Tick Talk Tales (One)

The Beginning

This book writing stuff isn’t as easy as you might imagine. I think I’m experiencing my first bout of ‘writer’s block’ and it is quite scary believe me.

I often find things scary, it’s a favourite word of mine. A pile of ironing can be scary, especially when it contains every article of clothing I own. Dentist’s are scary too, really scary. Running out of coffee can be hideously scary, especially first thing in the morning when my body doesn’t work and my hair resembles the haystack a troop of soldiers have searched for a pin in.

One of the most scary things however, is a job interview and that is where I shall start. So let’s go to a few days prior to the interview first. It was an ad in the local paper which caught my eye.

‘Receptionist wanted. Mature lady. Hours negotiable. Apply in writing to……’

That was it, ten words and an address. No indication of what sort of business was involved. I decided it must either be a funeral parlour being discreet, or perhaps a brothel of some sort which obviously couldn’t announce itself as such. Either way, I applied.

A few days later I had a telephone call from a very harassed sounding man called Mark who told me my application had only just arrived in time as he was interviewing that day. Could I be there later that afternoon for an interview?

It was all a bit of a rush for me and it wasn’t until I was sitting on the train from Poole to Boscombe that I realised I hadn’t asked anything about the business so was approaching my interview somewhat blind and did I really want a train journey every morning to get to work? I also pondered on the height of my heels as I didn’t know exactly how far I’d have to walk when I got off the train at Pokesdown and as all ladies will know heels look great in the mirror or in a photograph but walking in them is only for the desperate or the stupid.

The journey was actually quite short and within about 20 minutes I found myself walking along checking numbers to find the address I was heading for and telling myself I fell into the stupid category (ref the above observations on heels).

It turned out to be a fairly short walk from the station going slightly downhill alongside a busy main road. As I approached it became apparent that the number I wanted, 995 Christchurch Road, was on the opposite side and so my very first glimpse, of what was to become my place of employment and home to one of the best periods of my life, was from across the road and glimpsed through traffic. Dusty and a bit woebegone but with character. I swear the windows winked at me. Just visible were a few round white shapes, the dials of clocks all facing the pavement. Looking out like little puppies in a pet shop hoping someone would take them home.

I was glad to see it wasn’t a brothel or a funeral parlour, it was actually an antique clock shop. As I was to discover in the coming months it wasn’t just any old antique clock shop it was THE antique clock shop.

I crossed the road, gripped the handle on the door, took a deep breath, entered and felt at home straight away. There was a narrow passageway, covered by a worn and faded carpet which had probably been of a deep wine colour in its heyday, as I edged along, my shoulders brushed against the towering Grandfather clocks on either side. It was reminiscent of walking in a dense forest. Everywhere I looked there were clocks. On the walls, on the floor. They were stacked on top of each other. They were in boxes. Every available surface had clocks on it. Wonderland indeed.

As I reached the last tall clock on my left a head appeared at its side. My first thought was, ‘poor man‘. A red rimmed, swollen, pinkish left eye partnered by a more normal, though still pinkish right eye stared at me. I learned later that the eyeglass which clockmakers wear for most of their working day leaves a mark and strains the eye.

“I have come for an interview.” I said trying hard not to stare at this fiery eye.

“Oh right well just a minute.” he replied as he turned to thank a much older lady than I who was emerging from a room at the back. We all had to shuffle round a bit so that she could exit and I found myself looking into a room, smaller than the shop area but just as crammed full of clocks. The walls were lined with shelves holding all sorts of clocks and bits of clocks.

“Come through.” said the man with the eye as he preceded me into what was obviously a workshop.

“This is Darrel, that’s Hubert in the corner and you can sit here.” He indicated in turn a pleasant man with an open, friendly face, nobody whatsoever in the corner behind the doorway and a scruffy swivel chair on wheels which I felt were a pretty useless accoutrement in this cramped space.

Just as I prepared to sit he stopped me to pat the seat a bit, raising a cloud of dust, I mean of course the chair seat not my seat which has never been prone to releasing clouds of dust on being patted!

“There that’s better, sit down.” I had by now shaken hands with Darrel who had vacated the very seat I was now to sit upon. Gingerly I settled myself wishing I hadn’t worn a black skirt which was now going to be pretty grubby if the dust was anything to go by and trying hard not to sneeze in the cloud of stuff drifting around my head.

I tried frantically to spot Hubert but could see no-one else in the room except we three. ‘Probably left because of the lack of space I decided’ and settled myself for what I expected to be the usual interview type conversation.

“I am Mark Taylor, the owner of the business.” stated the man with the eye, which was still fascinating me as at last we progressed into the interview.

It was one of the strangest I have ever had. I think I did most of the talking except when Mark was telling me about his previous career as a ‘boot neck’, which meant nothing to me at the time so I just nodded wisely and when he got in full flow describing how harassed he and Darrel were, coping with all aspects of the business on their own. I got the distinct impression that here we had two men on the edge.

It was explained that they were working from 0700 to 1900 each day and on occasion even longer with Saturdays included! Even so the money wasn’t coming in as it should because they were so busy keeping up with the work they had no time to chase up customers who took forever to collect their clocks. The phone rang incessantly Mark told me and it had reached the point where they were even arguing over who’s turn it was to answer because it was invariably someone asking when if ever, their clock would be ready.

I listened to all this sympathetically. They both looked really worn out and I felt my heart go out to them.

“What about Hubert doesn’t he help much?“ I asked.

“Well yes,“ replied Mark, “he is the rock of the business. We couldn’t do half what we do without Hubert.“

“Okay so there are the three of you all working all the hours but not getting anywhere very fast.” I mused.

“Only into an early grave at this rate.” chipped in Darrel.

“What exactly are you looking for in your receptionist then.” I asked trying to steer the conversation away from such morbid things and find out how they felt a woman in the shop would help them. I could see what they needed but I wanted to find out what they thought was required.

“We just want someone to answer the phone really.” said Mark.

“And do the post and shopping.” chimed in Darrel.

“Make us a cup of coffee now and then too.” added Mark with a helpless, male grin.

‘Hmmm’, thought I, ‘no ice with me matey‘.

“Maybe tidy the place up a bit.“ Darrel contributed.

“Deal with the customers and keep the paperwork in order.”

“Perhaps help out with the odd light job in here. Like if I asked you to take the little hammer while I held something and when I nodded my head you could hit it.” Mark came up with this one and then looked at me inquisitively. Too late I got the joke. ‘Schoolboy humour’ I thought but obligingly said, “Ha ha very good.” adding a touch sarcastically, “I haven’t heard that one before, very clever.”

He laughed contentedly, happy with himself. Darrel just grinned.

“So what exactly do you do here?” I asked.

“Well I do all the big clocks and Darrel does all the small ones.”

“What does Hubert do, is he a sort of general help then?”

“Er, well yes I suppose you could say that.” said Darrel looking over to the corner behind the doorway again. I looked but there was definitely no one there, unless he was very small and very thin Hubert was invisible to me.

“Come and look at him.” said Mark closing the door over and indicating a dark, dingy and very empty, to my eyes, corner. All I could see was a great ugly looking machine of some sort which was covered in a gold coloured glitter and a lot of dirt and dust.

“Meet Hubert.” said Mark proudly. “This lathe has seen us through everything. It is an ancient model but as reliable as any we could buy today.”

“Ah!” I sighed. These two men were taking on a weirder complexion with every minute that passed. We sat down again and the conversation continued.

On a couple of occasions Mark would say,

“Just a minute.” as he leant forward to adjust the pendulum of a clock which was fitted to a bracket in front of me.

“I’m regulating this and need to get it right before I finish tonight.” he explained as he watched the modern clock above the door, looking back to the one he was fiddling with.

“Oh,” said I in all innocence, “I always thought that bit of a clock was for decoration. Just a nice thing swinging back and forward.”

“See,” he practically yelled at Darrel in triumph, “uneducated!”

‘Wait a bloody minute,’ thought I indignantly. My face must have reflected the thought as he quickly smiled and said, “No, I just mean people, customers, they don’t understand about clocks.”

“The pendulum is an important part of a clock.” added Darrel quite gently.

“Right.” said I thinking, ‘Gosh he’s a bit passionate about clocks this Mark Taylor.’ He was obviously the headstrong one of this pair with Darrel being much quieter, laid back and probably a steadying influence.

As Mark continued to fiddle with his pendulum I took the opportunity to glance around the cluttered workroom. It was in a state of reasonably organised chaos. Scribbled notes pinned to the walls which in places still showed themselves to have been painted at some point in the past with a magnolia wash though now they had a grey, grubby overcoat. There were messages written on the walls themselves.

Some photographs were pinned up along the end wall near the sink with titles such as ‘Shipwreck’. This particular photo intrigued me because it was of a man not a ship.

To the side of Mark’s bench I saw a pretty arrangement of what were obviously school photographs of a pretty, young girl. They were arranged in such a way as to show her age as the row progressed. Next to this sweet expression of fatherly affection and pride was one of the rudest cartoons I have ever seen in my life. Hand drawn in black felt pen it brought a heat to my cheeks!

Opposite me where I sat and to the left slightly, was the clock Mark was fiddling with and in front of me a bench which looked as though it was constructed out of old wardrobes and tea-chests. It held evil looking cut down plastic tubs of foul greasy mixtures, with by various ‘Heath Robinson’ means, wire baskets of differing sizes submerged within. There was newspaper spread around these tubs, obviously to catch drips and they looked as though they had served their purpose for months! Horrible black stains fading to greenish/yellow at the edges spotted them. There were fresh, wet stains on old dried up stains. In some places the gruesome mixture had overflowed the newsprint and made its escape down the side of the bench to stain the floor below.

Above this bench on what appeared to once have been a fireplace wall were some heavily loaded shelves. One box in particular caught my eye. Labelled MUSEGIT. ‘Must be some clock thing’ I thought, as I continued my ‘inspection’.

Everything in the room, except those on the two immaculate workbenches, had a layer of dust. I was also fascinated to see, as I looked over to the corner where Darrel was poised leaning against a bench with his ankles nonchalantly crossed and a whimsical little smile playing about his mouth as he studiously avoided my eye, an overflowing black bin sack attached, I could see not how, to a door which obviously led outside.

In the furthest corner by this door and directly behind Darrel I saw what looked very much like smoke damage to woodwork and wall. A thick, sooty coating which had lost its freshness and shone with age. This was strange enough but then my eye caught the dirty, golden turning to brown with a slight greenish tinge smears, runs of something which for all the world looked like mustard! Thick as the runs one gets with gloss paint.

Darrel must have noticed something in my expression as he slowly looked over his shoulder behind him, made a sort of ‘Harrumph’ sound and quickly examined his feet. I moved my head a bit more to the side trying to see past him in an attempt to confirm that my eyes were not playing tricks and he moved slightly to block my view. I caught his eye and with a resigned little shrug and a grin he changed position again; yes, I would have put money on that sickly mess being aged, rancid mustard! Even stranger the runs seemed, if I screwed my eyes up slightly to blur the vision, yes definitely did become, the outline of a human shape. Rather like someone had stood in the corner and had mustard sprayed at them then moved away. The outline was definitely there! I was perplexed.

However, the most fascinating thing I discovered amongst all these pots, boxes, clock cases and movements, was even more disturbing! The ceiling was randomly decorated with slices of cucumber! They were in various stages of decay, some were curling downwards slightly at the edges and others were flatly adhering to the grubby ceiling; no question, definitely cucumber slices and no matter how I tried I couldn’t come up with a logical reason for this. I expect you too are now confounded and confused. Never fear, all will be revealed further in and I give no clue as to the page so you’ll have to keep reading won’t you? Anyway I have no idea where the explanation will fall within the coming pages so I couldn’t tell you now even if I wanted to.

As I mused on the mustard enigma and tried to construct in my a head a reasonably worded question to find out why there was cucumber on the ceiling, without appearing too nosy of course, I realised Mark was once again giving me his attention as with an expansive wave of his hand towards the shop area he said,

“You’d have your own office space out there. That would be your area.” He indicated a chair in slightly worse condition than the one I presently sat upon and which at that moment was home to a rather ugly great clock.

“There is a filing tray too.” he said drawing my attention to something out of the 1920’s. An old, bent, wire filing tray.

“There is a stapler as well.” he announced proudly. “Er somewhere.” This a little less confidently as his brows drew together thoughtfully and his hand dropped back into his lap.

“Whoopee Doo.” thought I.

He looked quite eager to please and impress so I showed pleasure and appreciation as much as I was able. I knew then, if I hadn’t been convinced before, that I wanted the job. I wanted to work with these two weird and somehow needy men and spend my days in this friendly, strangely comforting environment.

“We only have one toilet.” Mark suddenly threw at me. “No bunny burner or anything and its, …er outside but there wont be any spiders in it by the time a receptionist joins us!”

“Oh.” said I a bit stunned.

“The lock will be repaired by then too and it does have a toilet roll holder. The business provides the toilet paper you don‘t need to bring your own.” he added hurriedly. His eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge my reaction. I felt at that moment that my response to his outside loo was much more important than any qualifications I may have but whatever he saw in my expression he seemed reassured as I fought to keep my face blank, oh! how I wanted to laugh or at least have a giggle.

“We have a kettle for tea too or if you prefer you can have coffee. There is a percolator, just over there, see?” He was getting that eager look in his eye again. This man was proud of his percolator!

I looked over obligingly to the sink which was pretty old and pretty grubby but sure enough in pride of place was a percolator. Surprisingly clean at that.

I caught Darrel’s eye as I swivelled my head back to Mark on my left, he smiled encouragingly, his eyes twinkling.

“The toilet isn’t a problem.” I said, “as long as there are no spiders of course.” I added hurriedly, “and I do drink a lot of coffee.”

“You may want to bring in your own mug, or cup, or something. We have some spare ones but you would probably want your own.” said Mark.

I looked back to the sink area. Alongside the percolator were a nice, clean looking, dumpy, brown mug, a shiny, taller, navy blue mug, a once white, chipped and stained mug containing a paintbrush, an old fashioned white, enamelled mug with so many chips it looked to have a polka dot pattern and a thin also grubby, stained mug with no handle.

“Yes, I can easily bring in something.” answered I decisively.

“Now … what about swearing?” asked Mark suddenly, his reddest eye almost coming out of its socket as he stared at me.

The sudden change of subject threw me for a second,

“Well I do sometimes but not often.” I muttered.

“No I mean we sometimes swear here.” he replied with exaggerated patience.

“We will try to keep a lid on it but circumstances can …” began Darrel and trailed into silence.

“Look I’m not a baby I can ignore it, though I would be upset if I heard the F or C words bandied about willy nilly.”

“Oh I agree there’s no need for that sort of crudity.” Mark exclaimed, drawing his head back, like a tortoise which has just walked into a rock. He glanced over at Darrel for confirmation of their joint abhorrence of such foul words. Darrel responded with a quiet but firm,

“No, no, no need for that at all.”

Fool and innocent that I was I thought they meant it!

The ‘interview’ was turning into more of a chat than anything when Mark drew it to a sudden close,

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of people today and will give it some thought. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have decided.”

Darrel and I shook hands again and Mark led me out into the shop area.

“Thank you for coming and I’ll let you know.”

I left feeling quite sure I wanted to get this job and a sneaky suspicion that I would get it.

Working with Mark, Darrel and Hubert of course would definitely be interesting and the actual potential of the job as outlined could prove to be just the challenge I needed

The following week I got the call I was sort of expecting, though of course I was not going to let them know that so my initial reaction was to give the impression that I couldn’t just place someone called Mark immediately.

“From the clockshop.” he said in rather hushed tones, “you came for an interview last week.”

“Oh, yes the clockshop, sorry.” said I, bitch that I am. “I remember now.”

After a bit of discussion I agreed to a day’s trial. Mr Mark Taylor appeared to be labouring under the mistaken belief that I was the one to be on trial that day, I knew better.

It turned out to be a good day, for all concerned. I had been there about 5 minutes when the phone rang. Mark just looked at me and I looked at him. It was obvious he was not going to take the call so I picked it up.

“Good morning Mark Taylor’s.” said I, all bright and breezy. The caller asked me who I was and why was I answering the clockshop phone. I explained that I was new but if I could help him? He gave his name which I repeated for the benefit of Mark who flapped his arms in a way I took to mean ‘aaarghhhhhh, no I’m not here!’.

“I’m afraid Mr Taylor is not available at the moment can I take a message?” said I, little knowing that this would become my stock phrase for a while as I found my feet and Mark and Darrel were able to settle down to what they do best, restoring and repairing clocks.

On leaving I presented a list of things with which I felt Mark might consider equipping the shop. Simple things really like a broom with bristles intact, some polish and dusters other than the ‘jumble‘ assortment of torn t-shirts and old ladies knickers currently in use, a squeegee mop and bucket and most importantly, a job lot of air fresheners!

He took this in good part and with a casual,

“Well I’ll think about it and let you know.” he smilingly escorted me to the door.

The rest, as they say is history and bloody humorous that history is too, as I hope you will agree in the coming chapters.

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