s the van trundled through the streets of Amsterdam, Ned found himself missing the sway and tilt of an airship. There was something in the purr of their propellers and the yawn of their rigging that gave him a sense of calm. That said, George’s snoring had much the same effect.
Holland is known for many things: the flatness of its land, its football and its tulips. The capital, Amsterdam, has a complex web of canals and an abundance of bicycles that weave and dodge through its cars and trams, but there is one thing it does beyond compare: museums.
Down a lesser-known street in one of its lesser-known suburbs is an almost completely unknown museum, mostly because nobody knows it’s there. Mr Cogsworth’s Mechanarium had sat in quiet obscurity for decades and when the Tinker parked down an alleyway to its side, Ned could see why. The sun was setting and under its gentle orange glow it was almost impossible to see into the museum. The windows were black with years of grime, and what might have been a signpost was so riddled with cobwebs and dust that its brass lettering had turned to a greying blob of meaningless shapes.
“Come on,” said Tinks. “He said to be here before closing and we’ve only a few minutes.”
There was an apish rumble from within the van. George had woken up.
“I don’t like it. Not one bit,” he muffled.
Ned patted the van’s rear doors affectionately. “It’s all right, George. It’s his great-uncle and we don’t want to scare the locals now, do we?”
“I’m not scary; I’m perfectly polite.”
“Don’t worry, any trouble and we’ll squeal,” said Lucy, and she joined Ned and the Tinker as they made their way to the entrance.
“Dear old Faisal. We minutians have a longer lifespan than most, but it’s a wonder he’s still going. He was such a character in his day, always about to discover the next big thing,” explained the Tinker, who was on this rare occasion excited to be in “the wild” and out of his usual lab coat.
As they opened the front door, they were met by a mass of miniature musical instruments, seemingly welded together into a single machine: a piano keyboard no larger than Ned’s hand, cymbals the size of ears and tiny trumpets the length of fingers, amongst others. They were all arranged round an opening in the wall and doing their best to play a rendition of “Happy Birthday to You”. Sadly the brass section blew out little more than dust and the piano was completely out of tune. Little bulbs lit up at the machine’s centre round a doll-sized conductor. The doll turned on its heel and gave a metallic rasp.
“One visitor, one coin,” came the recording.
Then the doll held out its hand.
The Tinker grinned and produced three coins from his pocket.
“You know, before we made Tickers we used to make toys. Great-uncle Faisal’s house was full of them.”
He placed a coin on the conductor’s hand and the mechanical wonder flung it over its shoulder, where it was caught by a flapping metal purse. Sadly, with the third and last coin, the little automaton’s arm broke clear off and the metal disc spun to a standstill by its feet.
“I’m guessing he doesn’t get a lot of visitors,” smiled Lucy.
All the same, the turnstiles turned and beyond them the museum sprang to life. Countless light bulbs buzzed with light, spelling out the words MR COGSWORTH’S MECHANARIUM – WELCOME. The “W” of WELCOME promptly blew a fuse and there was a moment when they thought the whole room might go dark. A voice rang out through speakers in the ceiling with much the same metallic twang as the entrance’s conductor, though it did seem a little more human somehow.
“Welcome, visitors! You are on a tour both historic and wondrous. The life and times of Faisal the Magnificent. Oh, and please do not touch the exhibits.”
What came next really was wondrous, though Ned wasn’t entirely sure it was historic. The walls, floors and ceilings came alive with tiny clockwork people, and only four of them malfunctioned before completely falling apart. They busied themselves with the moving of stages and props, some large, some less so, and all spinning in and out of view in a dizzying rotation of sound and moving metal. Ned’s ring finger hummed ever so softly and his thoughts went to his dad. Terry Armstrong would have been in his element.
“1862 – Rocket-mail,” announced the voice over the speakers.
And in front of them a small rocket on wires was dragged through the air, dropping tiny paper envelopes that the automatons caught with varying success.
“Oh, I remember my father telling me about that one!” grinned the Tinker excitedly.
“1877 – the Underwater Bicycle.”
Out of an opening in the wall came a half-sized bicycle ridden by an equally small pilot, who gasped for air as he rode along a metallic ocean floor.
“Possibly not his best,” whispered Tinks, who Ned noticed was looking more and more misty-eyed by the second. The entire exhibition was devoted to the inventions of his great-uncle.
Everywhere they looked, exhibits went by, lit up by spotlights in the ceiling, and it took Ned a few moments to realise that they were standing on a conveyor belt. They passed by three more rooms with a never-ending display of contraptions.
The Auto-chewer was incredibly messy and spat out bits of half-munched biscuit all over the automaton it was supposed to be chewing for. Mr Moppit was an early Ticker design that had mops for arms and legs but made more mess with its “multi-hose” than it was able to clear up. As they approached the late 1800s, something changed. There were fewer exhibits to do with helping people get about or chew their food, and more and more exhibits to do with the advancement of Ticker design itself. When they passed the 1900s, everything suddenly stopped and the lights grew dim.
“Thank you for coming. Please make your way to the exit.”
“Now what?” asked Lucy.
“I’m not sure, Miss Lucy. I suppose we wait.”
The room was eerily quiet, its contraptions lifeless and still. Ned was just beginning to think that Tinks’s great-uncle was no more than a footnote in a museum when a door opened at the far wall, and a brass Ticker stepped into the room.
The Ticker was about Tinks’s height, with brass eyes, a wire-brush moustache and a round, barrel-shaped belly. Every step from the old machine caused a tiny puff of steam and one of its legs clearly needed oil, judging by all the noise its joints were making. No detail had been spared. It had a monocle lens at one eye, and a rather friendly multi-jointed face that seemed quite capable of turning a smile. And in fact, at the sight of Tinks, it did smile, and Tinks himself looked positively close to tears. Whiskers too, who had till then been sitting very quietly on Lucy’s shoulder, hopped down to the ground and ran up to the old machine in a scurrying blur of rodent excitement.
“Mr Cogsworth!” exclaimed Tinks. “By the Great Gear, he actually finished you! I remember old Faisal building your parts. He said you’d change the world. Said you’d be a bigger deal than the Auto-chewer.”
“Hello, Tinks. Let’s hope he was right.”