The Clock Man – flash fiction
Mr Wintle had warned me his workshop was ‘off the beaten track’ but I hadn’t expected quite so many single-track lanes. At least it wasn’t raining for a change, but I couldn’t properly admire the views as I had to keep my eyes on the road ahead. I slow down and judder over yet another cattle grid, hoping my antique clock in the boot isn’t being rattled around too much.
It was Mr Wintle’s forty years’ experience with clocks that lured me to ‘Wintle’s Antique Clock Restoration’ – that and the five-star reviews for his business. Not that there were many recent reviews, so maybe he was winding down. I smile at my own weak joke, and recall the one review that had prompted me to pick up the phone.
“Fixed up our grandfather clock grand. Nice workshop. Offered us a cup of posh tea, which I turned down, being a bog-standard milk and two-sugars man myself. Gave us a receipt for the clock and I lost it, but he remembered us. Top bloke.”
Being a bit of a tea snob, I’m curious about the posh tea, and it’s not like there’s anywhere around here to get a brew. I glance at the petrol gauge – glad I filled up at my local garage.
I see the corrugated-iron shed with the peeling turquoise paint that Mr Wintle told me to look out for, and know I’m close. Half a mile further, I slow down and suddenly see the narrow track that leads to the workshop. No signposts, but then it wouldn’t make sense to bring it to the attention of passing crooks.
Mr Wintle greets me with an expression of interest, rather than a smile. He’s small and bald on top with a fringe of grey frizz around the edges. The steady gaze of his piercingly intelligent blue eyes, over the top of his round spectacles, makes me feel uneasy. I smile a little too brightly to compensate, and start to babble enthusiastically about my clock, and how it’s been in the family for years.
He examines my clock without speaking, but the place is far from quiet with the ticking of so many clocks, and classical music playing softly from somewhere. My eyes adjust to the dim interior and I gaze along the walls and floor that are covered with clocks of all shapes and sizes. Some are overly ornate to the point of being ugly. I prefer the less fussy designs, with their beauty in the wooden grain.
I jump as a clock behind me strikes the hour and the rest follow suit in a succession of chimes. Just when I think they’ve all had their say, a melody chimes up from somewhere near the back of the room, followed by another, then another.
Mr Wintle seems amused by my reaction. “I have their times all offset, you see. It wouldn’t do to have them all speaking at the same time, would it?”
“Urm … how come you have so many? And they all seem to be working … not broken.”
Again, his eye contact is too intense and prolonged. My gaze shifts to my own clock that sits quietly on his work bench. It hasn’t spoken for as long as I can remember.
“People tend not to come back for them,” he says eventually. “Hours of my work goes unpaid, repairing them and then here they stay. I haven’t got room for many more …” He rests a gentle hand on a grandmother clock and feels along its mahogany curves. His eyes have lost their intensity and taken on a soft, dreamy quality. I wonder, perhaps inappropriately, if there is a Mrs Wintle.
“Do you think you’ll be able to fix my clock?” I ask eventually.
He blinks rapidly, as if he’s just woken up and realised I’m still here. “Yes, yes – yes. It’s probably just the crutch that needs adjusting, you’ll have to leave it with me. Beautiful clock by the way.” I feel strangely flattered as he turns his attention to my own understated clock and gives it an admiring caress.
“I haven’t offered you tea yet, where’s my manners!”
“Oh, please don’t worry, I should be getting back, it’s a bit of a treck …” I’m starting to find the place claustrophobic, and need to get away.
“No, no – no. It won’t take a minute, you sit down there.” He points to a wooden dining chair that has been slotted between two grandfather clocks.
I listen to the tea-making noises as he hums along to the classical music, with clock noises clashing discordantly, and I want to escape.
He returns with the tea and places a cup in front of me. I ask what sort of tea it is.
“No particular sort as such. I have acquaintances in London who sell loose leaf tea. This is a blend of several. Works quite well, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. Not too fruity. Slightly bitter but in healthy-green-tea sort of way. It’s very good, thank you.”
“Now, let me write you a receipt for this clock. I’ll phone you when it’s ready.”
He takes a fountain pen from a desk drawer, and I watch him write the receipt. He hands it to me, small neat handwriting on blank white paper. The navy-blue ink is still wet, and appears to fade as it dries. It’s very warm in here and my head feels fuzzy. I blink a few times, then stand up, the grandfather clocks providing supporting pillars on either side.
“Thanks very much, I’d better get going.”
“Indeed. Times cracking on!”
I smile as he uses his mobile phone to check the time, and drive away feeling distinctly weird. Hopefully not going down with something … probably just a bit freaked out by Mr Wintle and his clocks. I glance again at the receipt to check the ink is dry before folding it into my pocket, and am surprised that it’s dried to a very pale blue.
Reversing up my driveway, I hear a scraping noise and realise it’s the hedge. I let the car roll forward then try again, but the same thing happens. Did the hedge move whilst I was out? I give up and clamber out of the passenger side, let myself into the house and ricochet off the door frame before slumping into an armchair.
I look around the living room but my vision is darkening and I can only see the furniture in shadows and silhouettes. What is wrong with me?
I take Mr Wintle’s receipt from my pocket. The ink appears to have faded completely. I’m looking at blank white paper. I close my eyes, and drift …
People tend not to come back for them.
