Clocks

'Clocks'


(Sorry about the long wait, the internet has been totally broken in my house for 2 weeks now! Thanks to Lexi for her pointers and to all other who have commented, much appreciated.)

From the first moment he touched it he was an obsessed man. As the minute grooves on the dusty wooden surface tickled his fingertips, it was as if an unknown ghost had entered his body, filling him with an unquenchable passion.

It was a clean, fresh day in the autumn of 1965 and Arnold had been dragged to the antique fair by his Uncle Chester, a man with a thousand ideas that had never got any further than the garden shed and who had wandered off in search of new parts for what would inevitably be another hapless creation. For a while he had stood alone, retreating into his warm overcoat, but then something thrust itself into his gaze and before he knew it he was moving towards the low table set apart from the rest.

A few purposeful strides brought him to the stand, behind which stood a silent man, a pillar of solemnity amongst the other relentless merchants. In front of him on the immaculately polished table were row upon row of clocks - an old fashioned carriage clock with eloquent hands, a modern plastic device with a tacky yellow handle and a sleek black wall clock with whip-like hands stretching to the numbers - each had its place in the rigid formation on the table.

However, one clock stood out above them all. It was not the biggest, nor the shiniest, but for Arnold it was the superior clock and seemed to have authority over the rest, standing alone from the precise rows. The clock was old and made of a richly coloured wood, with an intricate design of the galaxy engraved on the back plate. Arnold reached out to touch it and gently brushed away the dust, all the while watching the rhythmic ticking of the simple second hand. Without taking his eyes off it he felt for his money in the folds of his cords and passed it to the silent man. The eyes flickered behind the cold pillar of his body as if recognising Arnold, but seemed to be suppressed by some quiet force within them. Arnold walked way fascinated, absorbed by the clock and the strict movement of the hands.

As the next thirty years tumbled by, he became more and more consumed by his passion. Each clock he purchased became another six and soon his whole working week was spent in anticipation of the delivery boy's arrival with his latest find.
'Deliver for you, Mr Badger', he would say, and Arnold would unwrap the new clock carefully, set it to the exact time and align it on the wall or shelf before sitting down to watch it.

To be continued...