect time.

And she had time, just a little, for the young man who made them do so.