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 ...