Clock Stopped

This was an expression that an old friend of mine used to describe acquaintances who had adopted an appearance and style associated with a particular fashion when they were young and impressionable, but who had then chosen to stick with it long after it had become not just passé but a downright blast from the past.

Though delivered in good humour, it implied that whilst we recognised ourselves as hip, cool and groovy young people around town, those on the receiving end of the observation emphatically were not. It is an accusation that has probably come home to roost long ago. Would I still be sporting a Beatle fringe had hair loss not intervened? Perhaps circumstance has dragged my appearance into the present century as much as any purposeful decision to move with the times.

My own railway clock has also stopped - again. It was a long shot to begin with, I suppose. It was thought to be in working order and was complete with a key, though it was minus glass and bezel and the eight inch, LMS inscribed dial sported a different number from the one on the wooden housing, indicating, presumably, that two former railway clocks had actually been stitched together to re-make one. At least one part of it was thought to have been in use in a Rugby Midland station signalbox.

  

Luckily, I know a man who fixes clocks and he gave mine a good going over as soon as I had bought it, replacing the bits that were missing and cleaning and servicing its innards at a reasonable price. My brother-in-law, a restorer of art work on antique furniture, kindly touched up the clock face for me. A good job done then, I thought, as my initial outlay, plus my friend’s and my brother-in-law’s input, still left me in a good place financially, when comparing it to other similar examples at auction.

In place and ticking, there was now just the little matter of getting the thing to tell the time accurately enough to help run a railway. I’m not sure how reliable the internal workings of the Rugby signalboxes were in the days of steam, but I don’t remember hearing about any lack of synchronisation between the boxes along that stretch of line that might have been caused by my clock’s different interpretation of GMT.

Then it stopped, even before it had properly settled into its own version of the 24-hour day. My friend took it back and found that it needed some replacement parts. I felt a bit embarrassed about calling him again and I think he felt a bit embarrassed that I had had to do so.

It returned home fitted with its new bits for another go at being a normal clock. We talked about what needed to happen without me raising my voice. I wound it up and off it went. So far, so good, I thought. As instructed, I gradually adjusted the little wheel at the end of the pendulum each week to speed it up or slow it down slightly, and I was confident that Bob would soon become my uncle.

After all, we had already ironed out that other little teething problem, whereby, if the mouse-sized trapdoor at the base was shut, the pendulum could not move without rubbing against it. I was quickly on to that little setback, resulting in the very slightest filing of the end of the pendulum. 

Now it has stopped again. This time, it has received quite a severe talking to and in spite of threats of the imminent withdrawal of any further pocket money being spent, it still refuses to do any more than rock its pendulum until the few swings I have encouraged it to attempt with direct finger power have been dissipated.

“My clock has stopped again,” I informed my wife. “Good,” she said. “I don’t like listening to all that ticking.” So, no sympathy there then, though I like my clock and it certainly looks the part, but I would prefer that it was doing something to earn its keep rather than just loafing against the wall looking polished and elegant.

Now where did I put my clock man friend’s number, again?  

[From an article that first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette and with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]