Read by Greg Page
When I was a young man, and still happy, I used to throw clocks down wells. I’d set the hands to twelve, for no reason other than symmetry, and I’d listen intently for the splash. A clock falls quickly, but those moments between the letting-go and the landing - the tension of the silent fall, the inevitable release of the moment that the falling stopped – well, they were among the happiest of my life.
Evelyn was younger than me by three years. I fell in love with her on a train - the first time I’d seen her, although we lived less than two miles from each other - and within a month we were engaged. She was sweet, rich, intelligent, a quiet beauty, and I was captivated beyond reason.
Before Evelyn, I’d been at my leisure to saunter around certain shops I’d come to favour, selecting just the right timepiece with just the right heft and just the right shine, and then I’d spend hours perusing my painstakingly-compiled map of wells within the surrounding area, selecting one which felt right. I’d dress with care. I’d pack a picnic. I’d smile as I pulled on my walking boots and placed the clock - wrapped in newspaper and tied with string - in my backpack.
In short, I had fun.
This all ended when I met Evelyn. I’ll admit that for the first weeks of our romance I gave little thought to clocks or wells. Love hungers for attention, and I gave in gladly. But soon I was reminded - in a none-too-subtle manner - of what I was missing: sitting in Evelyn’s parents’ parlour, making polite conversation and drinking milky tea, the huge corner-standing grandfather clock struck midday, and I felt my heart skip a beat.
I had been neglecting my passion. Not only that, I felt as if I were being unfaithful, and I was silent for the excruciating duration of the chimes, trying to decide whether I were being unfaithful to Evelyn by thinking of my clocks and wells, or quite the reverse. Whichever it was, by the time the final chime had died away I had determined a course of action: I would let Evelyn share my secret.
The next Sunday, we met at the train station, suitably attired for rambling. I had my backpack, my picnic, and a smile - albeit a nervous one. We were heading for a small copse on the outskirts of the next village where there lay hidden a deep, ancient well, one which happened to be a favourite of mine, and which had already provided a watery grave for many a carefully-chosen timepiece.
We boarded the train, with Evelyn still blissful in her misapprehension that we were going for a stroll, nothing more. We chatted, held hands, and all the while I thought of the clock in my pack, the weight of it, how it would feel to hold it over the dark mouth of the well, how it would pull, and how Evelyn would watch me, how she would smile.
How my pleasure would be doubled!
We reached the well at midday, and I knelt to open my pack. Evelyn said that it was a wonderful spot for a picnic.
“There is something I want to show you,” I said, and I stood with the paper-wrapped timepiece in my shaking right hand.
“But what is it?” she said, and I believe that she backed off from me, just a little.
“I want you to watch,” I said, and I unwrapped the clock gently. “Come with me.”
She was a trusting thing, and she even took my hand. I have relived this moment many times, and I am convinced that I was innocent of all mal intent. I merely wished her to share my pleasure, the way all lovers hope their lovers will.
The well lay at the edge of the trees. Its walls rose from the ground to knee-height, and there was a working winch-bucket, and no cover. Nowadays, alas, most wells are protected, but this was a more innocent time.
I took the clock and I worked the key until both hands pointed to twelve. I felt Evelyn begin to speak, and I shushed her.
“Ritual is important.”
I held the clock out over the waiting darkness. I closed my eyes. I took a breath, and I let the thing fall.
A moment.
Bliss.
And then the splash.
And then the questions, and Evelyn’s eager eyes, her words spilling over each other, her cheeks aflame, her hands in her hair, in mine, her eager dance as she stepped back from me and laughed.
“Wonderful!” she said. “Utterly wonderful!”
I smiled, said nothing.
“But this is a marvel! What a thing to do! I take it you have done this before.”
“Many times,” I said.
“And you felt it, too? Each time? That exquisite - I don’t know what to call it - that tension as the thing falls? That release as it lands?”
“Every time.”
“But you must allow me to do it too! Did you bring another?”
I shook my head.
“Selfish!” she said. “Selfish, selfish man, to keep this to yourself! The next time, I’ll bring my own clock. I’ll hold it, just as you did, and I’ll let it drop. The tension must be a thousand times more exquisite when one is actually holding the thing!”
I could only nod. Inside: blackness. Pitch. A darkness I had never felt before. I hadn’t known what to expect, but I hadn’t expected this. To have my passion stolen from me so thoughtlessly! To have not a sharing but a usurping! For her to take my love and call it her own?
Insufferable.
“Here,” I said, beckoning her to where I stood at the wall of the well. “Come closer. If you lean over, you can still see the ripples.”
(c) Jason Jackson, 2016
Jason Jackson writes short fiction and poetry. Find links to his published work at www.tryingtofindthewords.blogspot.co.uk. Jason tweets @jj_fiction.
Aged six, Greg Page was cast as Joseph in his infant school nativity. Somebody put a tea towel on his head and he became someone else. He hasn't been himself since. He can be contacted by emailing his agents at their website, www.roseberymanagement.com, and has no idea what he's done with his keys.
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