Circle Lives: Westminster

Pic by By ed g2s

Westminster: Timepiece

For most people, Howard's life would appear monotonous and uneventful. Howard was perfectly satisfied with it; he enjoyed his job and did not ask for more. True, he would have liked to have a son to teach him his trade but he had never been able to approach women.

Howard was a watchmaker. The business had been established in 1848 by his grandfather, Thomas Jenkins. The shop still looked as old as the date printed in gold gothic ciphers on the front. Its carved wood frames looked incongruous, sandwiched between the steel and glass front of a video rental and the tatty frontage of a souvenir shop.

Inside, customers would have to approach a heavy oak counter, behind which loomed a large, tall chest of drawers reaching to the ornate, plastered ceiling. An old, uncomfortable-looking upholstered chair was on one side, for customers who wanted to wait for a new battery to be fitted into their watches. Above all, a glass chandelier shone but did not succeed to shed much light in the dim, wooden panelled room.

A door behind the counter led to a small back room, which served as Howard’s workshop. He only emerged from it when called to attention by a brass bell connected to the shop’s door. In this windowless room, Howard toiled away unaware of the passing of seasons, which, he could see, was a big irony as his trade ensured the smooth movements of the hands of time.

Howard was a middle-aged bachelor, devoted to his job, an expert in the tiny, fragile mechanism of watches but still innocent of human ones. His life was ruled by simple habits: his trade, his frugal meals, quiet evenings with his books and occasional outings with Mr Walker, whom he had met through the only shopkeeper networking event he had ever attended, organised by the local council. Howard and Mr Walker had been instantly united by a strong dislike of the younger and brassier shop owners in attendance and had vowed never to attend a meeting again.

Mr Walker was a bachelor ten years older than Howard, owner of an old-fashioned shop that sold umbrellas, canes and relics of a bygone age. They usually met every fortnight at Mr Walker's club off the Strand, had a few drinks, played chess and went out for a meal at an Italian restaurant. They had been eating there for years and the owner always greeted and served them personally.

"‘Us oldies we need to stick together’ and ‘rubbish, only rubbish nowadays’," were Mr Walker's favourite sayings. He used the latter on any occasion and for everything: politics, books, public places, the business world, the world in general. He had raged and fumed for weeks when a law had prohibited the sale of life preservers.

"What can a gentleman do if attacked by a thief?" he had asked Howard. "Nothing, just bear it - a good old-fashioned thrashing, that was the way," and he had resumed drinking his whisky with a sullen expression on his red face.

"There are martial arts, nowadays. More and more people attend self-defence classes," Howard said.

"Rubbish, rubbish," Mr Walker had spat out and gulped the rest of his whisky in irritation. "Not even whisky is what it used to be, only rubbish nowadays," he had concluded before ordering another one.

Howard could not feel as bitter about things. He had always been optimistic. His father and mother had been optimistic too, his sister Elizabeth must have received the whole family’s share of pessimism. He had always been a little bit afraid of her; she was a no-nonsense girl who grew up to be a formidable, interfering woman. She was a widow now and happy to fend for herself. "I don't need to re-marry, I don't need a man, I’ve had enough of men to last me till the grave," she would say, over and over again.

Howard wished she could change her mind so she could concentrate her attention and unsolicited advice on somebody else. He resented her intrusions in his life but was too polite to object. He could look after himself after all.

Elizabeth helped him in the shop during the summer. It was a busy period because tourists walked in to change the batteries of their watches or buy batteries for their cameras. Other watchmakers would be on holiday with their families and Howard would end up getting their repair work. He enjoyed repairing old watches - modern watches were predictably simple and often not worth repairing at all.

Overall, he was glad of Elizabeth’s help as he needed peace and quiet to concentrate on the fragile mechanisms of the old clocks and watches, but at times she was difficult to bear. She would interrupt him to complain about the rudeness of a customer, the woodworm eating away the counter or how hard it was to clean wood panelling. If he’d let her have a free hand, Elizabeth would change everything. After her husband had died, she had ruthlessly sold or disposed of everything and bought brand-new furniture in IKEA.

Howard sat at his work with a sigh of relief. Summer had not arrived yet and he could toil in his workshop without too many interruptions. His business was still doing well. People needed to know the time and it was imperative to have reliable clocks and watches. Time was money and time provided his income.

He had always been fascinated by clocks, watches, even sundials and hourglasses. He owned a small collection and displayed one or two pieces in the shop window. He spent most weekends at antique markets, always hoping to find a treasure to add to his collection, but it was getting more and more difficult to find pieces he could afford. He would not be parted from his collection, although customers had offered a lot of money for certain pieces. They had been annoyed at his refusal to sell. Why did he display his collection in the shop if he did not want to sell it? They didn’t understand that he wanted others to see the beautiful time pieces and admire their craftsmanship.

The most conspicuous pieces in his collection were a Swiss ring watch in gold and blue enamel dated 1790 and an enamelled watch with a mythological scene depicting Mars and Venus. The most curious timepiece was a replica, made in the 1950s, of John Hamson's first Marine Timekeeper in the shape of a ship with four dials.

Early in June, he received an unexpected call from Elizabeth. She was very sorry but she was not feeling at her best and she would not come to help for a few weeks. Her doctor had suggested rest. Her heart was not what it was. Howard thought it amusing as she had always been unfeeling. He hoped she would recover and come and help soon. He wouldn’t wish bad health on anybody.

The next morning, the door bell brought him into the shop from the backroom to serve a young woman who was holding a packet in her small, dainty hands. Howard was instantly attracted by her old-fashioned good manners and beautiful but sad face. She was wearing a faded floral dress and looked like an angel from a Renaissance painting.

"I have noticed your beautiful old watches in the window. I wonder if you would be interested in buying this," she said and unwrapped her parcel.

Howard held the timepiece carefully, looking at the minute details through a magnifying lens. It had a six-hour silver dial, an outer calendar ring, a plain silver inner, a red tortoise shell and silver piqué outer. He could recognise the work of Francis Stemper, an English watchmaker who had operated between the XVII and the XVIII century. "It is a precious specimen. I can't afford to buy it for myself, but I can find someone who might," he replied. "I'll give you a receipt."

"Very well," the woman said and produced a small card. "Here is my name, address and telephone number. Please contact me when you've sold it."

When she left the shop Howard felt her absence in the rarefied air. In the following days, he forgot about Elizabeth’s ill health and re-lived his meeting with the Renaissance angel again and again in his mind, his long, nimble fingers caressing the red and silver case of the precious watch.

One day while holding the watch, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind of thoughts, as if the timepiece could impart some secret knowledge, like an ancient augur. The timepiece must have breathed many lives by inhabiting several pockets, inhaling the humours - to use an old medical expression as old as the watch itself - of its owners, the red case looking remarkably like old blood.

Suddenly, an image formed in his mind: a dark plump hand, its knuckles covered with dark hairs. The hand was holding a small tool. Good God, it was the hairy hand of Francis Stemper!

Stemper had been a successful artisan. He had survived the Puritan Revolution and gained King Charles II's patronage. Howard had seen his portrait in a book and had been struck by his hairy knuckles. He had not forgotten those hands. He had been shocked by their plebeian appearance as he was proud of his white long fingers, blond hairs scarcely visible on the knuckles.

Howard locked the watch away and sat at his worktable in the airless back room. He tried to apply himself to repairing a handsome French table clock but he could not concentrate. He opened the drawer, clutched the Stemper’s timepiece and closed his eyes tightly. This time no image came. Disappointed, he locked the watch in the drawer and resumed his work on the table clock.

Later that day he wondered if old age was not playing trick with his mind and resolved to contact a collector who knew would be interested to buy the timepiece. The young woman must need money. How could she part from such a beautiful thing otherwise? At six o'clock Howard closed the shop, fighting and winning the impulse to take the watch home.

He found Mr Walker at his club, reading The Times in the smoking room. Howard picked up the club’s suggestion book, a heavy tome that dated from the 1920s. At the beginning the complaints were written with fountain pens, then modern pens appeared, alternated with the fountain pens of old members. It was a funny book, reporting outraged comments about the food, lost umbrellas, suggestions about the purchase of certain wines, cheeses and other amenities. There were no complaints about the dirt in the corners, the dusty books and the table tops stained by circles made by glasses and scarred by burn marks made by careless smokers.

When Mr Walker discarded the newspaper, Howard related the news about his sister's health. "Rubbish, Rubbish," his friend commented. "We aren't getting any younger and some people don't want to swallow the bitter pill. Myself, I can't drink as I used to. My housekeeper locks the bottles away. She even phoned the club's barman. The silly man listened to her all right. They are afraid I could die here, disgrace the club or something," he barked.

"A man isn't free even in his own club," Mr Walker added, lowering his tone, as though he was communicating a state secret.

Howard saw the gentleman behind them leaning forward to overhear their conversation. Mr Walker, who had seen him from the corner of his eye, glared at him. "They are like market-place, gossiping cats," he said for the benefit of the intruder. The gentleman retreated, burying his nose in The Telegraph.

After a hearty dinner with Mr Walker, Howard took a bus home. He made himself a cup of Horlick and went to bed. He was exhausted, but could not sleep. He kept thinking about the watch, the hands of the watchmaker and the woman who had entrusted him with such a beautiful specimen.

The next day he examined the watch carefully. It was in perfect conditions. Of course it had been repaired a few times, some pieces had been replaced, but nothing was untoward. He held the watch in his right hand and closed his eyes. Nothing happened. Then he remembered that the previous day he had held the watch in his left hand. He recalled the Biblical saying: "Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth". The left hand was the unruly one, the hand of the devil. He changed hands.

A beautiful young woman was running around a carved wooden table, pursued by an older man in silk britches. She was wearing a grey silk frock trimmed with pink flowers and a tall wig swung perilously on one side of her beautiful head. The man bore a cold smile on his lips. He looked remarkably like King Charles II as portrayed at the National Gallery. They sat down on a chaise longue and the man presented the lady with a red spherical object. The watch! The image faded.

Had the watch been commissioned by the King as a present to a mistress? Howard closed his eyes again. A boy was peering at the time. The watch looked conspicuous in his small hand. The scene dated from a different century than the previous one. Who was the new owner? The youth looked bored. Sitting on his right hand side, an old man was reading aloud from a big book. He looked like a teacher or a tutor. The image faded.

“Get yourself together,” muttered Howard to himself. It was nearly eleven o'clock and he had a lot of work to do. Unwillingly, he locked the watch away and sat at his worktable.

Howard didn’t call the collector that day, nor the next day. The truth was that although he couldn’t afford to buy it, he could not bear to be separated from the watch. The horrid thought of cheating the young woman of its value and buying it for his collection crossed his mind. He was startled. He had never had a dishonest impulse before. The woman had not contacted him since her visit to the shop. Perhaps she was not in a hurry. “You don't find a good buyer straightaway,” reasoned Howard.

The watch had changed hands pretty often, having been in the possession of several devious individuals, among them a gambler who kept pawning and redeeming it. The money lender, a greasy man who handled money with a feeling similar to lust, had appeared every time.

Burdened by guilt, Howard forced himself to phone a collector. At first, the man sounded interested, then he refused without even asking to see it. Howard was relieved. Fate was favouring him. He clutched the watch in his left hand and closed his eyes.

A little girl was crying. In her lap, the watch shone with a cruel light. She picked it up and sobbed harder. Then, she pressed the red case against her cheek. Behind her, a man in uniform was smiling from a gilded frame. A woman, perhaps the mother, was holding a telegram in her still hand. Silent tears were slipping down her face. "Don't drop it," she said to the child in a pained voice. The little girl gently placed the watch by the frame.

Howard opened his eyes. The scene dated from the 1940s, judging from the woman's clothes. He was so close to discovering something about the present owner. Maybe the child was her mother. There was some likeness in her sweet face. He was so excited he could not work anymore. He locked the watch, closed the shop and went home.

He tried to read a book, but could not. He couldn’t talk about it to Mr Walker, his friend would have said "rubbish, rubbish" and called his experience a figment of his imagination. He could also imagine Elizabeth’s sarcastic comments. Restless, he went back to the shop.

Howard took the watch out of the drawer, closed his eyes and waited. Nothing. He closed his eyes again. Slowly, the figure of a middle aged man formed in his mind. Bewildered, he recognised himself. He was checking the mechanism of the watch. It was a hot day and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

What about the young woman? The sequence of the images had revealed a gap; the young woman was the missing link. He looked at her card: Miss Mary-Ann Howard-Jones, Heather Lodge, 73 Addiscombe Road, Thorncroft, Hertfordshire. He dialled the number. No reply. He called directory enquiries. There was a Mr Howard-Jones in Thorncroft, but he was on a different number. Howard Jenkins looked at his watch. It was half past eight. A bit late, but not too late for a business call. He dialled the number and a female voice answered.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Miss Howard-Jones?"

"Speaking. Who is it?"

Howard Jenkins hesitated. The voice did not sound right.

"It's Howard Jenkins. It's about the watch you left with me."

"I am afraid you've got the wrong number." The voice sounded confident.

"I have your card. Miss Mary Ann Howard-Jones, Heather Lodge, Thorncroft."

"Is this a bad joke?" asked the woman angrily.

"I don't understand," said Howard.

There was a pause on the other side.

"Perhaps somebody is playing a prank on you. You see, Mary Ann was my father's cousin. She was killed during the war when her house was bombed. She was only a child."

"I am sorry to hear it, thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. I wish I knew who did this. It's not funny. Some people think everything is a joke."

"I am so sorry," said Howard and hung up.

He looked at the watch. It was real and heavy in his hand. Was it a devil's joke? Why wasn't the watch buried along with the remains of Heather Lodge? Perhaps, the watch could not remain without an owner. For more than three centuries it had inhaled people's humours and craved for more.