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Looking into the watchmaker’s eyes is unpleasant. He doesn’t see jelly and me; he sees steel and he Wants to fix them or clean them, blow away the dust, For his job is done when they work, not just see faultlessly for years, no need for adjustment.
It’s guaranteed by him. His craft, his reputation is such That the years of training, the certification prevent him Asking me in, but keeping me at the door waiting
For confirmation that my mother’s mother’s
18-carat pocket-watch hallmarked 1911 in the shape of a heart Is worth fixing.
Looking into the watchmaker’s eyes, I don’t see he. I see the hall stripped down to bare, no movement, No colour or light, no words, pictures, people,
An empty case, a door, behind it another and another, Then a slight shell sound, wheel against wheel, sprung, Knocking, perhaps, or scratching. Misaligned for sure. The glass table clicks as he assembles his bits to proceed. I have my back on the door, my feet are on the mat,
But order inside is order, and that’s it, no talking.
I offer him the wooden box that once held Turkish delight where The watch sits.
Looking into the watchmaker’s eyes, I don’t see them. Awaiting a verdict he dresses up in lenses and lights Bright enough to melt my mother’s mother’s 18-carat gold Heart, an absurd sight but not funny.
He turns it over fish by fish, scale by scale, Lifting the flaps, probing, mouth open, lip loose. He finally pronounces, in German Geordie, ‘The cost of repair will be more than it’s worth.’ And returns the heart, still dishevelled and bent, To the box that once held Turkish Delight and
I exit the house in a modern estate at the end of the road at the posh end, A cul-de-sac.
January 16, 2024