Tick Tock

 
Tick tock goes the clock, the mouse runs up it and into my head.
 
I open my eyes. Another day, another fucking day. My legs move and my feet put themselves into my slippers. I walk to the bathroom. He’s in the mirror again, the man who looks like me. I smile and he smiles back. I like it that he smiles, makes me feel good.
 
Sunshine from the yellow cloth in the kitchen. I feel good. “I feel good”, I say.
 
Tick tock, you feel good, tick tock you feel good, tick tock. Bloody clock.
 
I sit down at the table, the egg on my plate smiles at me. I smile back.
My fingers want to count the squares on the tablecloth so I let them count. “One, two, three….Let’s go and see”,
 
Time for the window. My green chair is there. I sit, I watch, I wait, I wait, I watch. “She’ll come”, says the clock, “she’ll come”.
 
My head feels tired. I lean into the warmth of the leather. I’ll close my eyes, just for a moment, just till she comes.
 
The clock chimes three, mummy says, “it’s time for tea“.
 
Round the corner she comes, blonde hair swinging, softly singing.
 
“Henry”, she shouts, “Henry, are you there? Are you ready?”
 
Ready? I’m always ready, always on time, bang on the minute.
I run down the stairs two at a time and leap the last three, reaching the door just as she enters it. My arms go round her waist and I hug her to me, breathe the sunshine caught in her hair, kiss her lips. I lift her off her feet and turn with her, turn again and again till dizziness says stop and we fall against the wall, knees weak and pulses racing.
 
“C’mon Henry, we’ve no time to waste”.
 
She straightens her skirt and straightens my tie, a last fleeting kiss and we’re on our way.
 
The hall is full when we enter. The breath of anticipation hits our faces and we are sucked in. Men stand in groups against the walls, spirals of smoke meet in mid conversation, “You alright then Bert?”, “How’s the wife?”
Headscarved women with red lips and painted cheeks pass gossip to and fro, each keeping an eye on a hoped for purchase, careful not to arouse the interest of her neighbour.
 
Suddenly a man enters from a door at the side of the stage and climbs up a small flight of steps into the limelight. A hush descends on the room, breathing seems to cease.
 
The man, his bald head glistening under the naked light bulb that swings above him, wipes sweaty palms down the legs of his chalk striped trousers. He clears his throat and as if to satisfy a long-repressed desire for the dramatic, hesitates just long enough to ensure attention, before starting to speak,
 
“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls”, said with a quelling glance towards two unkempt children scrabbling on the floor near the stage steps. Their mother bristles and pulls them away.
 
“We are here today for the disposal of the contents of Mere Lodge, the former home of Major Reginald Snough, now deceased”, this last word said in a suitably grave and respectful tone.
 
A few moments of silence tick by. Edith squeezes my hand and an electric excitement runs up my arm. I pull her close and tuck her small hand possessively into the crook of my arm. United we stand against the competition of the enveloping crowd.
 
The auctioneer clears his throat again and announces , Olivier-like “Lot 1”. The crowd stand to attention and the bidding begins.
 
A wardrobe, a hall table, a bust of Caesar….
 
Time and mind drift as we wait for Lot 23.
 
A dog basket, a copper kettle, a slightly used mattress….
 
The hammer falls on Lot 22, the new possession of a buxom Mrs White, and presumably a parrot, of 11 Field Lane.
 
There are only a few bidders for Lot 23, a dining table and six robust chairs that have seen better days and probably better homes than the little flat above the corner shop that will soon be our home. My hand curls round the notes furled in my pocket and we breathe again as the hammer falls. They’re ours.  
 
Our purchase secured my mind is fed by the thought of the steak pie, chips and gravy on offer at the Black Bull next door. Pulling Edith with me I weigh up the possibilities of making it through the batallion of eager bidders surrounding us. A tentative move to the right meets a disapproving glare from a full-bosomed woman in a flowery frock and stilleto heels, platinum hair backcombed into a beehive.
Resignedly we turn our heads back to the front and try to focus on the proceedings. My mind wanders. Only thirteen days to go and she’ll be mine, every naked bit of her. A film of sweat erupts from my collar as I imagine my hands running through her hair, pulling her towards me, entering her for the first time. My mouth dries.
 
She tugs at my sleeve, and again, and I hear her whisper “Look, look…”. I follow her gaze to the lot held aloft by a red-faced henchman in a tight fitting brown overall. The auctioneer clears his throat once more, “….acquired by the family on a visit to the Black Forest in 1936”. His voice tails off into an embarrassed silence. He hurries on “but much older……fine workmanship…in full working order”. Like a stage magician he nods at his assistant. As one the crowd leans forward as the key turns and the ticking begins…
 
“Tick tock”, says the clock. The two hands reach twelve and out pops a brightly painted bird. A brief twitch, a “now you see it, now you don’t” look on the magician’s face and it disappears. The auctioneer opens his mouth to speak and out it pops for an encore. The crowd laughs, a warmth of fellowship spreads throughout the room at the magical performance of the little wooden bird.
 
She squeezes my arm again and stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear “Please ….let’s..” Her eyes say the rest.
 
Who needs a cooker anyway, or a hearth rug or even a bed, well maybe a bed. My hand shoots up to stake my claim and the fight is on.
Bit by bit, bid by bid I shake off all opponents and streak ahead in the bidding stakes to the elation of success and undoubted penury in months to come. The look on Edith’s face is worth every penny of our future I have pledged in three fast minutes. The fall of the hammer is echoed by her squeal of delight.
 
The clock becomes an eternal voyeur of our domestic life and its tick tock, like the rhythm of a contented heart, measures the passing years.
“Ring a ring of roses, a pocketful of posies, a tissue, a tissue……” . Little girls in party dresses fall to the floor in heaps of giggles, blonde hair and brown, pink satin and white net. The lights suddenly go out and all eyes turn towards the door. A candle lit cake enters the room to oohs and aahs and clapping hands. Edith places the cake upon the table and a little girl with golden curls and the face of an angel, a reflection of her mother’s, clambers onto a chair and prepares to blow. She sucks in her breath and in one quick move the candles are extinguished and the room is plunged once more into darkness.
The cake is cut, pieces wrapped in colourful paper serviettes and each placed with a balloon, ready to accompany the guests home. But first a last treat. Crossed-leg girls sit in hushed expectation as the clock hands creep towards four o’ clock. Tick tock says the clock and out hops the little bird, a little bird who today wears a tiny party hat placed on his head by a very happy father.
 
Our clock, a constant tick in a changing world.
 
“She loves you, yeh, yeh, yeh….yeh, yeh, yeh, yeah…” The sound pours from a red dansette in a corner of the room.  Mini skirted legs twist from fireplace to table, from table to sideboard, long blonde hair swings in perfect rhythm. A doorbell rings. A last glance in the mirror above the mantlepiece assures Claire that her false eyelashes remain spider-like on her pale-lipped face.
 
“Hiya babe”. He drags his eyes from her low cut top and kisses her on the cheek. She ushers him into the little sitting room, warmed still by the hum of music and the coal fire in the tiled grate. He quickly notes the open cocktail cabinet, Dubonnet and cocktail cherries at the ready.
 
“Mam and Dad out then?”
“Yeah, at the firm’s ‘do’, not back till gone midnight, like Cinderella”. Attempted nonchalance, nervous giggle.
 
Embers glow in the darkened room. An empty bottle lies in the grate. Teenage stubble on pale breast. Fingers entwine, hearts beat together.
 
Out pops the little bird “Time to go home, time to go home”. Tick tock.
 
Minutes to hours, hours to days, days to weeks.
 
“You’re what?” . A shout that shatters the mirror of domestic harmony.  
 
“You’re up the duff to that gangly lout?” “My daughter, my daughter pregnant and unwed, pregnant and under my roof?” Anger boils, threats beat their way into broken hearts. A stiff silence fills the little room and the clock ticks. Tick tock.
 
Out pops the little bird in cheerful innocence.
 
“Bloody bird, bloody clock”.
 
Anger hurls a plate and the bird flies, free of its prison at last. The clock ticks on.
 
The house is quiet now. Claire has gone, flown like the bird with Dave the gangly youth and father of the child. Edith has gone too. To her mother’s I think, or maybe her sister’s. Said she couldn’t stand the ticking of the clock.
 
“Wake up Henry, wake up”. A hand roughly shakes my shoulder. “You’ve got a visitor”. “You should be dressed, not staring out of that window. No time for moping”.
 
My feet do as they’re told and walk down the hallway to a room at the end. A room full of people, strangers with names I don’t know, faces I don’t see. I don’t feel good. I say, “I don’t feel good”.
 
“Come on Henry” says the stranger. I feel her cold fingers on mine. My feet walk towards a table. A woman looks at me, She touches my sleeve. I try to smile but I don’t feel good. The woman’s lips are moving. I like her lips.
 
 
“Where is my clock?” , I say, “Have you got my clock?” “Who are you?” My head hurts, I don’t feel good. I start to shake. A stranger pulls me away from the table.
 
I’m back in my room. Tick tock, says the clock, time for bed, time for bed. My feet kick off my slippers, I lie down and close my eyes.
 
 
Edith sits for a moment longer then quietly rises from her seat at the table and leaves the room.
 
 
 
 
 

The butterfly upon a thread is caught, her wings collapse and to eternity she falls, leaving behind a memory of what once was. If only she'd been free to fly upon the rays of dawn till sunset passed across the sky and all was dark. But no, she let herself be trapped in Man's desire and now she is no more. O foolish sylph to be like you is wrong and not for me. I must be free.