THE LONG CASE CLOCK

The hands on the long case clock in the hall governed Martin’s life. In the end they brought him great sorrow.

As a small boy Martin was sickly. Although it’s true to say his illnesses were for the most part genuine it’s also true to say that many of them were either exaggerated or invented. He didn’t consciously make up illnesses in order to get out of going to school or some game he didn’t want to enter into with his friends but rather he thought he had them because that’s what his mother thought and encouraged him to believe.

Martin had a desperate need to adhere to routines. All of us like to stick as far as possible to our set ways of doing things but with him it was a matter of obsessional rather than normal behaviour. He hated being late for anything. His mother had told him that if he was on time he was showing politeness and that if he were early for something he was wasting his time but if he were late he was wasting the time of the person who was expecting him which amounted to rudeness. As he aged this maxim became his rigid rule of thumb which was to be obeyed without question or exception. He would glance at the clock in the hall which told him accurately what the time was or at one of the many other time pieces either worn about his person or dotted about his home. Then his problems multiplied and transformed themselves from obsessions with time and punctuality into checking that the doors were locked, windows closed and set number of paces paced between one room and another before he could leave the house. At first he thought that his wife Bryony had not noticed but she was under no illusions that his problems were mounting and amounting to the beginnings of a serious illness for which he would need help and that he would be more disabled without it than as a result of any other illness real or imagined which he may have had throughout his past life.

When she tried to talk to him about all this he denied there was a problem as many people from gamblers to alcoholics invariably do. Then she nagged him, telling him he ought to see a doctor. He eventually found that she had called him in, ostensibly to see one of their two children but really to have a look at him. “How are things with you these days”? Doctor Levy enquired. “Fine”, Martin said as he polished his glasses for the umpteenth time and excused himself to wash his hands after picking a paper clip up from the floor. The doctor was definitely hearing alarm bells in his head. He thought that Martin should see Doctor Klein, a psychiatrist. In the end and with much persuasion he agreed to do so.

There was much unravelling of his past and the feelings he had towards his mother’s over protectiveness and guilt at not taking his father’s symptoms seriously which in her eyes meant he died because she failed to see that he was undergoing a coronary. There was much talk of all the bullying he’d suffered at school because he was sensitive and delicate and didn’t like rough games or came to school wrapped up “Like a girl” as the boys put it. There was even more talk of all the imagined and real illnesses that Martin thought himself prey to and eventually an admission that, yes he did have a problem with time, obsessional behaviour and strict adherence to routine and terrible feelings of guilt when he let other people down or fell short of either their imagined or real or his real standards which were impossibly high. He attended group therapy sessions and was exposed to small amounts of his feared things and situations. For instance he was made to arrive late for an appointment with his psychiatrist – Just a matter of ten minutes or so – Also he was helped to reduce the number of checks he carried out at home on windows and doors and eventually life became more manageable which meant a better atmosphere at home and a more smoothly running household.

George, aged eleven had a vivid imagination. He told his mother that the long case clock in the hall was being silly and playing tricks. “Well it is very old now”, Bryony said to him. “Yeah I suppose it is. It even smells of the Winter Green oil that Nan used to use”. “Well there you are then”! His mother replied, reminding the child that she had died when he was six. The ticking of this clock, though comforting to many visitors to the house, was a source of irritation to Bryony who didn’t like it one little bit. She had planned to get rid of it and was wondering how she could broach the subject to her husband. She bought a bottle of wine and cooked a lovely supper for them all; even the children were allowed to stay up when she planned to introduce the possibility of getting rid of the clock. She knew there was less likely to be a scene if they were there. In the end, the second glass of wine having given her courage, she came straight out with it: “Martin, I think we ought to rid ourselves of that monstrosity in the hall. It is obvious you are now much better and I feel it is holding you back or at least it could do. I know it was your mum’s and that it is probably very valuable as an heirloom but health is more important than money and if you feel that bad about making money out of selling a treasured possession of your dead mother’s we can give the money to charity”. There she’d said it! All in one breath it came out like a cork from a bottle. He looked aghast at her and almost became angry but restrained himself, remembering George and Peter’s presence. “No dear. The clock stays. It sets the hall off a treat and looks grand. Besides as you say I’m a lot better now and just as some alcoholics like to have drink in the house so they can prove they can resist having it, I think it would be good to keep the clock so I can prove it doesn’t rule my life any longer. Besides that I have other time pieces which could take its place in that regard and it does remind me of mother. She would turn in her grave if I sold it”. He got up and turned on the TV, signalling that the discussion was at an end. Bryony however had other ideas and planned to auction it on the internet when he went into hospital to have a minor operation next week. When he came home she would present its absence to him as a Fait a Complis.

“’Bye Mum”, the children shouted as they ran for the bus. The house seemed alarmingly quiet as Bryony made coffee and waited for the computer to warm up. She thought she may give Nancy, her sister a ring. Nancy was due to come over from Ireland next week for a fortnight’s holiday. She loved Nancy so much. She often wished that she’d settle here for good. She was a lively bubbly sort of girl with Irish good looks and an Irish wit to match. She loved Ireland though, remarking on how lovely the scenery is and how Bryony was mad to leave it. However, the occasional trip to the big city was enough for her and one a year was sufficient to quell the wander lust in her. Besides she loved to see her nephews who were now growing into big strong boys. It hardly seemed a moment since they were babies and now here they were, eleven and nine respectively. She was sure that George would grow up to be a writer because of his vivid imagination. That’d be good she often thought to herself. Then the phone rang and she was jarred out of her reverie. “Must be Bry”, she said to herself as she hurried towards the phone.

Bryony sat on the stairs in the hall. Strangely, this was the best place for her mobile phone signal, goodness knew why. She glanced at the long case clock and knew it would not be long before Nancy went out to help their father on the farm. She pressed the buttons and heard the phone ring. The two girls were laughing together and giggling at the appalling jokes they were exchanging and the clock hands were moving. Then the clock itself seemed to move – To lean like the famous Italian tower, to tremble and to shake. Then a hand lengthened and strengthened. Eventually the clock had moved its position until it towered over the woman on the stairs. As it chimed ten, the big hand hit her as she tried to rise and flee upstairs, knocking her back down again as she rose. Then eventually it lowered itself down upon her, the whirring of its works in her ears and became a dead weight above the dead body which lay underneath. All Nancy heard at her end of the phone was the continuous chiming – Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty – It didn’t stop till it reached Bryony’s age – Forty-five, at which point the glass in the door shattered, the wood caught fire and the whole house went up in flames.