The Clock

By James Leslie Payne

From the mid 1700s in Edinburgh until today The Clock winds its way through time and tides. Through the centuries it stands, a sentinel in many a home, some grand, some not so grand. Always it stands and keeps time for the owner. It keeps watch in more ways than one. Some owners are proud of the clock and keep it front and center, while others are ambivalent towards it and hardly notice its presence. Still it ticks and tocks its way through the ocean of time that two centuries avail. It was built as a pass into the Hammermen Society of Edinburgh; the boy genius craftsman that gave it birth could never have imagined the journey it went on neither can you!

Many stories boast truth. They describe themselves as based on a real-life incident. The story of the clock is indeed is based on a very true story.

Author James Leslie Payne is a broadcast executive in radio and television. He lives on Canadas West Coast with his wife, a golden retriever named Billy, and the Sentinelyes, the Sentinel. It turns out thats the latest stop on its incredible journeyone that Payne is eager to share with you.

Turn your collar to the cold winds of time; lets begin the journey of The Clock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449721039

James Leslie Payne

Author James Leslie Payne is a broadcast executive in radio and television. He lives on Canada’s West Coast with his wife, a golden retriever named Billy, and the Sentinel—yes, the Sentinel. It turns out that’s the latest stop on its incredible journey—one that Payne is eager to share with you.

Book preview

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1: A Link Boy

Chapter 2: The New Master

Chapter 3: The Spanish Armada

Chapter 4: Shaw’s Return

Chapter 5: A Death in the Family

Chapter 6: Noddy’s Journey

Chapter 7: Greathead’s Greed

Chapter 8: Hard as the Hobbs of Hell!

Chapter 9: Be Careful What You Wish For!

Chapter 10: A Fish Rots

from the Head Down

Chapter 11: The Angels of Mons

Part Two

Chapter 12: Ladies Man

Chapter 13: The Cover Up

Chapter 14: Shards of Glass

Chapter 15: Dynamic Duo

Chapter 16: Culture Shock

Chapter 17: Moving to the Dark Side

Chapter 18: Loved Surprise

Chapter 19: Tommy’s Arrival

Chapter 20: Following Footsteps

Chapter 21: The Family Clock

Chapter 22: Sometimes You

Get What You Ask For

Chapter 23: A New Start

Chapter 24: Lost Connection

Chapter 25: What Happens in Vegas Doesn’t Always Stay in Vegas

Chapter 26: The Want of a Clock

Chapter 27: Truth Bubbles Up

Chapter 28: A Fox Has Its Den

and the Birds Have Their Nest

Chapter 29: Can You Miss Something You Never Had?

Chapter 30: And I Was Found

Chapter 31: The Foundling

Chapter 32: Flight #49

Post Script

For Susan

Part One

Chapter 1: A Link Boy

The wind blew shards of rain onto Robert’s face with such ferocity that it hurt. He turned his collar up to protect his face as he walked through the narrow streets. A dark grey permeated the entire dank city, even, it seemed, on sunny days.

Edinburgh was mostly a slum town that housed the working poor of Scotland. It had grown from a small burg hundreds of years before, without thought for sanitation systems or municipal infrastructure. Streets were alive with human filth. The smell of this old, poor city was well known and laughed about by people who didn’t have to make their homes within its walls.

The year was 1757 in Edinburgh, and Robert Breakenrig had served his seven-year apprenticeship in the fine art of clock-making. Despite the cold, his step was light as he ducked his head to enter a small house in one of the darker streets.

Ma, I will produce the finest clocks in Scotland, he declared as he hung his thin woolen coat by the door. This drab room, with two rough beds, a wooden bench and a simple fire grate on which Ma cooked, had been home for more time than Robert cared to remember. His mother sat by the coal fire trying to absorb as much of the heat that a small amount of coal could deliver. One day I will not work for another clockmaker.

Who will you work for, my son? asked a sarcastic but loving mother, who was much older in appearance than her years.

I have endured a miserable apprenticeship, Robert said. He has slapped me, shouted at me, and in many ways he has humiliated me! The old master is mean, Ma. I will work for myself. I’d rather work from a smaller and dustier workshop with poor sunlight than continue to make a name for this master.

As Robert sat at his bench in his masters workshop, not much sunlight entered his space. Dust danced on the splinters of light that cut their way through the dusty window panes. The dirt floor of the workshop was compacted by decades of clockmakers and customers standing, walking, and working on it. In places it looked almost marbled as water, ale, oil and other liquids had been spilled and then trampled underfoot year after year, decade after decade.

Three work benches were built on wooden platforms that made them sit higher. This helped the clockmakers take advantage of the light at certain times of the year. During the day, the light was just enough to do the fine finishing and intricate metal work at which Robert had become so skilled. Some clockmakers were importing shoddy parts from Europe or—heaven forbid—London and Yorkshire, but not Robert. He was a purist. And he was sure that God would not bless his effort to become a superior clockmaker if he took shortcuts. There were many clockmakers in Scotland but few in the trade were known as Grande clockmakers.

Robert was twenty-four years old and many people were shocked that a boy of his lowly birth had achieved the level of apprentice clockmaker. It was unheard of. Only Robert knew the story, and he smiled to remember it. His mind wandered back all those years to that night, the night that changed everything.

Out wid ya, mon! bellowed Robert’s scruffy, ill-mannered stepfather.

Robert saw his ma wincing at the thought of him heading out into the November night air with no shoes or warm coat.

Ye git yourself down to the ale houses, and find a man needing a torch to git himself home tonight, said his stepfather. Make sure all of the pennies gets back here, or they’ll be no bread for you tomorrow just like they was none today. Now git!

The boy stood by the door of the small digs, looking toward his mother. Maybe this time she’d find the courage to say, No, not tonight. It’s just too cold. But she didn’t. His Mother was afraid of the man she pretended was her husband. Everyone knew the real reason she wouldn’t defend her little lad going out into the cold was that she didn’t want to wind up back on the street, where he’d found her.

Way with you, lad, she said, turning back to her mending. Robert reluctantly made his way onto a street where no other link boys waited. He squeezed himself into the doorway of a tavern. He could see his breath, a smoky white puff in front of him, and his bare feet ached from the old cobblestones. He stood on one foot, pushing the other foot against the warm calf of his leg.

He stuffed one hand in his pocket, holding his unlit torch in the other hand and shifted his weight to his other foot. He hoped a gentleman soon would come out, having soaked up enough whisky or other mean spirits to need a helping hand to get back home. Walking was at least warmer than waiting.

A light danced down the street towards him, and Robert saw another small boy like himself—with no warm woolen coat or shoes—leading a swaying man along the street. Just as they passed Robert, the man hit the boy about the head with a sharp blow. Robert winced. Perhaps the boy had said something unappreciated, but he might also be robbed and beaten for his meager earnings. Robert himself had lost two nights’ worth of pennies last week to beatings, but he rarely missed a night as a link boy.

The door across the street—one of many brothels in the city—opened slowly and a short, dark man stepped out. Robert dashed from his doorway, holding up his torch.

You lad, yes you. Can you lead me to my digs? the man asked. Robert hesitated, startled that the man wasn’t drunk. His speech was clear, and he stood steadily upon his legs.

Yes, sir, he said. I can.

The man gave his name as Shaw and told Robert his address. He had very thick, black eyebrows that seemed to meet in the middle of his forehead, yet his expression was gentle.

Hearing the man’s address, Robert said, I know where that is, and I know the quickest way there. He caught the impressed look that crossed Shaw’s face.

You look a little young to be out at this hour. Shaw had an accent that Robert had never heard before.

I’m twelve, sir, Robert said in his Scottish brogue.

Seems a little young to be out here at night, Shaw persisted. Robert didn’t answer, and they walked on without speaking again until they got to the man’s digs.

This is it, Shaw said. How much do you usually charge for the light to guide people home?

Robert responded Tuppence, sir.

The man handed him a sixpence and said, There now, young man; please go home tonight. I cannot stand the thought of you being out here in this weather with nothing on your feet and no covering for your shoulders.

Robert stared at the coin. He’d never received such an amount of money for just guiding a man to his digs.

Thank you, sir, he said and ran straight home to give his ma the sixpence. She smiled so widely that he saw her brown teeth.

Your Da will be pleased with you tonight.

Robert shrugged. He didn’t care what that man thought of him and winced at the thought of his ma calling that man his father. He loved his ma, and he always knew that she loved him. She was all he had, and he felt responsible for her.

Some weeks later, on a cool and rainy black night Robert spotted a well-dressed man going into the same brothel and was sure it was Shaw, so he decided to wait for him. As time passed, other boys crowded around the doorway of the house of ill-repute. An hour later the man appeared.

As Shaw made his way out of the old oak doors, his eyes darting everywhere underneath his dark eyebrows, he straightened his shirt and tie. Robert had done this enough to know when a man was uncomfortable being seen coming out of one of these places.

He’d heard the older boys laugh and make jokes. He wasn’t exactly sure what happened in a brothel; but he had an idea, and he didn’t really like to think about it. Robert held up his torch, trying to catch Shaw’s attention. Shaw made his way down the well-worn steps to the street and spotted Robert right away. He touched him on the shoulder.

The other older, bigger boys were not used to losing a punter to a younger lad, and Robert wondered if their resentment might lead to trouble on another night; but he lit his torch, which was nothing more than an old rag soaked in paraffin on a stout stick that he’d used many times. Again, Shaw was not wobbly from drink. They took the same path back to his living quarters. It was a distance of almost a mile.

What is your given name, boy?

Robert is what me ma called me. He wondered if he’d get another sixpence.

Have you ever received any schooling?

No, sir. I’ve always wanted to attend a real school because I can read most words. My granny taught me from the Bible before she died; that’s when me ma and me was put out on the street. I can read most simple words, but I can’t write even one word.

Shaw laughed at his reply and smiled kindly.

Have you read the Bible? asked Robert.

Only the Old Testament, answered the man. My faith does not recognize the New Testament.

Robert was too young to understand what Shaw meant. Shaw told Robert that he was a teacher, and then came an unexpected offer.

If you come to my house on Sunday evenings about tea time, in time I will teach you to read all the words in the Bible and write them too.

Robert gaped up at the man. You’ll teach me?

Shaw smiled. I will. Come to my house this Sunday. He pressed a sixpence into Robert’s hand.

For two years, Robert never missed a Sunday, and Shaw found him to be a worthy student. The boy had a sharp mind and was mature beyond his years. Shaw continued his weekly trip to the brothel and most nights Robert was there to guide him home.

They had a need for each other. Since the back streets of old Edinburgh were dark and dangerous (William Murdock did not invent street gaslights for another sixty years), they were a haven for thugs. Shaw’s little link boy, Robert, always guided his friend and teacher home safely. The boy knew the streets and alleyways to stay away from. During the years that Robert acted as his guide, Shaw was never confronted or harmed.

When Robert reached fourteen years old, the old master clockmaker whose shop was just down the street from their home, offered Robert an apprenticeship. His mother and stepfather couldn’t believe it. They went to the master’s place of business to see if their boy was telling the truth. Even though he wasn’t given to lying, they needed to confirm that this amazing stroke of good fortune was true.

Robert knew that Shaw was behind this chance of a lifetime so he worked hard even though the master clockmaker was cold and cruel—not at all like Shaw. The apprenticeship was a seven-year battle of wills. The master was determined to break the boy’s spirit; the boy was determined to endure whatever the master would dole out.

At times there were slaps and even the odd punch, though Robert never told his family or Shaw. He and Shaw continued the weekly classroom rendezvous, and Shaw rarely missed taking comfort in the streets of the old town.

One night, eighteen-year-old Robert waited outside the brothel on the usual night that Shaw frequented the place, but Shaw never came out.

At tea time on the next Sunday evening, Robert went to Shaw’s apartment for his weekly lesson and a scowling man answered the door.

Where is Shaw? Robert asked, confused. He didn’t know if Shaw was his given name or his family name and was angered at himself that he never thought to ask this of his friend.

The miserable-looking man told him that the previous tenant had not paid his rent for two long months and now had disappeared.

The landlord is still looking for him. Now, away with you lad.

The next day, Robert went to the old master clockmaker and told him that Shaw had disappeared.

What is that to me? answered the master. I took you on because your friend Shaw promised to buy a number of clocks every two years.

And did he? asked Robert.

Aye, answered the stout bad-tempered clockmaker.

Where did you deliver them to?

The old master was always stingy with words and this time was no different. Shaw came and took them away. Now back to work. I’ll not have you lollygagging around here all day while I’m paying you good money.

The mystery deepened for Robert. He was sorry he wasn’t more forthright with questions; after all, he wasn’t a small boy anymore. He had grown into a tall man with a strong chin and an even stronger back. He could have—no, he should have asked Shaw, his friend and mentor, more questions. Now it was too late.

Chapter 2: The New Master

W hat about that clock?

Robert cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see the clock the customer was referring to.

Aye, that clock is for sale, the master said with a scowl, but it’s the work of my assistant.

Robert turned back to his work, gritting his teeth over the inference that his work was substandard to the master’s. He had finished his apprenticeship eleven years earlier and still the man treated him like a boy.

It looks much more grand, remarked the frail, old man. His wife looked on approvingly.

Aye, said the clockmaker, it’s a bonnie timepiece, but I still think this one would be a better fit for your needs. He turned the buying couple towards his own solid tall clock. It was not as fine an offering as Robert’s craftsmanship, but if the sale was made no selling bonus would be paid to Robert.

Robert sighed over the half-finished clock on the bench in front of him. He knew the old master’s tricks and his meanness with money. When Scottish money people came to the workshop, they were starting to ask for Robert’s work more and more. The master hated it.

It was small consolation to Robert that he was a better clockmaker than his master would ever be. The older man still made clocks the way he was taught forty years ago, sturdy but plain. He always tried to push his clocks even when a buyer preferred Robert’s work as this couple did. Robert smiled as he heard the woman again asking about his clock. He knew the master resented him and would put him out of the workshop in a heartbeat, but the master got more sales because of the clocks Robert made.

The bell over the door jingled again, and Robert made a covert glance up. The lady and tall gentleman that stood in the doorway looked familiar. As he turned back to his tools, he remembered them buying a tall clock last week. They didn’t look as happy now.

The master finished the sale with the first couple, ushered them out the door, and turned to the new couple.

This timepiece that stands in our parlor doesn’t keep time, announced the lady. We paid good money for this clock.

What do you intend to do about it? asked the tall thin man. His waxed mustache wiggled as he talked.

Robert stayed hunched over his desk, but he recognized the man’s nervousness. Few people liked confronting the master clockmaker; his reputation for angry outbursts was well-known.

Is it fast or slow? asked the clockmaker.

I really don’t know, responded the lady. You need to come and fix it once and for all, or simply take it back and make full restitution of all the money we paid. You have until week’s end to do either, at which point we will seek a solution with the magistrate!

Now, madam, please. Before you threaten me with the magistrate, allow me to set this right, pleaded the clockmaker.

The lady wagged her fat finger at him and said, Have you been buying shoddy pieces for this clock from suppliers other than those sanctioned by the Hammermen Society?

The clockmaker began to tremble and his eyes bulged with rage, but he said nothing. The Hammermen Society, to which all reputable clockmakers belonged, kept watch over those who made clocks. They made sure that the level of excellence was high.

As the couple made their way toward the door, she added, I may report you to the Hammermen Society even if you get this clock put right. I’ve completely lost my patience and Christian goodwill toward you, my man. She opened the door to leave, her jowls jiggling as she did so.

The master remained in the middle of the workshop. The colour had left his face, turning it a chalky gray. Robert couldn’t believe that a man so mean and unyielding for so many years could look so beaten and subdued.

About three in the afternoon, the old master told Robert, I’m going to the back for a bit.

Robert watched the man’s broad back disappear around the corner at the back of the shop. The sound of clattering on the floor was followed by the creak of springs, then silence. Robert pictured the dirty, discoloured old couch at the back of the shop, all the parts and pieces that had been laying on it now lying on the floor. He frowned. The old man never admitted exhaustion, much less quit work in the middle of the day.

Robert had heard the stories about the old clockmaker escaping from his unhappy marriage by cuddling up on that couch with a few drams of whiskey. It was so worn that it hardly represented furniture anymore; instead it had become a resting place for bits of wood and metal parts, springs, and metal cogs.

He focused on the clock in front of him, but as the unusual silence stretched on, his gaze kept wandering towards the back of the shop. Finally, he saw a piece back there that he needed for his clock. He walked back quietly, picked up the block of wood, and poked his head around the corner.

The master’s face was an odd, wax-like colour. Robert stared. Then the master’s arm fell limply toward the floor. Robert jumped.

The master was dead. Robert began to shake. He’d never seen a dead man before. What was he to do now? For whom would he work and receive wages? Then he shook himself. Why was he thinking of his own circumstance at a time like this? The master’s wife needed to be told.

He ran to the side door of the house and knocked until his knuckles hurt. The master’s wife, Hilda, was a waif of a woman who was as miserable as any woman Robert had ever met. He often wondered what kind of a woman she would have been if she’d been shown any kindness or tenderness from the old clockmaker.

Hello, Robert. Her greeting sounded more like a sigh of exhaustion.

It’s the master, madam. He lay down and now he’s … I think he’s dead.

Nay, he’s likely tired and fallen asleep. She waved her hand to brush him away, but Robert saw her face tighten. He’s resting. I’m sure he’s resting, she repeated as she followed him to the shop.

They both knew, as soon as they saw his big expanse lying on the chesterfield, that he was dead. His color now had a translucent whitish blue tinge to it and his big, barrel chest was not moving.

She took off her headscarf and placed it over his face and wailed, What will become of me now he’s gone?

Robert put his hand on her shoulder and she pulled away, regaining her composure.

I’ll call for the undertaker, she said. Do you know what jobs are near to complete and what orders can be completed without him so we can make enough money to pay for him to be dispatched?

Hilda weighed just over eight stone (118lbs) and always wore a scarf covering her hair. Her frock was dirty and encrusted with stains from cooking. She was generally unkempt, but still Robert felt concern.

What will you do? What will I do?

Young man, my husband is not even cold and you’re asking me what I’m going to do!

She ran out of the workshop and Robert just stood there. Within a few minutes, she returned and said, If I can find enough money, I’ll move back to Dundee. I have a sister living there. I’d always hoped I’d return … once … She turned from Robert as if the thought would make her cry, but she didn’t.

Instead she left him standing there with the dead master turning whiter by the minute. It was a good while from the end of the workday, but he didn’t know what else he could do there. Closing the shop, he walked home.

When Robert arrived at the squalid apartment that he and his mother called home, he quickly relived the day’s events to her. She put her head in her hands and wept.

"I didn’t know his passing would be so