I have the same dream every night. It never changes. Not a single detail. It’s always exactly the same. It has become so routine that I actually look forward to it. As I sleep, I hear my own voice asking, When is it coming? Sometimes, I get really anxious that it won’t come. But, regular as clock-work, it arrives, and I dream it again. I haven’t always had the dream. It began exactly twelve months after that day. The day I went to the shop. I often wonder if twelve months is significant in some way, but then I remember that for eleven months and twenty-nine days after visiting the shop, I was in a coma and dreamt of nothing at all.
The day began in the usual way. No signs or portents of what was to come. I got up, shaved, showered, had breakfast, and dressed. I waved goodbye to my wife and drove to work. At lunchtime, I called Helen - my new lover - on my mobile. I walked around the corner so no one would overhear. We chatted and made plans for her birthday. We had only been seeing each other for a few weeks, so it had the excitement that only a new relationship can bring. I thought there was something special about Helen. She made me feel so alive, something my wife hadn’t been able to do for years.
Ironic now, when I think that without the care, support and love of my wife, I wouldn’t even be at this stage of my recovery. I have never seen or heard from Helen again, since that day.
Anyway, I left work early and drove into town to visit the antique shops. I was looking for something in particular. Helen liked collectibles. During one of our recent post-coital heart-to-hearts, she had revealed to me that she always regretted how her parents had never bought her a pocket watch for her eighteenth birthday. It had been a sort of family tradition amongst the males in the family. Both of her elder brothers had received one. But her parents had decided that the tradition didn’t extend to any females in the family who were coming of age.
I found the perfect shop. Sitting in the window, looking rather forlorn - if a watch can be forlorn - I saw a lovely little pocket watch. It was silver, with a cream face and black decimals. It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for but I figured they would have more inside. I decided to go in.
The bell over the door obviously disturbed the afternoon nap that the old shopkeeper had been enjoying. He was sitting at the rear of the shop in a wing-backed chair, behind a large oak desk. He sighed heavily and looked up at me, his head only just visible above the mountains of antiques and bric-a-brac stacked haphazardly in every direction.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said, rather formally, his voice gravelly and resonant. ‘Can I help you?’
I hesitated at first. There seemed something a little odd about him. ‘Ummm…yes, please,’ I said. ‘I notice you have a silver pocket watch in the window, and I was wondering if you had any more. Pocket watches, I mean.’
With some difficulty, he pulled himself up from the soft leather chair. The chair creaked almost as noisily as he did. On the desk, a green banker’s lamp cast a warm light over an old blotting pad. It did little to dispel the gathering gloom of the late winter afternoon. He approached me, his features moving in and out of the shadows. His face appeared kind and sincere, but there was also pain. The pain of many years lived, perhaps.
He looked at me almost with pity in his eyes. ‘Any more?’
I felt embarrassed. Maybe the silver watch was his pride and joy. The only one he had. The pinnacle of his pocket watch collection.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for one in antique gold, preferably.’
‘Antique gold? Are you? Anything else?’ He leant forward and placed his knuckles on the table in front of him.
‘Well, now you mention it, I noticed that the one in the window had decimal numbers on it. To be honest, I’d prefer Roman numerals. Looks…more antique. You know what I mean?’
He smiled and offered me a seat in his chair at the back of the shop. This seemed to be the place where he conducted all his infrequent business transactions.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said, moving slowly towards the window. ‘I’m sure I can find exactly what you are looking for. But do you really want a pocket watch? Don’t you think they are a little old-fashioned for someone - if I may say so - of your younger years? What about a nice ladies wristwatch?’
As I sat down in the chair, two things struck me as odd: first, his sales patter left a lot to be desired, and I wondered how many things he actually sold. Perhaps the shop gave him an excuse to hoard and he didn’t really want to let anything go. And second, I hadn’t told him who I was buying for, so why had he assumed it was for a woman? I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about the shop that made me uneasy. It wasn’t the damp, musty smell, or the lingering aroma of something sweet, or even the strange collection of objects and artefacts that were scattered all around.
No. It was him. The old shopkeeper.
It was the way he spoke. It was the way he looked at me, as if, somehow, he was seeing inside me. And it was the way he moved, slow and shuffling, appropriate for his age, sure, and…yet…unconvincing, like he was acting a part. Maybe it was to make us feel sorry for him before he hit us with the price.
He eventually reached the back of the window display and opened one of the two wooden doors that encased it. A shard of light spread out from the small gap, illuminating the myriad of dust particles hanging in the air. He reached inside the window display and took the item he was looking for. A small child walked past the window and waved at him. He waved back. He closed the wooden door and started back to the desk.
I sat back in the chair, letting my head rest to one side on one of the wings. I felt a deep sense of calm wash over me and I felt compelled to close my eyes. But fighting the urge, I kept a curious eye on the shopkeeper.
Why has he gone to the window? I thought. He was starting to annoy me. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want the one in the window. I was hoping you had some more. As I requested.’
‘Of course, sir,’ he replied calmly, halfway across the shop. ‘All in good time.’
All in good time? I didn’t have time for this nonsense.
Suddenly, I became aware of a loud ticking. It came from the watch in the shopkeeper’s hand, even though he was still some distance away from me. But, incredibly, I could also hear the ticking inside my head. It was one of the strangest sensations I have experienced. I leant forward in the chair and rubbed my eyes, hoping to clear the noise from my head. And fortunately, it stopped. I put it down to tiredness. I had been working some very long hours, recently.
When I looked up again, the shopkeeper was standing in front of the desk, carefully placing the pocket watch in front of me. It was ticking loudly, yet the sound was almost musical in its timbre. Illuminated by the desk lamp, I could see it was made from the most beautiful gold I had ever seen. It looked like antique 24-carat gold. The watch had a cream-coloured face, marked out with exquisite Roman numerals. It was perfect. The old shopkeeper was staring at me dispassionately, as if he couldn’t care less. Looking at his face in the half-light, it seemed to me that he had aged by another couple of years in the short time I had been in the shop.
‘Well?’ he asked, rather curtly.
‘It’s perfect,’ I replied. ‘It’s even got a cream coloured face: just what I was looking for.’
‘Good. I’m glad you like it.’
‘But…’ I hesitated again. For some reason, I felt embarrassed to challenge him. ‘…this one wasn’t in the window when I looked earlier. I would have noticed it.’
‘Wasn’t it? I’m sure it was. And you saw me take it from the window, didn’t you?’
‘Well…yes, but…’
‘Don’t you want it? I can put it back, if you like?’ He held out a hand.
‘No, I want it. I was just saying. How much is it?’
He leant forward and consulted an old-fashioned ledger. He leafed through the pages and pointed to an entry halfway down the page. It was only then that I noticed he didn’t use spectacles. In every other way he seemed decrepit and senile, and, yet, he read from the ledger with ease.
‘It’s two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. But I only take cash, I’m afraid. Have a look at it. It might not be quite right for you.’
I picked up the watch. The coldness of the metal surprised me, particularly as the shopkeeper had been clutching it for so long on his way back from the window display. I moved it around in my hands examining every detail. It was perfect. Except…
‘Something wrong?’ he asked, almost willing me to find fault with it.
‘Nothing wrong,’ I said. ‘But I can’t see where you wind it up. Normally, they have a little crown or something, don’t they?’
‘You don’t need to wind it,’ he explained. ‘It’s a self-winder.’
‘A self-winder? They had those back then, did they?’
He chuckled, as a school teacher might chuckle when a pupil asks a stupid question. ‘Yes. They did. It’s a side-weight movement. Very popular in its day.’
He reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a packet of sweets, ‘Humbug?’
‘No thanks,’
He shrugged his shoulders and popped a sweet into his mouth. It clacked around on his perfectly healthy teeth. He had his own teeth - another detail I had only just noticed about him. .
‘I’ll take it,’ I said, putting the watch down on the desk. ‘But I need to go to the cashpoint first. Will you hold it for me, just in case?’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case someone else comes in while I’m away.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Now, are you sure you want it? Why don’t you look at some others, first? I have plenty in the backroom.’ He indicated a small door in the corner of the shop that led through into some kind of workshop.
‘No, thanks. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I am looking for.’
Suddenly serious, he said, ‘Then, please, take the watch. With my compliments. No need to pay me. Call it a gift.’
For a moment, I thought he was joking. But when I looked at his expression, I could see that he was deadly serious. I have never met a business owner before who was willing to give away their stock for free.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Of course I will pay you. It’s very kind of you. It really is, but I always pay my dues. There’s a cashpoint across the street, isn’t there?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But why don’t you take the watch now and drop the money in tomorrow, when you have more time?’
‘It’s okay. It’s only across the road.’ I stood up, feeling slightly unnerved. The sooner I was out of here, the better. ‘I’ll only be a minute or two.’
‘If you are sure, sir. But, really, you can drop the money in another time. I trust you.’
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I said, moving toward the door. ‘I’d prefer to settle it now.’
‘Wait!’
I turned around when I heard him shout.
‘You can’t take it now. It needs servicing. I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow. Come back then.’
His behaviour was becoming very strange and erratic, and it was starting to annoy me. I could sort of understand why the shop was full of old junk. Who would want to buy anything off such a weird, stubborn, cantankerous old bastard?
Calmly, I explained, ‘I don’t want it servicing. It’s a present for a friend. It’s her birthday the day after tomorrow, and I want to have it engraved first. When I’ve given it to her, I’ll borrow it back and bring it in for a service. How about that?’
The shopkeeper suddenly became very angry. His eyes flared wide and the sinews on his neck and temples stood out from his pallid skin.
‘You’re not having it. I don’t have to sell it to you. You can’t make me. It’s mine. It’s not for sale!’
Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. Clearly, he was a very lonely old man, struggling to cope with running his business all on his own. I wondered if he had a form of dementia. That would explain his erratic behaviour.
‘Listen,’ I said softly, guiding him toward the chair at the back. ‘Let’s get you sat down, shall we? I’m going to go to the cashpoint to get some money. When I come back, if you still don’t want to sell me the watch, then, that’s fine, you don’t have to. I’ll go. No harm done. But if you do, you’ll have made a nice two-hundred-and-fifty pounds today. Okay?’
He looked at me with real sadness in his eyes. Pleadingly, he said, ‘Please don’t go. You won’t come back.’
‘I will. I promise.’ I wondered what I could do to help him. I couldn’t leave him here in this condition. Then, I had an idea. ‘And maybe there is someone I can ring for you when I get back, someone who can help you home tonight?’
‘There’s no one,’ he said.
Sitting him down in the chair, I slowly backed away. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, okay?’
I hurried through the shop door, the bell ringing loudly again. Out on the street, I felt a tangible sense of relief. The atmosphere in the shop was oppressive, the air stale. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds. Casually, I turned to look through the window of the shop. The silver pocket watch I had seen on display was gone. Only an outline of dust showed where it had once been.
A little perturbed, I wondered whether I should just go home and leave the watch altogether. It was a lot of money, and I’d only been seeing Helen for a few weeks. But the old shopkeeper had got himself into a right state. I couldn’t just leave him like that. And I wanted the pocket watch. It was perfect. I imagined how thrilled Helen was going to be when she opened it for her birthday. We had such wonderful and exciting times ahead of us. The thrill of that thought spurred me on. Without looking, I stepped out into the road.
I barely had time to feel the car hit me. There was a catastrophic force smashing into me from the side. Then, all was darkness.
Intermittently, I regained consciousness. I had fleeting glimpses of the paramedics working on me. Just before they loaded me into the ambulance, I could see the shopkeeper through the window. He was replacing the pocket watch inside the window display. And he was whistling. There is no way I should have been able to hear him, but I could. It was a familiar old tune that I remembered hearing somewhere once. Growing louder and louder in my head, I could hear the sound of the pocket watch ticking.
Tick, tick, tick tick, tick…
I passed out again.
***
It was thirteen months before I was able to return to the scene of the accident. My therapist thought it would aid my recovery. We parked close by and my wife wheeled me along the last hundred yards. To be honest, visiting the site had no particular effect on me, no emotional catharsis, or anything like that. It was just a road, and they were just cars.
When I looked across at the shop, it was empty. Cleared out. At first, I assumed that the old shopkeeper must have died sometime after my accident. But I convinced my wife to wheel me up and down the street so I could enquire at some of the neighbouring businesses. Three doors down, we found an artisan baker who had been located on that row of shops for years. He was a rotund, pleasant man with ruddy cheeks and a dirty apron.
‘No, mate,’ he said when I asked him. ‘That shop’s been derelict for at least ten years to my knowledge. Ever since the last owner died. Poor old sod.’
‘How did he die?’ I asked.
The baker chuckled. ‘He ran out of time. Old age. We found him sitting in his armchair at the back of the shop. He must have been there for weeks.’
I’ve never been back since. In fact, soon after, we moved away to the coast. I spend my days on the beach now or sitting in the back garden. My recovery is slow, but they are very confident I will recover full mobility in time.
Time.
What did I learn from all this? What was the point of it all?
Well, I learned that time is precious, that you should spend it with those that really love you. And you shouldn’t waste a single second of it on those that don’t.
The dream?
Yes, I almost forgot about that. I have the same dream every night. It never changes. Not a single detail. It’s always exactly the same. It begins with a loud ticking in my head…
I am sitting in the window of this old shop, watching the many people pass by. They hurry about their business, unaware that I am watching them all very closely. Every second, somewhere in the World, someone dies and someone is born, and I mark each and every one. I measure the pain of the passing years and days and hours and minutes and seconds. When you are young, I fool you with false promises; and when you are older, I steal your dreams and your memories. I take the love you once held dear, and with the shadows of the past I torture you. In your head you can hear my voice whispering and it says, ‘You are too late.’ Nobody knows who made me or why. But I know. I am old and new, valuable and worthless, fast and slow, good and evil. My movement lies still and silent now.
Waiting.
Waiting for the one that will be here any…second…now.
Tick, tick, tick, tick….