Clocked Out by Clair Wright

Matilda had never wanted the clock. 

She looked up at the elaborate brass dial, and the dark oak case, gleaming with polish.

“We’ve always said it would come to you, Tilly,” said her father.

Matilda couldn’t remember this ever being said to her. Perhaps she would have said, politely, that she didn’t really want it. Or perhaps not.

The clock stood in the hall of her childhood home like a sentry,  sternly guarding the spindly Queen Anne side tables, the porcelain figurines, and the unread, leather-bound books.

She tried to imagine how it would look in the 1970s semi she shared with James. She pictured the clock, squeezed between the Ikea bookcase and the coat rack.  She shuddered.

James nodded appreciatively as her father pointed out the clock’s carved columns, it’s intricate finials, and fine hands.

“It’s eighteenth century,” said her father.

“We won’t have space in the new place,” said her mother, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Tilly will look after it, dear, - won’t you Tilly?” said her father, patting her mother’s arm. 

“Yes, Daddy,” Matilda replied.

Matilda’s father arranged with James for the clock to be delivered. “The chap who owns the removals firm is a member of the golf club,” he said.  James smiled a knowing smile, as if he too had useful golf club connections.

“I didn’t think you liked antiques,” she said that evening as she chopped the onions. “You always said they were elitist.”

“This is different,” replied James. “It’s not like we’re buying it. This is a family thing.” He disappeared into the hall with his tape measure.

She watched from the bedroom window as the long wooden case was manoeuvred through the garden gate and up the path.  She listened to the thuds and mutterings as it was carried into the house. She watched the van drive away.

When she couldn’t put it off any longer, Matilda went downstairs. James stood in the cramped hall, gazing up at the clock. His mobile phone was in his hand.

“I’ve googled it,” he said, without looking at her. “Eighteenth century, made in London. It’s a good one – worth a couple of thousand.” He licked his lips.

“We can’t sell it,” said Matilda. “We have to keep it. Daddy said I have to look after it.”

“Oh, I know, of course,” said James, frowning as if offended by the suggestion. “But it’s nice to know...for insurance.”

Matilda nodded.  She filled the kettle, and watched from the kitchen door as James unlocked the case and peered at the pendulums on their long chains. 

On the first night Matilda woke every hour as the chime of the clock rang through the house.

“Didn’t you hear it?” she asked James as she poured herself another cup of coffee.

“I don’t mind it,” said James. “I would have thought you would have been used to the chime - you grew up with it!”

Perhaps that was the problem, thought Matilda.  

On the second day her mother phoned. “How is the clock, Tilly dear?” she asked. “Does it look wonderful?”

The clock cast a shadow over the hall carpet and into the living room, almost reaching the sofa where she sat.  

“It looks big,” said Matilda.

“It’s a very fine piece,” said her mother. “It’s imposing. It’s eighteenth century.”

“Yes, I know, Mummy,” said Matilda.  

On the third morning Matilda woke late with a headache. In the hall the clock glowered down at her, disapproving of her dishevelled hair and her shabby dressing gown.

“Maybe we could stop the chimes at night,” she said, searching in the cupboard for the paracetamol.

“No, we can’t do that,” said James. “Your father told me, it’s bad for the mechanism.” He turned back to his golf magazine.

On the fourth day the ticking of the clock began to follow her from room to room.  Sometimes she thought it sounded like “Tilly Tilly,”… but she told herself she was imagining it. She was very tired.

“I don’t want the clock,” she told James. “I never wanted it. I hate it.”

“You’re being silly,” he replied.  “It’s very valuable, Tilly. It’s eighteenth century.”

“I know!” said Matilda. She pushed passed the clock and out of the front door. She walked around the park, for hours, till it got dark.  The ticking in her head stopped.

“I’d better go back,” she thought.

She opened the front door. James and her father stood in front of the clock.

The clock and her father wore the same expression, its engraved flourishes meeting in a frown of disapproval.

“There you are, Tilly,” he said. “I came to visit the clock in its new home.”

“We are very happy with it, aren’t we Tilly?” said James.

Matilda didn’t reply. She squeezed past her father, and James, and the clock, and went upstairs.  She reached for her mobile phone.

She had never wanted the clock. She would have told them, if they had asked her.

The man from the charity could hardly believe it.  “It’s eighteenth century, it’s quite valuable,” Matilda said.  He came in a van, while James was at the golf club with her father. 

Matilda watched as the clock was carried down the path. She danced a little dance, in the space between the bookcase and the coatrack, enjoying the silence.

(image: Thomas Quine on Flickr)