The clock hound
The afternoon air hung thick as syrup, jasmine sagged over garden walls, and the tarmac on our street gave off that faintly liquorice smell it saves for high summer. Hydrangeas in front gardens were already bleached to papery pink, and a blackbird poured liquid notes from an aerial, declaring the heatwave his personal triumph. Emma fanned herself with the rolled-up festival flyer, stray hairs feathering at her temples in the heat.
“A steampunk festival in thirty degrees,” she said. “This will be gloriously cringe.”
Murphy, tongue swinging like a pendulum, looked unconvinced but wagged on.
We passed the Anchor and saw the first signs of the new “heritage vision” the council had cooked up to put the town back on the map. In the beer garden Kate was flitting between picnic tables, collecting empties while sporting a sweat-darkened top-hat and bronze goggles clearly issued by management. Judging by her expression, today ranked below late-night glass-polishing on her list of favourite chores.
At the low wall John lounged in his leather waistcoat, now accessorised with a battered stovepipe hat. Over his glass eye he’d strapped an outsized monocle, which magnified the prosthetic to comic proportions so that he appeared to be appraising us with a single, bulging lens.
“All right, mates?” he said, tipping the hat. “Steamy enough for you?”
“Positively boiling,” Emma laughed. “Love the eyewear.”
John grinned, the monocle glinting like a small telescope, and raised his pint in salute as we moved on.
A hundred yards farther, the seafront green unfurled before us: canvas marquees, bunting flapping, a row of portaloos shimmering in heat haze. The container café had re-branded for the weekend as Steam & Bean, its chalkboard promising Aether Lattes and Imperial Iced Teas. A folk-rock trio on the temporary bandstand attempted a vaguely Victorian sea shanty at twice the sensible tempo; the PA hissed like escaping steam.
The dress code was enthusiastic if imprecise. Some locals had raided lofts for velvet jackets; others wore polyester waistcoats sprayed metallic gold. One elderly gentleman sported a scuba mask beside military shoulder epaulettes, as though unsure what persuit or century he’d packed for. Everywhere, people fanned themselves with programme flyers printed on heavy parchment that wilted almost immediately.
“Speaking of flyers,” Emma whispered.
We were accosted by Mrs Fowler, the councillor’s wife, a tidy woman of indeterminate age whose hat sported a garden-centre birdcage ornament hot-glued to its brim, the plastic canary inside chirping every few seconds. She pressed a leaflet into my hand.
“Do explore the Innovation Gazebo,” she trilled, eyes slightly too bright. “We have a steam-powered quinoa cooker!”
Before I could reply with a gag about an old boiler, she bustled away, hat chirping maniacally.
Nigel’s stall occupied a shady corner, if anything could be described as shady at three-thirty in a July heatwave. A brass-edged sign read Curiosa & Clockwork – Authentic Victoriana. At its centre stood his pièce de résistance: seven articulate cat skeletons arranged round a tiny crankshaft. A lever sent them turning in slow pirouette beneath lashings of faux copper tubing.
“Behold — the Perpetual Purr-petuum!” Nigel declared when he spotted us.
Emma blinked. “Kinetic Victoriana?”
“Absolutely. All recycled, too. Sustainability is the new sepia.”
Murphy gave the tableau a sniff and sneezed, unimpressed.
Beyond Nigel’s tent a chalkboard announced:
CLOCKWORK CANINES PARADE – 14:00
Brass-sprayed dog goggles dangled from hooks, two pounds a pair. Emma tugged my elbow in warning, but too late: Ronnie emerged from behind the stall holding a set sized for a spaniel.
“Perfect timing!” he beamed. “Dog of the hour.”
He buckled the apparatus around Murphy’s head before we could protest. The contraption featured fake gear wheels and novelty miniature windscreen wipers repurposed into clock hands.
“What do you think?” Ronnie asked Emma, eyes twinkling.
Emma’s composure crumpled into helpless laughter. “It’s… exceedingly risqué. I mean, he’s a clock hound, isn’t he?”
“Exactly!” Ronnie said, missing — or ignoring — the innuendo.
At the parade line-up a dachshund clanked past in plate armour like a miniature dreadnought. A lurcher hauled a papier-mâché airship on wheels, its owner furiously hand-cranking a propeller. Murphy, spurred on by Ronnie’s encouragement, trotted forward in jittery circles, goggles slightly askew but clock hands cranking valiantly. The crowd whooped. Children pointed. Alex the introvert receded; Emma basked in the silliness.
No prizes were at stake, yet Ronnie campaigned as if Westminster depended on it, extolling “the town’s inaugural canine chronometer.” The judge — a teenage volunteer sweating under felt tail-coat — took meticulous notes with a quill biro. Eventually he declared the lurcher-airship the honourable winner, the armour-plated dachshund runner-up, and Murphy recipient of a special commendation for “rotational flourish.” Ronnie bowed so deeply his goggles slipped over his nose; Emma applauded until tears tracked the edge of her sunglasses.
As sun began to settle westward, brass fittings caught amber light, and even the polyester waistcoats acquired a burnished glow. The shanty band segued into a ragtime rendition of Starman that worked better than it should have. We bought iced teas from Steam & Bean — plastic cups, brass-coloured lids — and toasted the councillor’s half-baked but oddly cheerful experiment.
“I thought this would be dire,” Emma admitted. “But it’s sort of… charming?”
“It does seem as though you can bolt faux Victorian brass on just about anything and people will pay four quid for a latte,” I concurred.
“Five,” she corrected, showing the chalkboard. Even irony had inflation.
As the music wound down the brass props dulled from coppery glitter to muted rose. Stalls folded; bunting sagged. Mrs Fowler marched past again, canary still chirping, already planning next year. Nigel crated his revolving cats with care; Ronnie reappeared waving loose dog-goggles.
“Souvenir?” he asked.
“Only if you disinfect them,” Emma laughed, sliding her arm through mine.
We strolled home through air that smelled of hot creosote and late roses. Behind us, the green faded into twilight, goggles and bunting packed away like carnival props, waiting for the next bright idea to call them back into service.