The Clock That Came With The House ( VILLAGE TALES Ep. 2 )

Ever moved into a house, and can’t get rid of something that came with it? 

Something that doesn’t want to leave? Things have feelings too.

Gerald Hopkins had not long moved into our village when the landlord of the Drum pointed him out to me,

‘You know a bit about clocks,’ he said, pulling my pint, ‘have a word with that chap, Gerald is his name, he wants to get rid of one.’

He nodded in the direction of a disheveled looking chap of about fifty seated in the small dining area off of the main bar. By what was left on his plate he had attempted some of Dave’s excellent fish and chips and failed, giving me the impression he was not a well man. 

Clocks either work with very little effort, mostly having been overwound, or they never work at all, or at least not reliably. With so many other ways to tell the precise time, clocks are more about decoration than a reliable time-piece. I approached Gerald and he looked up,

‘Dave says you want to sell a clock?’

‘Dave?’

‘The landlord,’ I replied and introduced myself.

‘Mmmm, sell?  I just want to get rid of one.’

I suggested that if he wanted just to get rid of a clock, much like anything else, there’s the local recycling centre.

‘Ive been trying but  . . . ‘

Just then Dolly, the landlord’s daughter, came and cleared the table and asked Gerald if he wanted anything else?

‘Just some peace and quiet,’ was his reply, for which he then apologised.

‘You’d better explain,’ I said as Dolly left.

‘It came with the house,’ he started, ‘I moved into Stables Cottage about three weeks ago and it’s driving me mad.’

He described the clock as having a decrepit wooden case that was falling apart and possessed no redeeming features. 

‘Is it a chimer?’ I asked to which his face grew quite pale before it sank into his hands. 

‘It never bloody stops,’ was all I could make out from his mumble.

‘You’ve tried stopping the pendulum?’

‘Of course, and removing it.’

‘Well,’ I was about to point out that a pendulum clock cannot operate without it’s pendulum when he interrupted me,

‘You don’t understand. If I do anything to stop it, all hell breaks loose. If I move it outside it’s the same. The clock has to be in the house, chiming, chiming, bloody chiming.’

He went on to explain the various events that had occurred every time he had tried to stop the clock or had removed it. It was a temptation to suggest the events were merely co-incidental, however, it can be dangerous to belittle someone’s anxiety especially when they are over six foot and built like a prop forward. So I resisted.

‘Have you been in touch with the previous owners,’ I asked, to which he said he had but they were no help. All they said was it came with the house when they bought it and they had no problem with it.

‘I didn’t believe them,’ he added and then told me that they had only been in the village for nine months, which I knew, but had said it didn’t suit them being so near the pub.

‘But they weren’t.’

‘Exactly,’ he agreed.

We had by this time removed to the bar. I was considering whether I could really be of any help when he suggested another pint, and I thought it churlish to refuse. Once served I thought I should make further conversation.

‘Is the chiming so bad?’ I asked.

‘I took one look at the clock,’ he went on, ‘and took an instant dislike to it. I could see the two holes in the face and knew that it was a chimer. I’m a light sleeper and the last thing I needed in the middle of the night was a clock chiming to remind me how little sleep I’d had or how little time there was left for me to have any more. So I took it outside and put it in the garage. I’d just got into bed when there was an almighty crash downstairs. A Chinese vase was lying in pieces on the floor. I wondered whether a cat had got in, or the place had rats. I went back to bed and I was about to drift off when I could hear the distant chiming, each chime louder than the one before. I looked at my watch, it was midnight. Then the thought of a single chime gradually approaching, the inevitability of it, each second getting closer to another minute, each minute getting closer to the hour. Then the next hour, and the next. Every second a tease, every minute a torment. I tried to think of something else, I turned on the world service, something about the Jurassic coast and the millions of years, the millions of years. After what seemed to be one, I thought perhaps the clock has eventually stopped. I thanked God, but then the suspense kept me awake until I had to look at my watch again, it was only three minutes past. Time was almost standing still.'

He took a drink of his beer. 

‘And this has been going on ever since you moved in?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘I’ve taken to sleeping in the car.’

‘Where is the clock now?’I asked.

‘In the house. Initially I put it in the scullery where it’s chiming was almost inaudible but when it’s quiet its almost like the whole house resounds to the tick - tock - ticking. Then the chiming . . . 

‘You have you stopped the pendulum?’ I asked him again.

‘It doesn’t stop it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly that. I stop the pendulum, I close the back, or leave it open. No sooner have I taken a step away I hear it tick, tock, tick, tock.’

‘Have you tried to remove the pendulum?’

‘Three times. Each time I suffered a badly cut finger. When I used some gloves I did it but the same things start happening as if I’d moved it outside. Doors jam, windows fly open, things break, anything that can go wrong does. I can drop something and spend hours looking for it, but it’s nowhere. Nothing ever seems to be where I’ve left it. I think I’m going mad.’

I have edited some of the more bizarre occurrences out of politeness to him and as an attempt to retain some credibility. I suggested that it might be a good idea if I had a look at the clock and we adjourned to Stables Cottage.

Rooms were as he had described full of unpacked boxes, broken bits and pieces in piles on shelves, presumably where they once resided in one piece now they were in several. Saddest of all was the Chinese vase he had mentioned, a Famille Rose porcelain and quite valuable when it was intact. Beside what was left of the vase was a clock the case of which threatened, at any moment, to fall into pieces. Any inlay had been lost and almost all the veneer was gone from the front, the bare wooden structure, now visible, was coming apart at the joints. It had never been an expensive piece, now it was worth nothing. The bow topped glass front was intact and the face needed a good clean. Marks around the winding holes showed that it had been much used and maybe by someone with poor eyesight. Perhaps, like many things, much loved in its time.

‘It’s looking rather sorry for itself,’ I observed.

‘I hate the thing. I can’t live with it, can’t get rid of it.’

He then recalled an event, which discretion prevents me from relating, and warned that the next time it could be his last.

Sometimes a chance remark is not chance at all, but a message, from where and by whom it doesn’t matter. ‘Looking pretty sorry for itself,’ was the remark. I have a theory about such things and it led me to make a suggestion,

‘Can we separate the case from the mechanism?’ I asked.

He didn’t know so I turned the clock around to look inside. As suspected, like most clocks, the working parts are easily removed. This was done and I asked Gerald to get me a box that I can carry the case in, and any bits that fall off. Really I needed to get rid of him whilst a did something that shall for the moment, remain a secret in case my sanity too falls under suspicion.

Gerald returned and I put the case into the box provided.

‘What would it be worth to you to have your problem solved?’ I asked him.

‘A great deal,’ he replied.

‘Very well,’ I said, ‘this is what we’ll do. I will have the case looked at, not a full restoration, that won’t be necessary. If it solves your problem will you pay for the work? If it doesn’t, I will pay. Is that okay?’

He nodded.

Gerald was sceptical that repairing the case might put an end to the trouble he, and presumably the previous owners of the cottage, had had to endure. I suggested he trust me.

The chap I got to work on the case needed some persuasion but he agreed to attend to it posted haste. Before I could return the case Gerald phoned saying the problem was solved.

‘Don’t bother with the case,’ he said and told me he was binning the mechanism. I was horrified, I told him to do no such thing. I would be there in seconds. I ran, well, walked briskly round to the Stables where I found him on his door step.

‘Have you done anything? With the clock I mean?’

He told me he hadn’t which was a relief. I followed him into the cottage and saw that the mechanism was just where we had left it.

‘I don’t understand’, he said, ‘nothings happened since you took the case, no breakages, things not working, nothing. It’s all fine, just a coincidence.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘you don’t understand. I made a deal with the clock.’

There, I said it, couldn’t take it back. It’s a very personal thing, perhaps even a belief, but it was when I casually said the clock was looking, ‘a little sorry for itself’, you remember? That’s what did it. We regularly endow objects with feelings, I often thank my car after a long journey or accuse it of being stubborn when it won’t start. As ridiculous as it sounds, I made a deal with the clock, mad I know. If I repaired the case, at least made it presentable, would that make a difference. . .’ Many might ask, ‘Well, what did it say?’ I’m sure that would have been Gerald’s response which I would have ignored. Of course it didn’t say anything, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have feelings.

I confess I did say something of the kind to Gerald and it had the effect I thought it would. He’s always polite when we meet but every now and again I catch him looking at me as if he still can’t understand why I’m allowed to wander the streets unattended and not locked up in some institution.

The clock? I picked up the case a week later. My restorer had done an excellent job, not like it was new but enough to garner respect and admiration which, after all, is what we all need from time to time - and ‘things’ aren’t that different. The clock’s chime, so Gerald tells me, is not nearly so loud and thinks the restored case is responsible, that’s fine. Eventually the spring wound down and it stopped chiming. Gerald rather missed it, wound it up and is now quite fond of the clock itself. He puts everything down to coincidence, but as you and I know, there’s no such thing.

Listen to Village Tales and other short stories from the Honkeymoon Cafe on Spotify, Anchor FM, Apple Podcasts, RadioPublic, Pocket Casts, Google Podcasts, Breaker and other platforms. Written and read by Barkley Johnson.