Blog Archives

To Light, Ignite and Bring To Life

11/2/2015

“Come on, Suze, we need to go now!”

My husband, Phil, yells from the car, sending me flying down the hallway. My gaze bounces from one surface to another; the floor, the top of the shoe rack, the bookshelf, the telephone table… where is it?

There!

“We’re going to be late!”

“I’m coming!” I shout, grabbing it off the telephone table, where it lies half-buried under the morning’s mail. Shoving it into my bag, I fluster my way through the front door, lock up, and run to the car.

Brown eyes, dark with annoyance, glare at me as I slide into the passenger seat. “What kept you?”

“I’d forgotten something…”

“Like I can’t guess what that was. Really, Suze, it’s not like you need it. We’re going visiting, and you know as well as I do—you aren’t rude enough to get it out at your mother’s… or even my mother’s.”

I turn my head to look through the passenger–side window. He’s right, of course, but knowing it’s there, in my bag, calms me—like the exit sign in an overcrowded room.

The countryside passes by, flat agricultural land giving way to the rolling hills and valleys of the East Yorkshire Wolds. I enjoy the journey, but every now and then, when the view disappears behind a line of houses, my fingers begin to itch, and I hug my handbag closer, playing with the zip and wondering if Phil would mind me taking it out for a few minutes. In fairness, he probably wouldn’t complain… I’m just not sure I can take the mocking that might follow.

I decide to ‘test the water’. Opening my bag, I rummage inside, fingers brushing against its side. Bumpy leather, which I know is a dull black, with worn areas on its raised texture; smoothed by constant use. The elastic closure sits tight in its factory-provided groove, and I run a nail beneath it… so near…

“What are you doing?” Phil asks, taking his eyes from the road for a moment, to pin me with an ‘I know what you’re up to’ stare.

I move my hand quickly, picking up a small, rounded tin before withdrawing it to show him. “My lips are dry… I thought I’d put some Vaseline on them.”

He purses his own slightly, running the tip of his tongue over first the lower, and then the upper, a smear of saliva making them shine. “It’s that time of year. Mine are dry too. I should probably use some myself.”

I raise the tin higher, my mouth curving. “Only if you want to explore your feminine side—this is the pink-tinted stuff.”

“Haven’t you got any of the clear with you?”

I know I haven’t, but… Obligingly, I begin to hunt, taking out the biggest item in my bag… so I can have a better look.

Heartbeats quicken as I transfer it to my lap.

After a show of searching, I shake my head and zip up my bag again. “No, sorry.”

Leaning forward, I put my bag on the floor of the car, kicking it lightly into the deeper recesses of the footwell. Then I straighten in my seat, and gaze out the window with solemn concentration, posture casual, as I slide it closer. Lying flat in my lap, its weight comforts. I run my fingers along its length, my mind contemplating all that resides within.

“That was sneaky,” Phil states, his voice laced with humour and, thankfully, understanding.

Silence is my best defence.

After a minute, he sighs. “Oh, go on then… you might as well. We’ll be at your parents’ house in half an hour. Just don’t give yourself a headache or make yourself sick.”

My smile is full of gratitude, my socialising-triggered anxiety, which rises as predictably as the moon, easing abruptly. I glance down at the black oblong cradled in my hands, stroking it with an affection that most reserve for a pet.

I take my time, easing the elastic—slow and steady, over the lip of the case. Anticipation claws at me, almost painful. Until, with a single snap, my addiction is released.

Raising the cover, my lips open on a sigh of satisfaction. The flick of a switch, and pleasure-filled eyes linger on the list in front of me. Page one of seventy-five. Page one of a universe-worth of worlds, several civilizations’ worth of characters, a library’s worth of reading.

This is my kindle: leather case, battered and worn, paint coming off the keyboard, cracks in the plastic and shiny areas on the surround, where reverent fingers have caressed. But so much more: it is a place I can hide in, escape to… whenever I need… wherever I crave.

0 Comments

Time is Silent

4/2/2015

0 Comments

She’d always loved antique clocks—but it was a fine line. There was something about them; their moon-like faces, in polished metal or enamelwork, with hands, key-holes and numbers replacing craters… though the man-in-the-moon still graced the dials of some, surrounded by stars and chased by the sun; the variety of shape and form—sleek wood, the sheen of glass, sombre slate and polished brass. Even their sound fascinated her, to a point; the ticks and tocks, and mellow strikes, resonating within hollow bodies.

And there was one place, she knew, where her passion would be welcomed—if her pockets were deep enough. A tiny shop, on the corner of a quiet road, in the heart of a town she’d known for years, where history stretched back to 700 AD. The town’s history, that is, not the shop's.

Although… there were those who noted that the business seemed to defy the stock it carried, its paintwork never fading, gilded signs always bright. She’d lost count of how many times she’d gazed in, through the perpetually meshed frontage of Time & Motion. But price tags, turned from view, had robbed her of any wish to enter, leaving only her imagination to take her there.

The smoothness of gloss-covered wood, submitting to the pressure of her hand; the tinkle of a brass bell, suspended from a curlicue of black iron; the smell of beeswax and oil; the sound of clocks filling the air with rhythmic beats… If she stayed long enough, there’d be a cacophony of wheezing gears and a crescendo of chimes—Westminster, Whittington and Winchester.

Today, imagination would give way to reality. In the depths of her purse lay a roll of hard-saved cash and her cheque book. It was to be her reward—for years of determined patience. Not that she begrudged the time it had taken her to get here—true passion was nothing without sacrifice.

Time & Motion was everything she’d expected… and more. Mixed with the chatter of seconds was the sound of muted conversation, and the hollow clomp of her best boots, echoing off rugless floorboards. But with the last note of the brass bell (she’d been right about that) her eyes were drawn to the treasures all around. Anniversary, bracket, carriage, longcase, garnitures… all crying out for soft candlelight, not electricity, and bearing witness to centuries of lost skills. The craftsmen who’d created these wonders, who’d merged beauty with precision, were long gone; replaced by machines and profit-margins.

“May I help you?”

She jumped, the voice as unexpected as the person it came from. Her first impression was of rounded shoulders, and a shrunken frame swathed in grease-smeared cotton. This was quickly followed by the acknowledgement of age. Where the clocks bore no obvious wear, as fresh-looking as the day they were conceived, the same could not be said for their purveyor; wrinkled skin, marred by liver spots, basset-hound eyes that held the tell-tale milky-gleam of vision past its best, the tired shuffle of weakened bones and muscles.

“I’m looking for a clock,” she replied, voicing the obvious. “I don’t know what sort yet… but I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Do you have a budget in mind?”

Typical. Money ruled everything these days… even that which should never carry a price.

“I have £400.”

“Not a longcase, then…” came the dry reply.

“I was thinking of something for my mantelpiece. I like wood, and inlaid designs, if I can get them.”

The watery eyes met hers, calm and assessing, backed by eager avarice. Money, and the prospect of an easy sale, charged the atmosphere, and the sounds around her became clearer than ever. The muted conversation was nothing more than a radio, and the ticking of clocks seemed hollower than ever. Once, their sound might have soothed her, but now it only laughed—mocking and mechanical.

How could the immeasurable be measured? Even the beauty of craftsmanship would one day be dust… but time would last forever.

Shaken, she stepped back. Would she ever get used to the flare of frustration and anger that haunted her existence? She should hate this place, where time was treated like a commodity—wrapped up in precious woods and metal; in parcels fit for a king… or anyone else willing to pay.

Such fools.

The shopkeeper’s gaze held no understanding at all. “Perhaps a Gustav Becker?” he murmured. “I have a fine example here… An eight-day, Napoleon shaped mantel clock. It has a mahogany case and polished dial, with black enamel numerals and blue-steeled hands—Westminster chimes, striking on the quarter, half, and hour. It’s a handsome piece, and within your budget.”

Budget… she hated that word. The clock he’d indicated was priceless in her eyes. It was an insult that should require penance. Ignorance was no defence.

“I’ll take it,” she replied, noting how ridiculously pleased he looked, but not really caring.

She’d have what she’d come for.

************************************

The Gustav Becker looked good on her mantelpiece, its internal mechanism having ground, obediently, to a halt as soon as it became hers. It wasn’t the oldest in her collection, but still precious.

She polished the case lovingly, enjoying the true sound of time; silence. The cloth dislodged a few spots of dry, iron-rich red, camouflaged against the dark wood. She flicked them away with an impatient hand.

It was a pity that Time & Motion had closed… but maybe someone else would see the business’ potential?

The Becker had been the old man’s last sale.

She’d paid by cheque in the end, signing her name with a flourish, needing him to understand. The myths had it wrong, and some things should always be bartered not sold. No one knew that better than she: Kronos, mother of time.

0 Comments