It is 10:00am when he walks past the clock shop for the third time. He hovers, unsure why he is here. It is as though something within the shop attracts him, drawing him in, holding him there, like a magnet, or a moth to a flame. He shudders. There is energy, a force…something, he isn’t sure, but he can feel it. He had tried to walk away; twice he had made it to the corner of the street before turning back, pulled by an invisible string attached to the shop front railings.
The shop itself is uninspiring, the kind of shop you walk past without noticing. It squats in the basement of a three story Victorian building, discernible mainly by the heavy black, cast iron railings which encapsulate the windows in sharp, regimented lines, topped with vicious-looking arrows. A single steep row of steps lead down to a dark recess in which a plain brown door wallows, closed and windowless. The railings follow, lining either side of the steps like sentries, bayonets at the ready. Above the door a small sign reads ‘Clocks’, a simple statement verified by the rows of timepieces stacked, self-explanatory, in the grimy windows. It is a perfect mechanism set in motion, it ticks on untouched, keeping time though there is no one to watch its passing.
He lingers at the top of the steps, torn between common sense and curiosity. There is no reason for his being here; he needs no clock, the passing of the sun is enough to mark the days for him. But there is that feeling, the sense that there is something for him to discover here, an irresistible pull. For once he indulges the illogical, and there can be no harm in it, it is only a shop. Resolutely he walks down the steps, taking care for the steps are steep and the stone is worn and slippery. He reaches for the handle and pushes open the door.
The friendly chime of the bell does nothing to dispel the gloom of the interior. Its clear tone is soon lost amongst the cacophony of tocking from the multitude of clocks crammed onto every surface. It is dark, and there’s a claustrophobic scent to the air which is dank, un-breathed. Everything is brown, the counter, the shelves, the walls, all wood, undecorated and unpolished. He runs his finger along the nearest surface, it is clean, no signs of dust. Someone must look after the place.
He turns in a circle, taking it all in. There are a multitude of clocks, too many to count, they line the walls, the counter; they dangle from the ceiling spewing cuckoo’s every quarter hour. As far as he can tell they are all mechanical, old-fashioned type clocks, made from wood, brass or glass, no plastic or batteries included. They are round, square, curved, arched, classical, art-deco, fancy and plain, spinning, chiming, un-chiming, ticking, tocking, exposed, enclosed. They create a curious rhythm, on and off-beat, he taps his head to it involuntarily.
There is something familiar about this place, perhaps it is the quality of the air, the poor light, the domination of brown. In a moment he is transported back to his Grandfather’s study, a small boy entering forbidden territory. He negotiated the door knob, large and brass, difficult for little hands. It turned with a satisfying click and release; well oiled it didn’t creak or catch. He pushed the door open quietly, peeked a small and sandy head around the side nervously, relaxing with a sigh on discovering the room to be empty. He entered quickly, closing the door carefully behind him.
He moved over to the desk, struggling with the vast leather chair which sagged on the verge of collapse in the centre. He pushed the chair away, it was too large and unwieldy for such a small boy and unnecessary for his mission. What he wanted was in the secret drawer, the locked one. For days now he had been spying, watching when his Grandfather was unguarded, and his patience had paid off; he had discovered the whereabouts of the key. On a small shelf above the desk was a glass pot filled with coins, old tender, foreign coins. He remembered his Grandfather showing him once, tipping out the contents onto the wooden desk making a clattering so sharp he’d had to cover his ears. He had liked the large brass half-pennies best, substantial in a small boy’s hand. It wasn’t the half-penny he was seeking now, but rather the silver key he had seen his Grandfather slip into the pot the day before. He fished around delicately, trying not to make any noise. The coins rattled despite his care, the key just outside of reach of his small fingers. He searched, perched precariously on the edge of the desk, his tongue poking cheekily from his mouth. The key was almost within reach.
“Is there something I can help you with?” a voice boomed from the now open doorway. The boy jumped, dropping the pot which shattered on the floor, spilling coins and glass across the polished wood floor…
…“Is there something I can help you with?” the voice repeated. The adult Simon turned, he was back inside the dark womb of the shop, the memory still fresh on his fingertips. Standing behind the counter was a man, small and wiry, barely visible. Behind the man the black inner-belly of the shop yawns widely, and he stands in the middle of it like a tongue, tasting this new air. Simon gapes. The man is old, balding with long stringy grey hair that reaches down to his off-key shoulders. He is all angles, teeth and chin, every joint crooked, or twisted slightly out of shape. His movements are like those of a marionette, tentative and unreal. He taps his finger patiently on the counter, waiting.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he repeats. Simon thinks; it is a good question. The man is patient, the clocks are ticking, Simon’s mind wades through the sludge. He looks around the shop, full of clocks marking the passing of the moments in which he is silent, unable to express what it is that he wants. He rubs the back of his left hand, his fingers tracing the outline of a scar, a nervous habit. He smiles at the man.
“You’ve got a lot of clocks here.” he says
“Yes.”
“Erm, you make them yourself?”
The man tipped his head to one side, a clockwork action. “Some of them.”
“Really, that’s great!” Simon flailed, “My Dad always wanted me to learn to make things…with my hands, you know…” he tails off. The scar on his hand burns with the memory.
He was nine years old. It was summer and he was outside in the garden. His parents were inside, arguing as they often did these days. He had taken his father’s tools from the shed and was sat on the flagged patio attempting to shape a block of wood into something, he wasn’t sure what yet. In the background his parents’ voices batted back and forth. He struggled with a large chisel, banging it against the wood, shaving it away in uneven slices.
“Are you seeing her again?”
bang
“Are you?”
bang, bang.
The wood slipped from between his knees and fell to the floor. In the background the sound of his mother’s hysterical weeping was like a sudden burst of summer rain, and he looked up expecting to see clouds, but there were none. He hacked at the wood indiscriminately. She was leaving. The door slamming confirmed it. He wondered if she would come around the back, reach out a cool hand and slip it into his, taking him away with her, but she didn’t. He hammered the wood suddenly angry, and it slipped again sending the chisel crashing into his hand, blood spilling. His eyes welled hot with tears. He bawled, but not for the pain. After a few moments his father came outside, caught sight of the blood, the wood and the tools. He kicked the tools aside and lifted the boy from the floor, “You f**kin’ idiot!” he shouted “What do you think you’re playing at, messin’ with me tools hey?” Simon said nothing, just carried on crying, blood dripping to the floor. His Dad stomped off muttering “useless little sh*t, you’ll never amount to nothing, just like your mother always bl**dy daydreaming…”
…“Sir,” the man questions, “is everything okay?”
“Erm, yes sorry.” Simon stutters. He gathers himself together, must be practical, in a clock shop one must only be looking for one thing. “I’d like to buy a clock something reliable, something that will last. Do you have any suggestions?” he looks at the man hopefully.
The man shuffles away, returns a few moments later with a classic mantel clock, mahogany with smooth curves, a stately, polished surface, cream face with roman numerals. A good solid clock. Simon looked at the man expectedly.
“This,” he creaked “is an excellent clock for the single man such as yourself, nothing fussy, nice and reliable, not too noisy. It has a nice quartz movement…”
“…excuse me.” Simon interrupted.
“Yes,”
“What makes you think I’m single?”
“Aah,” says the man, averting his eyes “I just get the feeling…”
Simon felt suddenly downcast. It was true, he carried his loneliness like a rucksack on his back, it travelled everywhere with him keeping others away. It wasn’t always so, there was a girl once but that was years ago. Valerie. Things had been going well, or so he thought, but he was cautious, too cautious. By the time he realised it was too late.
He came home to banging in the bedroom. He dropped his keys on the table as he always did, put away his coat. The banging continued. He wandered into the living room with a sense of foreboding, as he moved along the many absences made themselves apparent. The photographs were gone, the trinkets, ornaments, the frilly cushions, the lamps. The room had been stripped of everything that wasn’t his, and a gnawed skeleton remained, nothing personal, no identifying features. He breathed out slowly.
A sudden burst of activity occurred on the stairs, accompanied by thuds and a barrage of uncustomary swearing. Simon headed weakly towards the door.
“Val,” he whispered “Val, what’s going on?”
“I’m leaving, that’s what’s going on.” Valerie spat angrily, avoiding his eyes. Her dark brown hair frizzled with electricity. He felt a flush of love, an emotion he protected carefully, hiding it away. She was so angry, her cheeks flushed, dark eyes burning like coals. He couldn’t touch her, one touch and she would melt them both.
“Why?” he asked.
“Don’t you know?” she shrieked, her voice usually so calm, so soft now cut through his ears like broken glass “I thought it'd be obvious, even for you. Look around, do you see?” he looked, bemused, uncertain where this was leading. “There’s nothing here, nothing of you, it was all just me. Look around, where are your things? Where’s the part of you that you’ve shared with me? There’s nothing, just dead air.” her voice caught on a sob, and she paused. He wanted to hold her, but he couldn’t. He waited for her to continue.
But she didn’t, she just walked out and it was over, just like that…
…“So, do you like it?” the man asks.
Simon looks at the clock, looks around at the walls of clocks, mechanical, methodical, much like his own life. Each second passes regular, exactly in time, exactly as the last one did, safe, untouched. Here he is, almost forty and his days are as dry and musty as the inside of this shop, in need of daylight and a human touch. He looks at the man, alone as he is and smiles, a wry, decisive smile.
“Actually,” he says, “you’ve nothing I want here, think I need something with a bit of electricity, if you know what I mean.”
The man nods. “Come back if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.” Simon says, as he closes the door. He'd got what he came for.
