The End of an Era - Short Story by M Graeme

The End of an Era

Michael Graeme

It was a disgrace. At least that's what Eileen O'Neil reckoned when her husband, Tom, came home from the reading of his uncle's will with nothing more than a broken old clock. "If I had my way," she said," I wouldn't give it house room."

It was a grandfather clock, the sort you might expect to see in a big old house, marking time down the ages with a ponderous tick,... tock,... except now it was mute, the fingers fixed at a quarter past two and the glass cracked right across the middle. To make matters worse, it looked all wrong squashed in by the front door of Eileen's cottage, a clutter of other furniture around it, the top of the case almost touching the ceiling.

I was saddened to see it so for this clock and I were already well acquainted. "It's a big thing for a small house, right enough," I granted. "But I wouldn't be so hard on your Tom. From what I hear it was the only item of any value the old fella had left."

Eileen wasn't listening. "I'd hoped it would be the dresser," she lamented. "Tom's uncle knew how much I admired it, and at least I could have made good use of that. As for this,... well, you know how I feel, Mr. Nolan but if Tom has asked you to repair it then you must see what you can do - not that we're made of money, mind, so don't get carried away, now."

Gently, I lifted the cover from the dial and peered inside at the familiar mechanism. After a while, I noticed a few of the teeth were missing from one of the gear wheels and that it had caused the whole thing to seize up. They had been part of an earlier repair, long before my time, perhaps a hundred years before, or two hundred,... who knows? for this was a very old clock indeed,... I could fix it all right but still, I took a deep breath for I knew it was going to be expensive.

I left the estimate with Eileen, but from the look on her face, I could tell there was little hope of getting the job, which was a pity because I'd been servicing that clock all my working life. Before me it had been my father and my grandfather before him. Then it had been my great-grandfather who had sold the clock to the O'Neils in the first place.

"A special piece," he had written in his diary,"A Compton and Son, of London."

That was in eighteen sixty two, when the clock was already an antique -I still had a copy of the original invoice. Since then, it had stood proudly at the bottom of the stairs in the grand old house on Main Street. In those days, it must have been the most accurate time-piece in the whole of Wexford. They said its chimes could be heard on the pavement outside and that townsfolk would loiter with their pocket watches poised, waiting to set the hour.

The O'Neils had been proud of this distinction and paid my family for generations to see the clock was always in good order. It was a tradition that had endured, despite the digital age and the eventual decline of the O'Neil's fortune, right up until the death of the old fellow, just a few weeks ago. It was touching, I thought, that he had held on to it for so long, when almost everything else had been taken from him.

"It's all that remains of the old days," he'd once told me." I could not bear to think of it going for auction, and maybe some fast-buck dealer getting his hands on it."

I understood what he meant. That clock was like an oak tree. It spanned the time in centuries, not seconds. Coming as it did from a more sure and certain age, it deserved to be treated with dignity and respect. So, Tom had got it now, but what was to become of it? He and Eileen were an improvident couple, never a penny to their name. They were sure to sell it and who could blame them when it was easily worth the equivalent of a new car,... "Sure," I thought, bitterly. "And with enough change left over for Eileen a fine dresser to show off her delf."

That evening I was thinking back on it as I sat in my workshop. As ever, the place was filled with clocks, big and small, all ticking away. Some had that slow and soporific beat of the long pendulum, others the nimble throbbing of the balance wheel. On my bench were the tools my great-grandfather had used, and in my hands were the same skills that had been passed down from his time.

Meanwhile, at a little bench in the corner, my own son was absorbed in tinkering with a battered mantel-clock I had given him. He too had the watchmaker's eye, though he was barely ten years old. He would do well at the trade, I thought, though it was a pity I would never be introducing him to the grandfather clock of the O'Neil's. Then, I hit upon an idea. I could tell the O'Neils I had made a mistake - that I could do the job for a half of what I'd quoted - no a quarter! Perhaps if they had the clock working for a while, they might be less inclined to sell it.

But in the morning, when Eileen showed me into the hall, I realised I was too late. Already she had called Hogan, the antique dealer. He was standing there in his threadbare suit, tut-tutting at the damage to the case.

"A pity," he was saying. "It will have a big affect on the value of course."

"Nonsense," I thought. It was a trifle and he knew it. "It is a fine clock," I said, leaping to its defence. "You'll find none finer in all of Ireland."

Hogan squirmed uncomfortably. He was trying hard to lower the expectation of the O'Neils, even so far as to negotiating a straight swap for some hideous Victorian dresser which had no doubt been cluttering up his shop for ages. "Oh, it's fine clock all right," he admitted, begrudgingly. "But there's not much call for them these days."

I bit my tongue. There was any any number of dealers who would be falling over themselves to get hold of such a piece.

Tom was leaning solemnly against the door while Eileen did the talking. "If it's about the estimate, Mr Nolan," she said. "I'm afraid we've decided to sell the clock."

Tom shrugged as if to say he'd decided no such thing but there was little point in arguing about it.

"That's all right, missus," I said, reluctant to pursue the matter anyway. I was not about to repair the clock for next to nothing if I thought Hogan was to be getting the benefit of it. "I'll be taking my leave then," I said, to Hogan's obvious relief. I glanced briefly at the clock, my heart heavy, my hands almost itching to put it right and to hear once more that slow, steady ticking. I couldn't bear to think of anyone else tampering with it after so long,... it just didn't feel right.

It was some weeks later I spotted it in Hogan's shop window. The cheek of the man, I thought. He was charging top price even though he had not yet bothered to have it repaired. If I had been able to afford it, I would have bought the thing myself, but it was out of my league. I might have sold my entire collection of treasured timepieces and still not come half way to the asking price.

As the months passed, I became more and more irritated by the sight of the clock in the window. It seemed almost indecent, like parading a king with a black eye. Still, it could not be long now before Hogan realised the place to sell it was at the auction rooms in Dublin. Sure, the old fella would be turning in his grave at the thought of it but what could I do?

Then one afternoon, while busy in my workshop, I heard the latch on the door and looked up to find a big, burly man stepping timidly inside. He was followed by an attractive woman and a couple of well groomed children.

"Hi, there," he said, with a gentle American accent. "Folks tell me you're the man to see about clocks."

They were from Boston, tourists I supposed, though he had the look of a business man about him. They were looking for something special to take home with them.

"Something with a bit of class," he said, obviously drawn to one of the pieces on my bench.

"You have a good eye," I said. "But I'm afraid that one belongs to a customer."

He shrugged. "Pity," he replied.

"Are you in the trade?" I asked, "A dealer perhaps?"

He smiled modestly. "Just a collector," he said. "I'm too sentimental to be much of a dealer."

Now, I had the impression this was a man for whom money was no object and it seemed inevitable to me that if he were scouring the county for a fine clock to take home, he would eventually see the one in Hogan's window. When he did, judging from the way he spoke, it was sure to be love at first sight. It was irrational, I know but the thought of it troubled me, for then the clock would be whisked away to the other side of the world,...

I was about to tell him I was sorry, that I couldn't help, but I liked the look of him; I liked the way his wife hung lovingly on his arm and the way his children behaved themselves amongst my precious things. This was a good family, I thought.

"Would you be interested in a Grandfather clock at all?" I said, at last. "A Compton and Son. Circa seventeen fifty."

His face lit up. "You have one?" he said, his mouth falling open in a mixture of reverence and surprise.

"No," I sighed. "But I know a fella who does. Come on, I'll take you there. He's a bit of devil, mind and I wouldn't pay the price he's asking,..."

I remember the clock standing in my workshop that one last time while I fitted the freshly repaired gear wheel and replaced the broken glass. I remember too how it was with a sense of occasion I set the weights and gave the pendulum a gentle nudge. Then it seemed as if all the other clocks held their breath while that slow, steady beat came ringing back from down the centuries; tick,... tock,...

I still chuckle at the memory of the American gentleman steadily paring down Hogan's price. I remember Hogan torn between his greediness and his not wanting to lose a sale, finally letting the thing go for little more than what he'd paid for it.

In return for putting him onto the clock, the American had agreed to let me repair it. He would be calling in the morning, when I would dismantle it and have it packed for shipping to Boston. But for now, I just let it run. Meanwhile, I dug out that old invoice from my great grandfather's day, along with others from my grandfather's and my father's time. I sealed them in an envelope which I fastened high up and out of sight, inside the case. It would make interesting reading, I was thinking, maybe a hundred years from now.

And if I was really lucky, people then might be saying: 'Ah those Nolans - they knew a thing or two about clocks.'

I allowed myself one last look and then, with a swell of emotion as if at the parting from a loved one, I switched off the light,...

... and turned my back upon an era.

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~ First Published April 1997 ~

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