The Shade Clock

Vasco worked at a tailor shop on Lantern Street. The shop had three sewing machines. They stood in a row under the big window. The tailor called them Left, Middle and Right.

Vasco was new. He started last Friday. The tailor worked in the back office. The door was closed, and he never saw her sew.

Behind the shop was a small yard. A fig tree grew there, and its leaves made thick shade. In the shade stood a stone sundial. It never showed the time, because the sun never touched it.

On Monday morning Vasco came in at half past seven. A coat lay on the Middle machine. The night before, it was not there. Its torn sleeve was now mended with tiny stitches.

"Somebody sewed this," Vasco said to the empty room.

The stitches were gold. Vasco looked at the shelf of thread. There was blue, black, grey and white. There was no gold at all.

Bo came in with a bag of buttons. Bo rode a bike and brought cloth to the shop every morning. Bo looked at the coat and smiled.

"The night fairy did it," Bo said. "Everyone on this street knows that."

"There is no fairy," said Vasco.

"Then who mended the coat?"

Vasco did not know. That was the problem. This was the fourth coat in two weeks. Each time, the work was perfect.

"People leave their torn clothes by the door," Bo said. "In the morning, they are mended. Nobody pays. Nobody sees anything."

"Somebody sees something," said Vasco. "I want to find the answer."

Bo laughed. "You are a tailor, not a detective."

"A tailor looks at small things," Vasco said. "Let us look."

They started with the coat. Vasco held the sleeve up to the window. The stitches leaned to the left, every one of them. They were neat and quick, like handwriting.

"Clue one," said Vasco. "Whoever sewed this is left-handed."

"Fairies can be left-handed," Bo said.

Vasco ignored that. He went to the back door and walked out into the yard. The air was cool under the fig tree. The sundial sat in its usual place. Its brass pointer was bent a little.

"This is odd," said Vasco. "Yesterday the pointer was straight."

"Maybe a bird sat on it."

"A bird did not turn it to the number seven."

Bo came closer. The pointer really did aim at the mark for seven. Under the pointer lay a small fig, soft and purple.

"Clue two," said Vasco. "Someone moves the pointer. And someone leaves figs."

"Or takes them," Bo said. "People put figs here for the fairy. My mother does it every week."

Vasco picked up the fig. He put it back. Then he saw something on the ground. A few fig leaves lay near the back door, flat and wet. One of them was stuck to the stone step.

"Why are leaves on the step?" he said.

"Wind?"

"There is no wind."

Bo sighed and looked at the sky. "You really want to ruin the fairy."

"I want to know," Vasco said. "That is different."

They went back inside. The shop was quiet. The three machines sat in their row. Vasco touched the seat of the Right machine. It was cold. He touched the Middle one. It was warm.

"Clue three," he said. "Somebody sat here this morning. Very early."

"Maybe the fairy is warm."

"Fairies do not sit that long," Vasco said. He looked at the chair. The seat was pressed flat. "And it is set very high. Look at it."

Bo looked. Yes, the seat was high. Vasco knew only one person in the shop who was tall enough.

Both of them turned their heads at the same time. The tailor stood in the doorway. She wore her soft slippers. She held a lunch box in one hand. A fig leaf was stuck to her shoe.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

"Good morning," she said, in a small voice.

"You are left-handed," said Vasco.

"Yes."

"And you are very tall."

"Also yes."

"And you have a leaf on your shoe," said Bo.

The tailor looked down. She pulled the leaf off. She looked at it for a long time.

"I come at six," she said at last. "I sit at the Middle machine. I mend the coats that people leave. Then I turn the sundial to seven. After that, I go out to buy my lunch."

"Why seven?" asked Vasco.

"Seven is when I finish. It is my own little joke. The shop opens at eight. I like to be early."

"But why the fairy?" said Bo. "Why not just say it was you?"

The tailor put her lunch box on the table. She looked a little shy.

"When I mend a coat, people thank me too much," she said. "They give me flowers and speeches. One man cried. I do not like it. But a fairy? Nobody makes a speech to a fairy."

"And the gold thread?" Vasco asked.

"I make it myself. I twist a yellow thread with a little wax." She almost smiled. "It looks nice, does it not?"

Vasco looked at the coat. It did look nice. The gold stitches caught the light from the window.

"And the figs?" said Bo.

The tailor opened her lunch box. Inside were six soft purple figs. A few more waited in her coat pocket.

"People leave them for the fairy," she said. "It is rude to waste them."

Vasco began to laugh. Bo laughed too. Soon the tailor laughed as well. The three machines seemed to shake in their row.

"The whole street believes in a fairy," said Vasco. "And the fairy is you."

"A fairy is not so tired," the tailor said. "I only sleep five hours."

"What do we tell people?" asked Bo.

"Nothing. Please." The tailor held out the box. "If anyone asks, say the fairy is very busy."

Vasco took a fig. It was sweet and cool. He thought about the left-handed stitches. He thought about the bent pointer and the warm chair. They were there all along. He only needed to look.

Bo took a fig too and bit into it. Then Bo looked at the tailor with a serious face.

"So the fairy is just hungry?"

"The fairy is always hungry, Bo," said the tailor. "Now pass me the buttons."