The Clock smith's Wake up Call

“The movements are deranged,” I utter, as I look in astonishment at the faces which surround me, their hands pointing to twelve. It is noon, but not a sound, not a chime, not a bell, not even a tick-tock. Perplexed, I look across the room at my dog, Ben. He is still sleeping. Feeling unsteady I flop down into my old leather chair. I close my eyes.

Upon opening them, I see myself asleep in my chair. My heart pounds, chest tightens, and mouth dries. Maybe I am dead. I try to shout, and a bark comes out. I sound just like my dog, Ben. I look sideways and catch sight of my reflection in the glass cabinet. Startled, I look again. The hairs on my neck and shoulders stand on end. I am Ben!

This is a nightmare and I need to wake up now. I bound over to the human me sat in the chair. I sink my teeth into the trouser leg and shake it furiously but the real me sleeps on. I snarl and bark for quite a while but still my body sleeps on. Firmly clamping my jaws around the human wrist, I pull with all my might but still he does not wake. Standing upon my hind legs I look outside for help. All is still and silent. Exhausted, ears back and tail between my legs, I withdraw to Ben’s usual corner. Baffled, I lay down and put my throbbing head between my front paws.

As I lie on the cold wooden floor, I shiver. My clock smith’s shop is like a fridge. I look again at the state of my real self, an unshaven, ragged old man. When did I stop wearing smart suits, cravats, and bright waistcoats, I wonder. I let out a long deep sigh and flop over onto my side. I remember how my late wife, Greta, used to rub Ben’s belly and ruffle his fur when he was sad. I look up at the rear wall displaying her carved cuckoo clocks. They are like Swiss chalets, but now covered in dust. Their pendulums no longer swinging but perfectly still, their pinecone shaped weights, dangling on long chains, pleading to be wound up. I think of the children who used to run into my shop to the chimes of my grandfather clocks but hoping to catch the cuckoos pop out of little wooden doors, and bob to the call of “cuck-coo”, or to be enchanted by tiny wooden figures rotating to the tunes in music boxes. I let out a sigh. The magic has gone from my shop.

The shop smells musty and stale. It strikes me how powerful my sense of smell has become. I recall the time my shop smelt of Greta’s fresh furniture polish and picture her shining the wooden shop counter and shaking her head as she wipes tiny finger marks from the glass display cases and brass carriage clocks. I lift my head and sniff but no trace of polish now, only an unclean mouldy smell. No wonder so few customers visit my shop.

As I lie in the corner, I realise not only am I cold, but my throat is parched, and I have a gnawing and rumbling feeling in my stomach. Slowly, I rise to my paws to drink but find that my bowl contains stale water and disgusting food debris. I pace and whine, but the human me still sleeps on. Desperate, I lap up a little almost retching at the taste. My heart sinks even further as I look at my empty food bowl. I lick it, nevertheless.  My body starts to quiver uncontrollably.  

In an instant, a thought pops into my head -- the dog biscuits! My tail wags and ears flap as I scamper as fast as I can into the kitchen, skidding to a halt at the pantry door. Oh, rats. It is closed. I try to nudge it open with my nose, jumping up at the doorknob, I scratch with my paws, but am defeated. It is not going to budge. I am not going to eat.

I sniff around for old crumbs; I pick up a faint familiar sent of Greta’s washed linen. It is coming from under a kitchen floorboard. Longing for the comfort of her remnants of cloth, I scratch and scratch, and scratch faster and faster, as if possessed, but the floorboard does not move. My poor legs ache. I give up and sit. Feeling frustrated, I have another futile scratch. Sitting again, I fret what will become of me.  

For the first time, I see the deep ugly scratch marks I have made on the kitchen floor. With my head hung low, mouth firmly closed, and my tail tucked under me, I return sheepishly to sit at the feet of my real self. I circle several times then drop down, rest my chin on the human’s scuffed shoes and close my eyes. Tick-Tock, the clocks chime once, in unison.

I awake with a jerk and look around, look at my hands, then look at Ben asleep at my feet. With a sigh of relief, what an awful nightmare. I reach down and stroke Ben’s ears. He rolls over and I joyfully rub his belly, as he playfully squirms and thrashes his legs about. Looking down at Ben, I notice the tear in my trouser leg and teeth marks on my wrist, I freeze. Am I still dreaming, I wonder. I pinch myself; it hurts.

I take a deep breath and head for the kitchen. Ben at my heels. In disbelief, I stare at the scratch marks on the floorboard. What is underneath?  I grab a knife from the drawer, kneel and prise it free.  My hands tremble as I lift out a metal box wrapped in Greta’s apron. I cautiously open it. Good Lord! It is full of money. My dear Greta, bless her, said she was saving hard for us, with dreams of expanding and setting up apprenticeships. I wipe a tear from my eye and give Ben a big hug. I stand up, laugh out loud, and dance a jig around the table, with Ben on his hind legs, barking and tail wagging.

I catch my breath, fill Ben’s water bowl with fresh water which he gratefully gulps down, give him some biscuits, and grab my old coat.

“Come on Ben, let’s go to the butcher’s and get some fresh meat for tea, then to the tailors to order a new suit for me. On the way we’ll call at the general stores for some polish and new dusters. We’ve busy days ahead.”