The Boy with the Cuckoo-Clock Heart Page 0,4

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 . . .’

I’m ashamed I even asked her.

‘After one particular day of sobbing, I noticed the tears were comforting to drink, especially when mixed with cider vinegar. But you mustn’t drink when you’re feeling fine, otherwise you’re caught in a vicious circle of only feeling happy when drinking your own tears, so you have to keep on crying in order to drink.’

‘But you spend your time mending other people, so why drown your wounds in the alcohol of your own tears?’

‘Let’s not worry about all that, we’re heading down into town today! Haven’t we got a birthday to celebrate?’ she asks, forcing a smile.

After t he disturbing story of Madeleine’s tears, it takes a while for me to feel excited as we head down the hill. But as soon as I see Edinburgh, my dreams get the upper hand.

I feel like Christopher Columbus discovering America. The twisted maze of streets beckons like a lover. Houses lean towards each other, shrinking the sky. I’m running! A single breath could bring the whole city tumbling down in a game of brick dominoes. I’m running! The trees are still stuck up there on top of the hill, but down here people are springing up everywhere, the women an explosion of flowers, poppy-hats, poppy-dresses. I see them leaning out of balcony windows, as far as the market that brightens Salisbury Place.

I’m taking it all in: clogs ringing out over the cobblestones; mingled voices that carry me away. And the great bell tower, tolling with a heart ten times bigger than