Today I walked across the shoulders of London. Headed to Edmonton Green, one of the locations where my grandfathers had owned a clock shop.
‘They had three,’ the genealogist told me. ‘Paddington, Forest Gate and Edmonton green.’
My great grandfather had donated a clock to the local town hall in the 50’s, I was heading for that.
It’s all giddy highs and plummeting lows this detective work. I found out the town hall had been abolished.
I also found some of the content had been moved to the local Libary.
And it had. The great grandfather clock, donated by my great grandfather, was hidden by the mouth of the entrance.
This glass enclosed artefact. All bronzed and alive. It was like time stood still. I imagined his hands, delicately moving the hands on the face in dizzy circles.
After I walked into a watch and clock repair stall called ‘Serendipity.’ I spent ages chatting with two men who had lived in the area for years. They told me of a time just after World War Two. One of them read me a poem he had written. Sung a song about chewing gum. Cracked a joke about clocks.
The other told me that love is in everything: a hug, a tv show, a dog walk, a glass of wine, a Sunday evening with the family- a smell of lunch cooking, the tick tick of a clock moving you all forward.