The Marriage - K.L. Slater (story books to read .TXT) 📗

class in woodwork lessons. He had an eye for meticulous detail that proved to be an essential requirement for the repair of Robert’s clocks. Over time, I watched as Tom’s rather cute capabilities at seven became an intense irritation to his father as he grew older. I tried hard, I really did, but the more I saw Robert’s jealousy of his own son, the more I felt the keen sting of resentment towards him.

Robert had always liked getting his own way. That didn’t mean to say I’d been a pushover in my marriage as my mother had been, but I picked my fights. I’d have a go back if it was about something that mattered greatly to me. I found that a good way of keeping anxiety at bay rather than fretting over every last thing in our relationship.

One event marked out the step change in Robert and Tom’s relationship.

The grandfather clock came in three days before Christmas the year Tom turned fifteen. Always happy to assist his father, he’d helped carry it into the garage, which Robert had converted years before into a workshop. It stood in the corner and I remember being summoned, together with several of our neighbours, to witness its beauty.

Robert was in his element, preening like a peacock while we all oohed and aahed at the ornate mahogany piece.

‘Made on the east coast of Scotland, circa 1780,’ Robert announced grandly, pointing out various features. ‘It has an eight-day movement, a twelve-inch dial and rococo spandrels.’

I remembered wishing he still looked at me like he looked at that clock. Like most of our friends’ relationships, the rigours of marriage, work and running a house and family had robbed us of the romantic efforts evident in our early relationship.

‘How much is it worth, Dad?’ Tom had asked.

‘Good question. Probably around eight thousand pounds.’ There were gasps from his small audience, but Robert held up a finger. ‘If it’s in working order, I should say. The owner would be lucky to get a couple of grand for it in this state, but I shall work my magic and return it to its former glory.’

The clock had apparently been in the client’s family for generations, and Robert had been the first person he’d trusted enough to repair it. He told everyone that particular detail, too.

Everything went downhill rather rapidly after that. Despite him spending most of the Christmas break in his workshop, the clock evaded all Robert’s efforts to repair it. From what I remember – he went into great detail explaining it to me, most of which I admit went over my head – it was some sort of complication with the eight-day movement.

As he’d piqued the interest of the neighbours, several of them popped round to see the finished product and were told that Robert suspected a manufacturing fault was to blame for blighting the piece.

‘I’ve repaired enough clocks in my time to know when there’s a bigger problem,’ he told them. ‘I’ve tried everything in my considerable repair arsenal and I’ve finally got to admit I’m beaten.’

The day after Boxing Day, Robert’s old school buddy turned up at 6 a.m. to pick him up for their annual overnight festive fishing trip. It sounded silly, but Robert looked weathered, physically beaten from his constant battles with the clock.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to tell the client,’ he said morosely at the door as I kissed him goodbye. ‘He had such faith in me to repair it ready for his wife’s sixtieth birthday next month.’

‘Put it out of your mind and enjoy your break,’ I told him, handing over his sandwiches and flask. ‘If it’s beaten you then nobody else will be able to help him. That you can guarantee.’

Placated, he left, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was looking forward to the house being a little calmer, with no more baffling talk of the mechanics of that ruddy clock.

Mid morning, Tom sauntered into the kitchen dressed in warm clothes.

‘I’m going to tidy up the workshop as a surprise for Dad when he gets back,’ he said. ‘Shout me when lunch is ready, Mum.’

I gave it no more thought, but I remembered being touched that he wanted to do something to help his father. After lunch, he went out again and I had to call him in three times before he appeared for tea. His hands were covered in grease and he went directly over to the sink.

‘Whatever have you been doing in there?’ I whipped away the clean hand towel I’d just hung on the rail. ‘Rubbing the floor with your bare hands?’

He turned to me and grinned. His face was flushed, his eyes bright and sparkling, and I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach. He looked exhilarated, but something told me it was for all the wrong reasons.

‘You’re not going to believe it,’ he said, rubbing his hands so vigorously the soap foamed up between his fingers. ‘Guess what I’ve done?’

And then I knew. I swallowed down the lump in my throat and said, ‘Have you touched that clock?’

‘I’ve done more than touch it, Mum, I’ve mended it. It’s working! It’s running perfectly, Dad’s going to be amazed.’

But Robert was not amazed at all. When Tom led his father into the garage, Robert’s face turned puce. ‘Who the hell gave you the right to start meddling in here without my permission?’

He stormed over to the clock, and even through his fury, I saw the shock and amazement that Tom had managed to get it working.

‘I thought I’d have a quick look at it, Dad. I know you’ve spent hours on it and I thought if I got it working, you’d be—’

‘You had no right. No right!’ Robert grabbed hold of him, but Tom, now nearly as tall as he was, managed to slip free before his father slapped him.

‘Robert, please!’ I pleaded. ‘Calm down. This is a good thing, isn’t it? Now your client won’t be disappointed.’

He turned on me