Changing Times

by Rob Nisbet

‘This time business has gone too far!’ The little watchmaker looked ready to explode. ‘Pray, don’t talk to me, sir, of Mrs Ruth Belville. I have yet to meet a more irritating, smug and argumentative woman!’

I confess that I was somewhat alarmed by the watchmaker’s reaction. I pass by his shop on the Pimlico Road practically every morning on my way to the brewery. On this particular morning he was outside the shop, polishing his window.

‘Good day,’ said I, pulling out my watch as usual.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ said he, casting his professional eye over my timepiece. ‘That’s a fine instrument you have there. Does it keep good time?’

I leant on my cane. The steep cobbles were taking their toll and I was glad to pause a moment in conversation. I am obliged to take my time these days, but I am in reasonable health and tell myself that I should walk, while I am still able. ‘It keeps excellent time,’ said I. ‘Each morning I check its accuracy to the clock in your window and they tally as if they were twins. Yes, it keeps perfect time, no matter what Mrs Ruth Belville says.’

It was the mention of this name that had so ignited the watchmaker’s wrath.

I passed a discreet hand across my face so that he might not see my amusement. ‘Irritating, smug and argumentative? Those are stinging words indeed!’

‘Oh, I do apologise, sir.’ The watchmaker burst into a flurry of regret. ‘I don’t mean to speak ill of a lady of your acquaintance.’

‘The lady is more of an annoyance than an acquaintance,’ I assured him, allowing the smile to creep through my fingers. ‘But I sense a story, sir.’ I held out my hand in introduction. ‘William Spode.’

It seems the family name still carries some recognition. ‘Of the brewery, sir?’

‘For over fifty-five years, now,’ I confirmed. ‘I am still a partner, but, to tell you the truth…’ I indicated my sparse white hair with the tip of my cane, ‘I am an old man. I think I’m tolerated there now as some kind of figurehead. I presume that is why Mrs Belville directs her disparaging comments toward me.’

The watchmaker shuddered again. ‘You do well, sir, to call her an annoyance. She calls into my shop at every opportunity to inform me that my clocks are wrong. I am, according to the arrogant Mrs Belville, approximately half an hour behind Greenwich Mean Time.’

I found myself warming to this volatile little man. ‘That is her complaint of me too,’ said I. ‘But, as I check my watch to the clock in your window each morning, and they tally so precisely, I choose to ignore her remarks. All timepieces vary, I fancy, but ours are always in tune. What makes Mrs Belville so certain that she is right and we are wrong?’

The watchmaker drew himself up to his full, but hardly impressive, height and ran his stubby fingers over his gaudy cravat. ‘I am a man, sir,’ said he, ‘who prides himself on his modern tastes and attitudes. Mrs Belville has attempted to set herself up as London’s “time lady”. She apparently has her timepiece certified in Greenwich, then walks around the city, selling on what she claims to be the correct time. I applaud her ambition of course, but not, alas, her accuracy.’

‘I see now,’ said I, ‘why she criticises our timekeeping, which she claims is awry.’

The watchmaker snorted. ‘A claim I refute most strongly,’ said he. ‘Especially now, sir, that I have your independent corroboration.’

I bowed my head, pleased to have found an unexpected, if excitable, ally on my morning walk. I am at an age when social change can grate on my established sensibilities. But I must confess a creeping admiration for a woman who feels she can compete with men in the world of business. ‘Tell me, sir,’ I asked, ‘how do you maintain the accuracy of the clocks and watches that you sell?’

‘As you do, sir,’ said he, indicating the clock in his window. ‘This instrument is the very pinnacle of accuracy. It has no fewer than seven jewels to ensure a durable, predictable mechanism. I wind the spring each morning to maintain a consistent energy. Every watch and clock I sell is set to match this master clock. And to keep them synchronised, I tell all my customers to listen for the five-thirty horn that sounds from your brewery, sir, at the end of each working day. Indeed, I have had occasion myself to adjust the master clock so that it always tallies with the horn.’

‘It is that very horn,’ said I, ‘which Mrs Belville has been complaining to me about. She argues that I sound it far too late.’ I pulled out my pocket watch. ‘But I sound that horn myself at precisely half past five, taking the time from this very watch.’

Then the truth dawned on us both. Our eyes connected and widened as the cause and effect played through our minds. I had been setting my watch by the watchmaker’s clock – which he in turn adjusted to match my factory’s horn. It was little wonder that our times tallied.

The little watchmaker had turned a shade of outraged crimson to rival his cravat. Thankfully, he was, for once, speechless.

I turned, pointing my cane toward the brewery. I may be old, but I resolved then to subscribe to the time lady’s new-fangled service. ‘Times are changing,’ said I. ‘And if we are to keep up with the Ruth Belvilles of the world I fear we must change too. I agree she may be irritating and argumentative, but her smugness may be justified after all.’