Terrible Ticking

Tick, tick, tick, a sound that used to comfort and soothe me is nearly deafening today. The factory floor is chaos, the walls still shaking from the air raid that just passed overhead. I need to make my move. I head for the back office, the one usually kept under lock and key by my boss, R.F. Wentworth. I’ve been the lead engineer of chronometry for the past twelve years at Wentworth & Sons Clockworks Co. It was supposed to be a safe job, away from the war, away from danger. It was meant to be a place I could squirrel away enough coin to get my family away from this nightmarish conflict. Yet as my hands begin to sweat, I suspect I couldn’t have been more wrong.

It was a wet and cold day when I first dodged the draft, well, I say dodged, but that wasn’t entirely accurate. As a horologist—a clockmaker—my job granted me “reserved occupation” status, meaning I didn’t have to fight on the front lines.

I was safe.

That was, until September 3rd, 1939, when Britain declared war on Germany. Fast-forward a few months, and my company, with all of its employees, got drafted.

“Industrial conscription,” they called it, forcing us to go from making bespoke grandfather clocks to terrible timepieces—watches to aid the war. Watches to toll the time of death as the number of those killed by the war grew, and grew and grew.

“It’s not so bad dear; you’ll still be safe,” my wife Penelope comforted me when I found out the news. “There, there, it’s okay sweetheart,” she tries to comfort our newborn, James, who has been crying up a storm since I got home.

“I suppose,” I said, but wasn’t entirely convinced, “it’s just—I don’t trust Wentworth.”

“Eddie, come now.” Penelope is growing tired of hearing this rant.

“You know he’s a greedy pig, the man would sell his own mother for a shilling.” I trust my boss, mostly, but I know he would do anything to turn an opportunity into a profit.

“We won’t have to worry about it for long, right?” She nods expectantly at my briefcase.

“Right,” I walk across our small one-story home in Birmingham, weary floorboards creaking as I stoop down to pry one up. £90 is what I’ve saved, it’s not enough. To get safe passage out of Britain on a merchant vessel headed for Portugal, then ultimately onward to South Africa, I’ll need one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Fifty for each Penelope and me, fifteen for James, and ten or so as padding.

Securing the floorboard back down, I sigh, “Right, just a few more months, then we’ll be free.” I smile at my loving wife, but her face still has concern written across it; she can see right through me. She knows I don’t feel confident in this, and she knows I don’t trust Wentworth. She knows I suspect that a few months will indeed be far too long.

Things were progressing smoothly. I had saved up almost one hundred and ten pounds, and the home stretch was in sight. That’s when I met Harry.

“Tick tock,” the so-called “imports consultant” taps a finger on his watch as he settles down in my office chair. “I can hear the gossip now, ‘What happened to poor Eddie Crate’, ‘They never did find his body’. What will your wife and son think?” The threat is clear, but the demands are unreasonable.

What was initially just a run-of-the-mill meeting, Harry came with promises of cheaper steel. Jumping on the chance to save, Wentworth ordered me to take the meeting.

Now we sit across from one another in the backroom of the warehouse, staring daggers at one another. His eyes were full of smug satisfaction, mine weary and tired. How I loathe this coercion. A German spy and a farmer's son from rural Britain. One person just wants to live a life of peace, while the other is trying to pry secrets and intelligence forth to feed back to the enemy.

“Does Wentworth not trust you?” Harry raises one eyebrow in question. “I had no choice,” “I couldn’t have done anything,” “He threatened my family!” Harry laughs mockingly at what I might say to the police, then grimaces at me, “What’ll it be, Eddie?”

A pause of immeasurable length passes between us, and I finally fold under the pressure, knowing I have no alternate path.

“I will get you the manifest, that’s it. No more. I won’t do—”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Harry cuts me off, “good man. You remember the meeting location?”

I grunt in confirmation.

“I will see you at eight O’clock tonight then, and I expect all to be in order, yes?”

I nod with the fatigue of a cursed man, resigned to my fate. Then, as the door to the office opens, the horrible ticking of the clocks floods my mind once more.

Tick, tick, tick.

Oh, how I loathe that sound. I used to love it. Tinkering and toying around with various bits and bobs of machinery around the farm was how I developed my love for precision engineering. Years later, I would apprentice under a master clockmaker. That’s when things really kicked off for me. I met the woman of my dreams, got a job at a prestigious company, we fell in love, and had a beautiful baby boy.

All that was in jeopardy now. First, by the looming conscription bill, which I just narrowly dodged. Then, by the greed of my boss, who had invited this devil across our doorstep, all for a pretty penny.

“Thank Jove,” I whispered under my breath when the air raid sirens started to blare. I needed a distraction, something that would pull old Wentworth from his tightly locked office. This air raid was just the thing—a perk of being in an active war zone, I suppose.

The cargo manifest Harry had tasked me with fetching was innocuous enough—just a small slip of paper folded up and now resting snugly in my pocket. I take a second to gather my thoughts, then realize the siren is still going off. Not wanting my efforts to be in vain, I collect myself and make to leave. Guilt plagues me, and I pray for the lives of those I was about to consign to death. I don’t look back as I scramble towards the safety of the shelter.

“Eddie,” Wentworth, calls to me as I stumble in to join into the protection of the corrugated steel. “Where in the devil were you? Fancy a bit of shrapnel, do you?”

I smile weakly back, the weight of my villainy heavy on my shoulders. The air raid passes, the coast is clear. Work carries on as normal, the only difference now is I judge myself severely for the treachery I was cornered into.

I’m killing innocent people by handing over this manifest. It’s just the addresses of our shipments…

I try to convince myself that what I’m handing over isn’t of that great import, but I can’t seem to justify it. Yes, it is just a slip of paper with some addresses and line items on it. Yes, I’m not actually pulling the trigger on a gun. But all the same, it doesn’t sit well.

What are they going to do with this? Bomb them, surely. Maybe not though, maybe they just need to do reconnaissance, or something.

I’m not able to convince myself. I know this is bad, what I’m doing, that by saving myself and my family, dozens, no, hundreds of people might die.

“Why wouldn’t you return, Eddie? What’s wrong?” The concern on Penelope’s face rips my heart in two. A wave of regret and anger washes over me.

I’m so stupid, I never should have trusted Wentworth. I knew he would pull something like this. I should have just left when I had the chance.

“Nothing, my sweet. Really, it’s nothing. Just the war is dangerous, that’s all, okay?”

Penelope doesn’t believe me, I can see that.

“I’ll be back in time for tea,” I try to still the shake in my voice as I lean in to kiss my wife on the forehead. She puts a soft hand on my cheek, so delicate, so loving.

“Eddie,” She trails off, unable to find the right words.

“It’ll be okay,” I hold her tight, hugging her and our little son bundled up in her arms, “but listen Penelope, if I something happens to me…”

“I know,” she whispers back, pulling me in tighter. I guess she fears that if she lets go now I might never come back, maybe she’s right, I hope not.

“I take James, and we run, we flee to Portugal, then to South Africa.”

“That’s right,” I kiss the top of her head. I’m still holding onto her as tight as I can. Half, because the warm embrace is too sweet to release. Half, so she doesn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. I wipe them away on the sleeve of my off-white cotton button-up, then part from my beloved.

I step out from our family home on an ice-cold night in late November, not knowing if I am to return. I check one last time that my Enfield No. 2 pistol is loaded with six .38 Smith and Wesson rounds. Facing toward the enemy, and not knowing what fate await me, I stride forth into the night to brave my fears.

The fears I judge myself so harshly for shying away from.

The fears I let rob me of my peace.

The fears I won’t let win, even if this is our last dance.