Watching the clock…

Clocks are supposed to strike hours, not people. But this one wasn’t following the script. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. Such a delicate piece, glistening enamel, soft curves, beautiful in its precision, every tiny part machined to perfection. It wasn’t an exaggeration — he felt a sensuous pleasure as he gently held it, turning it over and unable to avoid stroking the soft lines.

He realised even as he continued the conversation with the woman in the shop that he had fallen in love. He was aware of speaking but it was as if someone else was in control of his mouth and lips, his tongue dutifully carrying out orders from a different part of his brain to the one which even now was still whirling with pleasure, captivated by the timepiece he held so gently in his hands.

There was plenty of competition; ranged across the shelves in the small shop were all manner of other clocks and watches. But just like focusing on one face in a crowd so that all the other people become a backdrop he was oblivious to their rich variety of faces, hands, bodies and movement.

He’d not seen it at first, had begun the encounter in his usual fashion, chattering away to the shopkeeper while his eye roved across the shelves looking for likely candidates. He prided himself on being able to spot something of interest within a minute; if nothing on the shelves spoke to him he’d politely say farewell and move along to his next assignation.

But this time it felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach and he was doubled up, winded, gasping for surprised air and unable to speak. It was so different, so unlike anything he’d seen before. Where the others sometimes spoke to him, a soft murmur of interest, a sideways whisper as his eye passed along the shelf, this one shouted at him. It demanded his full focus, would take nothing less, as if, like royalty or film star, it was used to being the centre of rapt attention.

And now he was caught, captured in an instant and wrapped already in the folds of its delicate netting. Resistance would only mesh him even further in; instead he needed to stop flailing hopelessly with his arms and legs and concentrate on how he was going to get it out of the shop.

His brain whirled and whirred with the same speed and precision as the movements inside the many cases of timepieces scattered around the shop. Jewelled movements clicked and locked in place, escapements nudged cogs a fraction further along, tiny gears meshed and murmured their way deep inside the mechanisms whilst on the surface the faces hardly moved. He kept his own face as composed as he could as he wrestled back control of the conversation with the woman who owned the shop.

‘ It’s an interesting piece’ he said, gently placing it back on the shelf. He had to struggle to stop his hands trembling, almost had to prise his fingers away from the clock’s smooth surface.

‘ Strange design, very different, bit of an oddity really. Not exactly ‘of its period’, wouldn’t you say? More of a maker’s one-off, bit of a joke piece to try out some new ideas. Nice craftsmanship but not really a ‘mainstream piece’ — how long have you had it?’

The stock phrases, the stage magician’s redirection, the words designed to dismiss the notion that he was in any way really interested, simply making conversation. As if to elaborate his point he picked up a beautiful rococo piece, all swirls and cherubs with a glistening face and delicate hands, consciously not allowing his eyes to flicker back towards the real object of his desire.

‘Not like this — look at the way this one draws you to its world. Makes you want to be taking tea with ladies in the drawing room on whose magnificent mantelpiece it sits! Straight out of Jane Austen, wonderful piece, doesn’t just tell you the time, it brings a whole era of its own with it, makes you the gift of time!’

He babbled on in this mode for a while, weaving his well-rehearsed conversational spell to draw her in, seducing her into trusting him. How could someone who so obviously shared her passion for clocks and watches, someone who understood the mystery and delight of timepieces, how could they have evil designs?

He could tell she was hooked, she’d risen to the bait. It had probably been a slow day for her. Not many customers coming in off the streets, not much passing trade on a dismal Tuesday afternoon like this one, rain coming down in sheets, wind growling under the door to reinforce the message. She looked tired, was probably thinking of closing early. There was a glint of relief in her eyes; she could see the day might not have been completely wasted, she might be able to close a sale.

He pressed his advantage, gave her a broad smile as he gently set down the ‘Jane Austen’ piece on the counter. ‘Do you know, I think I could find a home for this on my own mantelpiece. It’s so charming; I’ve got just the mirror to set it beneath, I can see them making a lovely couple! How much are you asking for it?’

The trap set, her eyes obediently widening as she stepped into it. She quoted a figure a little on the high side of what he was sure it was worth but he wasn’t going to quibble. He’d be able to sell it on and still make a small profit. The key was to get her attention fully focused on persuading him to buy it. He feigned reluctance but not rejection, allowing a small flicker of doubt to cross his face.

‘Hmm… That’s a bit more than I’d planned on spending….’

He picked up the clock again, stroked his fingers across its elaborate face. Paused and then said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

‘I don’t suppose you’d throw in the other one, that curiosity thing over there? I think it ‘d make a good present for someone I know, bit of an oddball, it’d be just right for someone like him’.

She frowned, her face wrinkling with concentration, calculating. He approved of that, part of him was prepared to commend her performance. They were dancing with each other, an old choreography but she was well rehearsed, knew her steps. She’d already decided to sell, now she needed to play with the price. They stepped across the floor, the music swelling, his arms gently guiding her, her feet following delicately. He nudged her towards the inevitable conclusion.

‘I’ll pay cash, if that helps?’

He knew it would. Of course it would help, cut out the credit card company or the bank, squeezes a little more profit for her. Money she urgently needs.

Behind her eyes he saw the decision take shape. She pretended to think for a moment before nodding, smiling as she spoke.

‘You’ve done this before, you drive a hard bargain but OK’.

Then she put out her hand, a strange move, not what he was expecting of her. He stared at it for a moment, noticed how pale her skin was, the wrist almost translucent, the bones showing like a live x-ray. Then he grasped it gently, feeling it feather-light as they shook on the deal.

‘I’ll just go and fetch a box, won’t be a moment’

He watched her tiny figure walk to the back of the shop. Fairy-like, so delicate. He allowed himself a smile at his whimsy; his little Tinkerbell fluttering her wings as she lays down her treasure for him.

The bell on the shop door pinged a farewell and he stepped out into the rainy street, his collar turned up and his arms protectively clutching his package.

He didn’t turn, and so missed the transformation taking place behind his back. Which was dramatic. His Tinkerbell had been cautious, nervous, almost desperate to please as she fluttered anxiously around him. But the woman behind the counter now stood calm and somehow taller, as if a great burden had been lifted from her. A slow satisfied smile grew on her face, reflecting a job well-done.

Quite what the man who’d just left would think when he discovered the real secret of the bargain he’d just struck was of passing interest to her. He’d find out soon enough — and meanwhile she had a life to be getting back to. Let him worry about the clock now; she’d suddenly got her hands full of free time and she wasn’t going to waste it on him.