The Pocketwatch

Does the watch hold a mysterious power

Benjamin Mallerman was a quiet boy. Not wholly out of choice, but partly because he had a speech disability. The fleshy string under his tongue was too tight to speak clearly, so Ben didn’t speak at all. “It will ease up as you grow” he was told by the local doctor. Ben was an endearing boy, he was shorter than the other boys, he had matted blonde hair, he was easily intrigued by simple things, his eyebrows were always up on stilts and his clear eyes were a striking bright blue. His knobbly knees were grass-stained and his shoe laces were a discoloured muddy brown. He usually wore a polo neck sweater and a tight pair of faded jeans.

One afternoon, Ben was standing in the familiar surroundings of the Mallerman’s attic. He liked it there. He felt secure beside the big arch window. It did not let in much light but it faced Mrs Morrissey’s sun lounge across the street which made him happy. The Mallermans would often confine Ben to the attic, usually when he had become a problem; like the time he tried to make dinner for himself and set fire to the pot with the handle; an accident no doubt.

The attic was dimly lit; it aged his eyes, Ben’s nostrils twitched due to the dank aroma trapped within the grey walls and the room’s dampness seemed to soak into his skin. For Ben though, it was a retreat. Sometimes he would get in trouble on purpose just so he could climb the splintered steps to be alone.

The attic was packed with discarded items. In among the boxes strewn across the floor lay old photos, weathered clothes, a plastic Christmas tree that Ben remembered as one of his first childhood memories, three paint tins; the dye had hardened down the side like a stalactite, cases full of vinyl’s from the 80’s, a bag of Halloween decorations and other miscellaneous treasures. Ben stood and peered curiously out through the arch window. He saw Mrs Morrissey sitting in her sun lounge; she was playing her Gameboy. Ben smiled; he wished she was his mother and he wondered if Mrs Morrissey knew about their unspoken friendship.

Moments later Ben heard a dull thud on the level below, probably his father having reached the bottom of the bottle and attempting his usual three-pointer from long range. He could hear his father’s footsteps meandering around the bedroom, cabinets opening and closing but Ben always chose to ignore this behaviour. He felt safe up in the attic along with all the insignificant family junk, his father rarely came up; Sometimes Ben would pull up the foldable stairs once he was inside which kept his father at bay, it reminded him of what the monks in the round-towers did when Vikings attacked. The brimming boxes intrigued him. There were so many forgotten memories sprawled across the floor like a collector’s chaotic collage. One time, after the pot with the handle incident, Ben found a picture. It was creased at the corners and the sun had overexposed the camera’s resolution. The photo had been taken outside an unfamiliar house. In the picture were Ben’s parents holding two matching blonde baby boys. Ben slowly turned the picture over and, scribbled on the laminate backing it said “With our two sons Ben and David while holidaying in Canada 94”. Ben remembers how the barely legible writing created a mixed feeling of doubt, anger, fear and nausea all pulling against each other, tripping a circuit in his emotions fuse box.

Standing in the attic looking at the large cardboard boxes, a wave of curiosity rushed over Ben. He began to rummage through the barricade and something caught his attention. The sun reflected its glow into his eye like when a mischievous child finds amusement in the classroom with mirrors and the summer sky; Ben wondered what surface the light had bounced off. He looked down curiously. Nestled in the corner of a box he had not yet noticed, lay a silver pocket watch. He bent over, brushed aside a yellowed table cloth and scooped up the delightful time keeper. He admired the untouched shell lid and wondered where it had come from. “Perhaps an old relative”, he thought to himself. He held the watch up and placed his ear against the cold outer casing. He listened, appreciating the pause between the tick and the tock. The watch excited him; Ben didn’t have a Gameboy or even a football so this tickled his childish mind in a way he had desired for many years. He loved watches and had always wanted one for his birthday. Ben’s adventurous mind leapt off in a tangent; an innocuous thought crept into his head; “What if I could stop time?” he thought to himself. No oppressive parents anymore sounded highly appealing to Ben. He imagined a world where his peers could visit and enjoy a game of marbles undisturbed, a world in which food was always on the table. With the watch in his palm, Ben closed his eyes and with a gentle downward push of his thumb, the tiny gears inside the watch stopped in duty. He slowly opened his eyes, feeling a little odd he navigated his attention away from the watch momentarily. The buzz of the cars on the street had stopped. The crows that would usually lurk above the roof had gone oddly silent. The clamour of drunken footsteps downstairs had stopped. Ben needed to be sure; he kicked over several fully-loaded boxes and the attic filled with noise. He listened. Normally his father would react instantly but this time there was no response from downstairs. “Could it be?” Ben considered to himself.  An uneasy look crept over his face; “it really has stopped time” he thought delightfully. He stood still transfixed in thought, debating the reality of it all. He quickly realised he had stumbled upon something very powerful indeed. Attempting to generate some ideas he paced around the attic. Suddenly he stopped. He was facing the arch window. He could see Mrs Morrissey; she was stood rigid and stony. Her hand was reaching out trying to catch a piece of fallen toast. Ben could not believe his eyes; it worried him immensely because he could always rely on his eyes, perhaps not his speech but his sight surely. He felt a rush of nausea make its way into the pit of his stomach. He looked at the silver pocket watch, confused. He remembered the picture of the mysterious toddler in Canada lay over beside the dented water tank. Ben looked at Mrs Morrissey, the photo and the pocket watch. He couldn’t bear to look at the statue across the street in the sun lounge. Once again, Ben felt the miniscule click release under his thumb and Mrs Morrissey’s toast landed butter side up.

Deciding he wanted to find the details of the photo, Ben walked over to the water tank, grabbed it off the dusty floor and stuffed the watch into his back pocket. As he moved toward the door to his surprise it swung open. It was Ben’s father. He stood gauntly with a look of hollow forgiveness on his face. He appeared to have just woken from a deep sleep after re-uniting his liver with Irish whiskey; his long love affair with Rum was presumably over. Before he spoke Ben held up the photo of the mysterious toddler and pointed at it with intent. His fathers face changed dramatically. Body swaying, his Adams apple did a little hop, his skin turned grimly pale, and his eyes widened. Unexpectedly he made a move towards Ben while muttering profanity under his breath. Ben instinctively reached for the pocket watch but in his haste he dropped the peculiar object and it shattered on the solid attic floor. Pieces of the watch scattered everywhere like a school of fish when threatened. Ben stamped his foot, angrily acknowledging his foolishness. Momentarily he froze, wondering if time would stop but unfortunately for Ben nothing happened and his father was still in pursuit. His insides were burning; his frustration had reached a climax. He turned and looked at his father and with the aid of every painful memory the words, “T…tell me about the t…toddler in the photo, I know he was my br…br… brother”, somehow left Ben’s lips. His father’s face looked for an answer; he was startled by Ben’s tongue clearly tapping against his teeth and the meeting of his lips pushed open by a puff of cold air. Ben felt just as stunned. Many years of hardship had been released in one short, perfect moment. He felt a morale triumph. The day of complete expression had finally arrived. He hoped Mrs Morrissey was watching from her sun lounge. He thought she would be; it was sunny outside.

Advertisement