Fiction
MARGE was dozing when she heard the sound. It was Sunday and she should have been at church. Instead a vicious bout of ‘flu had confined her to bed.
She heard it again: an alien sound.
‘Who’s there?’ she called out, her usually robust voice reduced to a croak.
Silence.
‘Is anybody there?’
Nothing.
She waited a while then struggled out of bed, threw on her thick red dressing gown and floral slippers and crept downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs hung her heavy winter coat and behind this, her father’s walking stick. She clamped her large hand round the stout, wooden handle, lifted it off the peg and peered round the corner to scan the room.
All was as it should be; everything was in its place. Everything that is, except the ormolu clock.
In the corner of the grey moquette sofa sat Wellington. He would have seen who had taken the ormolu clock, but of course, Wellington would say nothing.
A tour of the house revealed that the faulty catch on the kitchen window, which she had been meaning to repair, had given access to the intruder. If she hadn’t been ill and attending church as usual, things could have been a whole lot worse.
‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’ That’s what Dennis used to say. It seemed natural and appropriate to think of Dennis just then.
As it was the ormolu clock that had been stolen, Marge decided she would say nothing about it to her friends. ‘Haven’t you reported it to the police?’ they would ask. ‘Haven’t you filled out an Insurance claim?’ She would do none of these things. She would be philosophical about it and count the years she had enjoyed it as a bonus.
But in the days that followed she missed it desperately. She missed the sound of it, the certain rhythm it lent to her days. ‘We’ll have to put something else on the mantelpiece,’ she said to Wellington who appeared to nod sympathetically. Wellington was the only one who knew about Dennis and the ormolu clock. It was their little secret, along with all the other secrets she had shared with him down the years. She had friends but it was always Wellington in whom she truly confided. He was a good listener, would never interrupt and would never betray her.
A few weeks later Marge had recovered sufficiently to go on the Senior Citizens excursion to the neighbouring seaside town. When they arrived the wind was sharp enough to slice you in two, the clouds hung heavy and grey like unwashed sheets, and the tide was out.
Instead of the traditional walk along the seafront, she decided to do some exploring on her own. Behind the main promenade she discovered an interesting street full of antiquarian bookshops where a good part of her morning was spent. On the way to join the main group for a fish and chip lunch at the café on the front, she came across a narrow, cobbled side street. Crouching between terraced houses was a small second-hand shop. She glanced in the window as she passed. And there, in amongst a jumble of pottery ladies with parasols and white china dogs was the ormolu clock.
In a dream Marge entered the shop. A bell rang and a bespectacled tall, thin woman emerged from the gloom.
‘The clock,’ Marge managed to say, ‘in the window.’
The woman came around a scrubbed pine table filled with assorted bric-a-brac and for the briefest of moments Marge’s attention was caught by the display of tiny teddy bears …
The tall, thin woman squeezed in front of Marge and reaching into the window, picked up the clock and held it out before her in long tapering fingers. ‘It is rather sweet, isn’t it?’ she said, showing a row of small white teeth. ‘Only came in the other day.’
‘How much?’ Marge asked, holding her breath.
A reasonable price was mentioned; money changed hands. Wrapped in tissue paper, the ormolu clock nestled in her capacious handbag. She made no mention of her discovery, of course, on the bus back home. Once inside the house Marge sank down onto the sofa, eased off her shoes and retrieved her purchase. She remembered the first time it had been presented to her.
Dennis.
There was a freshness about him, a cockiness, a bravado that had endeared him to her.
‘Got something for you,’ he’d said, thrusting the clumsily wrapped package into her hands on the last night of his Embarkation leave during the war. She’d unwrapped it and gasped in wonder.
‘Where did you – ’ but he’d put a finger to her lips.
‘Ask no questions, love,’ he’d said, winking. ‘Take it as a keepsake.’
She’d known that it couldn’t have been bought on a soldier’s pay. But to see his look of pleasure – she couldn’t take that away from him. She’d have married Dennis. But like thousands of others he hadn’t come back.
She got to her feet and with due reverence befitting the occasion she carefully restored the ormolu clock to its rightful place on the mantelpiece. Then she turned to Wellington. ‘Got something for you, too. A mate for company while I’m out.’ And she placed at the side of the giant teddy bear, a tiny replica.
This short story is by Joyce Lee, a long-time Maleny resident with a passion for writing. Her short stories have been broadcast by the BBC and published in magazines and an anthology. She is currently working on her first historical novel. Joyce is a member of Word Weavers – a writers group who meet once a month at the Maleny Library. The y write to common themes, read out loud to each other and discuss their poetry fiction or plays.
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