My grandfather’s clock

My mother does not have much by way
of a literal inheritance to leave her children,  but she tells me each of us can have one of the ‘precious’ items from our childhood that now take pride of place in her living
room. 
‘I don’t want you to fight over them,’ she said when I visited last week.  
I don’t see that we would, at least not overtly, but there is one single
item that to me stands out above all others – the grandfather clock – my grandfather’s clock, the one he
sent to my mother in Australia from Holland way back in the 1960s. 
‘It’s the only thing of real
value,’ my mother said.  ‘It’s an
antique.’
I’m not sure I can speak for the clock’s actual value but its sentimental value to my mother and to her children is
great, or at least I imagine it is great for my siblings as well.  
My mother has elected to give this clock to one
of my brothers.  It is the only
item that she has itemised specifically for one or another of us, except for her
piano, which goes to my older sister, the only one who ever learned to play properly.  That is a given. 
I don’t know where the idea came
from, but for several years now I have lived with the belief that one of my
younger sisters coveted that grandfather clock since we were children.  
You know how it is, in those conversations
children sometimes have with their parents: ‘When you die, Mum, I want you to
leave me your banjo…’
In this way, my daughters divide up my
jewellery – what there is of it – again not for its actual value, but for its emotional value, particularly my wedding ring.  Given the fact I have four daughters and only one ring, a
ring created and cast in gold by a friend now long dead, we have thought to
make a fresh cast of the ring so that all my children can have a copy.  But that’s another story.
My mother says she wants to be
buried with her rings, or else they will need to be cut off.  
That’s fine, my older sister reckons,
but to her it seems a waste to bury diamonds. 
There seems to be a debate between
the actual value and the emotional value. To me, my mother’s diamonds hold little
value.  They come from the rings her second husband gave her.  I
care only for the rings and things that come from my childhood, narcissistic as
that might seem.  
The things that
existed in my childhood that live on in my memory, they are the things I desire
most:  the paintings of windmills in Holland,
and of Europe in the winter, the wall hangings my mother hand embroidered, the
statue of the blessed virgin Mary, and the crucifix.
I sensed my mother was a little
surprised when I asked if I might have the crucifix, not for religious reasons – though I did not tell my mother that – more for its significance as an icon from
my childhood that sits in my memory like a beacon.  
‘Take it down now then,’  my mother said.  ‘Write your name underneath.’  I suggested that – with help – she might
like to write behind or underneath each object or painting the name of the
person to whom she wants to leave it. 
‘But I prefer to give each of you
something you like.  I want you each to choose.’
All except the grandfather clock, and I told my mother then how much my younger sister had always wanted that clock,
she perhaps more than any one of us. 
But no, my mother still wants to give it to my brother.
Why, I asked, why this
brother?  
‘He never married,’ my
mother said.  ‘He lives
alone.’ 
A clock like this could make his
home homely.  A clock like
this belongs in a cosy house.  A
clock like this would keep him company.
My mother went on to tell me how
she had stopped the clock from working when the grandchildren came along.  She did not want any of them to get
hurt playing with the brass metal weight on the end of the chains at the base
of the clock. 
But my brother could reassemble
it, she said.  He could get the clock working
again.
And so he could measure the passage of time, tick tock, tick tock, the
grandfather clock his constant companion.
I do not know what will happen to
the clock or the crucifix or any of the other memorabilia of my mother’s life,
but at least I can write about it, as I did once in a short story – literary license and all that: 
The girl hesitates
at the front door as she pulls it shut behind, long enough to catch a glimpse
of the statue of Jesus hanging from his crucifix on top of the piano
in the front hall.  His feet are cracked
where the nail has been driven in and although someone has tried to glue the
feet back in place the plaster has split up to his knees and he now hangs
loosely from his arms and swings in the updraft from the open door.

Cross your fingers: a short story

The sound of the radio wakes
me.  Saturday morning and the
announcer calls out the details of the horses that will be running in the
various race meetings of the day.

I turn over and his pillow is
empty.  A typical Saturday.  I find my man in the kitchen, toast
crumbs on his plate, the newspaper folded to a manageable size. He holds a red
biro in his hand and with it circles the details of each horse and race to
establish where he will put his money. 
His preoccupation with the form guide borders on insult but I do not
take offence.
I
start the day by loading whites into the washing machine, whites and lights
first, followed by the darks.  When
the basket is full to overflowing I take the clothes out behind the apartment
block and hang out as many as the line can hold.  I try to keep the excess washing to a minimum forcing
clothes together as closely as possible and sharing pegs.  I know it will not speed up the process
of drying but to me there is a certain satisfaction in a full washing line
without a chink of light between the clothes.  Recently there has been an underwear thief in our
neighbourhood.  I do not relish the
thought of some stranger stealing my knickers, worn and un-sexy as they may
be.  I will hang our underwear on
the small clotheshorse that stands on the balcony of our apartment.
My
man  comes out to say goodbye as I
clip his shirts in order of colour to the washing line.  ‘Wish me luck,’ he says.  I wish him luck and any niggling
feeling of dissatisfaction I tuck away inside the peg bag.  My man provides for me while I am a
student and have very little money of my own.  If my man wins today we might go out to a flash restaurant
and if he loses they may yet turn off our electricity next week because the
bill is still unpaid and long overdue. 
Ours is a tempestuous life but I tell myself I like that.  I thrive on the uncertainty.  Never a dull moment I think as I hang
out the last of the white handkerchiefs.
The
day goes by quickly enough, floors to mop, the toilet and sink to go over with Ajax.  I do
not dust the surfaces in the bedroom as there is too little furniture in there
beyond the bed to warrant it, but I dust everywhere else and in the kitchen I
wipe down the bench tops and scrub the stove clean with a hard scrubbing
brush.  I drag the vacuum cleaner
from the bedroom to the lounge until my back aches with the effort.  Bend and straighten. This is good exercise
I reason and the rewards are great. 
Soon I will have a house that is spick and span, my man will come home,
and we will be able to relax in the comfort of a clean home.  I cross my fingers and hope for a win.
My
man has devised a system whereby he can maximise his returns.  He is ruthless.  He does not become emotionally involved
with the horses. They generate an income that is all.  Twilight and I hear the clip of his heels in the stair
well.  The door rattles open.  The look on his face tells all.  We do not say a word but crawl into bed
for a coupling that offers comfort to both.  He for his day on the job and me for my domesticity.  Afterwards we will decide what to do
for dinner.