Ticks of a Year

Being just an ordinary grandmother clock in an ordinary house, you'd think I don't see much, but oh, I see plenty. From my spot in the north-eastern corner of the long rectangular dining room, I have the best view in the Darcy house. To my right, on the middle of the long, northern wall sits the fireplace, right across from the doors, dividing the room in two. The twelve-seater dining room table on the west side and on the east, perfectly in my view, the lounge suite.

23 December 1968, precisely 11:45. The crackling fire creates a warm, soft light in the room at this late hour. Mother and father Darcy, Mr Darcy’s parents, are sitting stiffly on the couch. Father Halpert is standing by the fireplace and mother Halpert is knitting at the dining room table. The maid, miss Wiggins, is trotting up and down the south wall by the door. The room is dead quiet. The tension stiffens up my cogs, something is about to happen. Merely two minutes have passed, but it feels like hours. Suddenly, the doors swing open, and Mr Darcy appears. "Everyone, everyone," the excitement in his voice commands the attention of everyone in the room, who whip their heads around to him, "they are here" he announces and steps to the side, making way for Mrs Darcy. She enters the room, holding something in her arms. Oh, what is it? I can’t see, it’s all wrapped up in a blanket. Mrs Darcy sits down on the armchair right under my nose. I see it, it’s a baby. Everyone gathers around Mrs Darcy, cooing at the baby. "Well done" the women say to Mrs Darcy. "Congratulations" the men say to Mr Darcy. The baby squirms in Mrs Darcy’s arms, his little red face in a stern expression, eyes shut tightly. Hello little baby, John Darcy.

30 December, 17 minutes past one in the morning. My peaceful ticking is disturbed as a frantic Mrs Darcy with an even more frantic Mr Darcy enter the room, screaming baby in the arms. Mrs Darcy rocks the baby from side to side making shushing noises. “Shh, John, go to sleep baby. Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh.” Mr Darcy runs behind her with a bottle as Mrs Darcy paces rapidly around the room. “Constant movement said the doctor, honey. Constant movement.” says Mr Darcy. Mrs Darcy bounces the baby up and down vigorously. Honestly, who could sleep while being thrown about like that? “Make some white noise,” says Mrs Darcy. “Vvv” goes Mr Darcy. What the heck is that? “Vvv”, continues Mr Darcy. Without taking a breath he’ll sure pass out. This goes on for a good twenty minutes and 48 seconds, then Mrs Darcy sinks into her favourite armchair, exhausted. She holds the baby, who is still screaming like there is no tomorrow, his little eyes barely open. Through the tears he manages to see my golden face. His eyes open wide. Finally, the crying stopped. Wait, what is that baby John, a smile?

Many more nights were spent like this, baby John seems to have trouble sleeping, but somehow, my face always manages to make him feel calm and comfortable. Of course, Mr Darcy believes his infernal “vvvvv” is the magic that makes baby John fall asleep.

Feb 14, precisely 2 minutes, 14 seconds past 7pm. Mr Darcy enters the room and stops dead in his tracks, shock and awe on his face. The room is beautifully lit with candles and there are flowers everywhere. On the dining table a smorgasbord of delicious salads, chicken, rolls and deserts. I too would be amazed if I were him, had it not been for the fact that I knew exactly what Mrs Darcy had planned for this evening. I saw every scribble she made in her day planner, sitting in her favorite armchair, right under my nose. Also, she sometimes talks to herself when she’s writing in her planner. “Amazing!” Mr Darcy declares as he lifts her up into the air in a warm embrace, her laugh fills the air with happiness. “Happy Valentine’s day, my love” says Mrs Darcy, and leads her by the hand to the couch. “I’ve spent days searching for the perfect gift for you” he says and hands her a small box. Mrs Darcy unties the ribbon on the box excitedly, a big smile on her face. She gasps as the lifts the lid off the box. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaims and admires the gift. It’s a golden oval-shaped locket with a rose on it. On the inside is a picture of baby John. “Here,” says Mr Darcy as he takes the necklace, “let us see how it looks, shall we.” Mr Darcy puts the locket around Mrs Darcy’s neck, “exquisite” he says. They enjoy a lovely dinner together.

The doors swing open, it is exactly 7:15, Sunday morning, 28 May, one of the best spring days so far. Mrs Darcy waltzes into the room, cheery as can be. She opens the large window on the west wall and a fresh spring breeze fills the room. Mr Darcy follows, carrying a tray of assorted breakfast foods. He sets up the table as Mrs Darcy fluffs the pillows and adds some flowers to the room. Moments later, the doorbell rings. The Woodworth’s enter, Mr and Mrs Woodworth with their baby, about the same age as baby John, little Lisa. The Darcy’s enjoy a lovely breakfast with the Woodworth’s, and it isn’t until 12:16 when they return from the park. The Darcy’s do love going to the park, every Sunday they leave early morning and come back around noon. The park seems like a wonderful place.

18 October 6:38pm. It is already dark outside as Mr and Mrs Darcy sit around the room. Mrs Darcy is at the table, knitting a sweater for baby John, who’d probably already have grown out of it by the time she finishes. Mr Darcy is in the armchair opposite from where I stand, he is reading the paper. Miss Wiggins enters with baby John, it is exactly 22 minutes and 13 seconds until his bedtime. She sets baby John Darcy down on the carpet in front of Mr Darcy. “Well, I’m off, good evening” she says to the Darcy’s. “Good evening” replies Mrs Darcy, “Travel safely” says Mr Darcy. The evening quiets down. Mrs Darcy holds up the half-done sweater next to where baby John is crawling around on the carpet, as if to see whether it will fit. That won’t work, Mrs Darcy. Baby John only sits still for two minutes before he starts crawling around. “Darling,” starts Mrs darling, “do you think this will fit?” Mr Darcy looks over his reading glasses at the sweater. “Looks big enough, dear,” he says, “only one problem,” Mrs Darcy looks confused, “it’s purple” he says casually and continues his paper, he gives a small chuckle.

Baby John is crawling around, investigating some dust balls that managed to escape the vacuum. “Actually, dear, its indigo” remarks Mrs Darcy, and they continue to discuss the color of the knitted sweater. Oh, look at baby John crawl, he’s getting so fast. Whoa! Baby John is heading straight for the fireplace. Mr Darcy, Mrs Darcy? They are not noticing. I must do something. I must stop him! Oh dear, ahh, what do I do? ‘Dong, dong, dong’ the toll of my bell rings loudly across the room, interrupting the Darcy’s deep conversation. Mrs Darcy notices the baby, “honey, the baby!” she jumps up. Mr Darcy runs to John and grabs him, a mere three inches from the fireplace. Mrs Darcy comes running up and takes John, who starts to cry, she takes him to bed. Whew, thank goodness, that was a close call.

Mr Darcy looks around the room, then looks right at my face. He walks up to where I stand and leans in to inspect me. “Hmm?” a quizzical look appears on his face. “Isn’t this odd,” he says and checks his arm watch. The time is precisely 12 minutes and 45 second to seven. “Seems like you are a bit fast, aren’t you” he says as he opens the little door to my face. No, Mr Darcy, I’m not broken. He grabs my minute hand and starts moving it to reset my bell. It moves only an inch before I lock my gears. The minute hand is stuck fast. Mr Darcy yanks at it. “Oh, its stuck.” But I’m not broken Mr Darcy, I’m not broken! He tugs harder and harder at it. “Why? Ah, there we go” a snapping sound comes from behind my face. “Oh dear” says Mr Darcy. ‘Ping, ping, pling, ling’. Oh no. As he lets go of my minute hand, it immediately falls to the 6 and swings from left to right, left to right and then hangs still. For the first time since before my memories began the constant ticking behind my face was silent, and, honestly, no feeling could be more unsettling.

Three days later, the time is unknown. Mrs Darcy sits in her favorite chair, reading a book to baby John. My pendulum’s swing is slowing down, in precisely 32 seconds it will stop. 31. Mrs Darcy reads of a young princess who takes shelter with seven dwarves when she is forced to flee her home. 23. “And my name is sneezy” she reads, “I’m sleepy” she continues and gives a big fake yawn. 17. Baby John fusses and makes some weepy noises. 9. Mrs Darcy pics up the bottle and feeds it to baby John. 5. His little hands fold over the bottle as the expression on his face changes from cringed and upset to relaxed and sated. 3. His eyes flicker about, 2, taking in everything there is to see. 1. The last swing has swung, and my pendulum comes to a slow standstill. If I do not tick, if I do not tell time, then what is my purpose. Why keep me around?

My memory jumps back to the very first tick I ever gave. 16 April 1963, 15 minutes past two o’clock, my builder just finished giving my wood the final polish, he’s ready to start me up. He opens the glass door to my weights and pendulum and follows the chain of the weights up to the top and gives a long pull, ‘Krrrr’. The weight moves to the top and will now start going back to the bottom slowly. Next, he pulls my pendulum to the left and lets it go. It starts swinging from side to side, and my minute hand starts to move. Mr and Mrs Darcy stand back, looking me up and down. “Lovely” says Mrs Darcy. “Fantastic work” says Mr Darcy.

There I stood, in the same corner of the Darcy house, looking out at the room I had become a part of, and I’ve never stopped ticking since.

It has been nine days since I’ve come to a complete standstill. The time is still unknown. The doors open and miss Wiggins enters the room, humming, as she normally does when cleaning. Thank goodness! There has been a spot of dust on my glass that’s been annoying me for days. Miss Wiggins starts dusting around the room. "Oh, just look at you" she says as she inspects me. She wipes a finger across my glass and a streak of clarity is left behind as her finger picks up the dust. "How filthy". She picks up the feather duster and brings it right to my face, its soft and it tickles, it feels lovely. As the dust starts to clear, everything comes into focus again. Miss Wiggins continues to dust the rest of me. "There, lovely," she says as she admires my fine wood and shiny glass. Mrs Darcy enters the room with baby John. "I’m almost done here," says Miss Wiggins. The instant Mrs Darcy puts down baby John, he starts crawling toward me. He always likes to look at my pendulum swing. All of a sudden, a giant sheet comes flying over my face, blocking out the room completely. No! What is happening? "There, this should keep the dust away" sounds miss Wiggins’ voice. "Thank you" replies Mrs Darcy. There is a tugging at the sheet. Yes, pull it down, free me. "Oh, no, John," says Mrs Darcy and a large shadow appears on the sheet. It disappears to the ground and then quickly appears again. The shadow gets smaller and smaller until it fades away into the light. I’m all alone now in the darkness.

Warm laughter breaks the silence I have been experiencing ever since I stopped ticking 17 days ago, in this timeless zone. The sheet over my face cuts me off from the rest of the room, but the light from the window still shines in, ever so slightly, through my canvassed mask and shadows can be made out when people are walking about the room. Mrs Darcy’s laugh is distinctive. “Oh, darling, what a wonderful idea” she says. Footsteps become louder as someone walks in my direction, they are too loud to belong to Mrs Darcy. The armchair to my right creaks and with a manly sigh Mr Darcy replies: “Thank you dear. Honestly, I had no idea how you would feel about this, but now I’m glad I did it.” Did what? What is happening? Soft giggling comes from somewhere behind the cloth wall, its baby John, and then barking, or attempted barking. It must be a puppy. “Well,” says Mrs Darcy and a shadow appears on the sheet, “under any other circumstances I probably would not have liked to have a dog in the house.” The shadow grows larger as she moves toward her favorite chair in front of me. “But they do seem to get along well.” She sits down in the chair and Mr Darcy chuckles. “They are going to be best friends.”

After 21 days in isolation, a strange scratching noise appears at the apparently shut doors, followed by a yelping, it must be the newly acquired puppy. The light filling the room does not seem natural, it must be dark already. “Quite down” says Mr Darcy from inside the room, his voice seems to be coming from the northwest corner, that is where the small chess table is located. Mr Darcy has been in a chess match with his brother from across town for the past month, through the mail. Every second Sunday, Mr Darcy would sit at the tiny table, pick up a chess-piece and move it somewhere on the board, stare at it for a good three minutes, then move it back and pick up another until he can figure out the best move to beat his brother. ‘It is good to challenge your brain’ he always says to Mrs Darcy when she remarks on the strangeness of playing chess with another person through the mail. The scratching and yelping continues, then there is a click and a creak as the door opens. “Oh, how did you get in here?” says Mr Darcy. Footsteps move about the room and his shadow appears on the sheet. Wait, the sheet, its moving! Finally, the cloth wall falls, and I am reunited with the room. Down by my feet, the sheet moves, Mr Darcy, who is standing before me, bends down and lifts up the sheet. Ah, it’s the puppy. Thank you for freeing me, little creature. Mr Darcy looks at me, putting on his reading glasses. “Hmmm” he says. 

The next day, early in the morning I presume, as Mrs Darcy is finishing her breakfast, I am being inspected by a clockmaker. “She seems to be in a good condition,” says the small old man as he looks at me. “The pendulum needs to be restarted”, he opens the pendulum door pulls my weights back up and restarts my pendulum. “Oh, I see,” he says as he looks at my face, “she is not ticking.” He opens the door to my face and inspects my hands. “All right, may I have the key please Mr Darcy?” he asks. Mr Darcy, who is standing behind him, intrigued at his every move hands him the key. The clockmaker unlocks my side panel and opens me up. “Hmm,” he says as he looks around with his little magnifying glass. “There. Pliers please, Mr Darcy” he holds out his hand, his head still perched up by my innards. Mr Darcy looks around the old man’s toolbox for the pliers, “Here you go, sir” he says and hands over the pliers. “Gently now,” the old man whispers to himself. He grabs a loose cog from somewhere inside my head with the pliers. “Hmm,” he says as he softly pushes the cog back in place. It makes a clacking noise as it locks in with its neighbors. ‘Tick, tick, tick, tick.’ Oh, how wonderful it is to have the ticking back in my head! The old man closes my side panel and turns the key, opens my face door and sets my minute and hour hands to the correct time. “There, good as new” says the clockmaker. “Wonderful, I’ve missed this clock’s chimes” says Mrs Darcy.

The room is wonderfully decorated, a warm, cozy fire crackling in the fireplace. The whole family around the tree in the south-east corner of the room, drinking hot coco and opening presents. Christmas music playing softly in the background, the family talking about the wonderful year they’ve had. Oh, look, baby John Darcy is staring at my pendulum again. My chime rings and my bell tolls to signify the eight hour past midday on Christmas Eve, the most wonderful time of my year.