The Standing Clock by Daniel Joseph Day

A teacher who is always stretched for time discovers a way to get all the time he needs - but at what cost?

Image generated with OpenAI

Time is no buffet. I must make do with my rations, though I'm often left hungry.

'Ah, Mr Vissers,' the headmaster catches me as we pass in the corridor. 'Bad news I'm afraid; 2B has had a leak - quite a major one as it goes. It'll be out of action for at least two weeks, so the contractors tell me.'

'I see. And where am I to hold my classes in the meantime?'

The headmaster inspects his tie. 'Well, it'll have to be the old library I'm afraid.' His wrinkled hands fiddle with his shirt cuffs.

'The old library?'

'Can't be helped I'm afraid. Still, it's not a bad little room when you get used to it. I hide away in there myself sometimes!' He looks to the ceiling and adds, half to himself: 'I shall have to find somewhere else for a week or two.'

I nod then take my pocket watch out on its chain. 8:15 it tells me, and I very much believe it. Old as it is, it gleams like new in the dusty shaft of sunlight which slices through the gloom of the corridor.

Taking a glance through the glass pane in 2B's door, I see several men in workman's clothes staring at the ceiling and frowning. It will take them till the end of today just to stop shaking their heads and tutting.

I wind my way down the dustier end of the ancient building towards where I think the old library is. After a few wrong turns I finally open the old, panelled door and am greeted by a musty carpet smell. Coughing as I draw back the heavy curtains, light bursts in to reveal a make-shift classroom, apparently set up by the caretaker in the early hours of this morning. I straighten up the trestle tables and foldout chairs to my satisfaction then check my pocket watch again.

8:42

Three minutes to spare before my pupils arrive. Not enough time to get to the staff room for a coffee (I'm not convinced I'd find my way back anyhow). Instead, I take a seat at the front and stare at the enormous bookshelves, the intricately carved ceiling that must have been quite beautiful at one time, the old darkly stained desk with original ink pot in the corner and...

'Hello...' I say aloud. I walk over to inspect the magnificent standing clock in the corner. It's a stout thing, made of what seems like an entire oak tree. Its face is yellowed and dimly marked with once elegantly scripted numerals, but there are no hands. A rusted thread sits in the centre behind the clouded glass where the hands were once attached. 'Pity...'

An orderly procession of black polished shoes is followed by the squeak of brass door hinges. The boy at the head of the line waits in the doorway.

'Enter,' I boom.

Desks are filled. A murmur swells then gives way to silence.

Mornings are always filled (slightly too full in my opinion) with literacy, numeracy, comprehension and often MFL. When the bell rings for break time it is I who sigh the loudest in relief.

'Right,' My voice rises over the screech of chairs. 'Fifteen minutes.'

I check my watch.

11:30

I dash to the staff room and make a strong black coffee. By avoiding conversations with the other teachers, I make it back within five minutes.

I'm about to sit back at my desk when the old standing clock catches my eye. It has a small brass dial on its side; the sort of mechanism which winds up then slowly releases back to its starting position.

A timer, I think. I twist the dial, lining it up with one of the little marks which I guess indicates ten minutes. I smile as I release it and it begins to tick. I expect to hear a bell or buzzer or something around the time that the children return.

In the meantime, I sit back and sip at my coffee. I glance at the pile of marking I could be making a start on. I glance at the corner of the book I've been desperate to start as it sticks temptingly out of my bag. In the end I do neither. I just recline and stare at the wall, listening to the faint but steady ticking of the standing clock.

I hadn't really wanted to be a teacher. I excelled at English at school and then university; they all encouraged me to go into teaching and I didn't have a better plan. Now I can't imagine any other life than this. The routine, the rules, the timetables - you become conditioned to them. There's safety in them, and safety means comfort and comfort is equal to happiness, isn't it?

Brrrrrrr!

'What the hell was that?' I take a breath and my heart steadies. 'So that's what the timer sounds like!' I chuckle and glance at the clock, then at the door, expecting my class to return any second now. They don't. I check my pocket watch.

11:35

I scratch my head. How can there still be ten minutes left? I examine the clock. Naturally I assume the mechanism must be inaccurate, but surely at least some time passed between me arriving at the classroom and the buzzer going off? My pocket watch says no time passed at all, and my pocket watch never lies. I hold it to my ear, just to be sure.

The school bell rings. The pupils return. I check my watch.

11:45

'Everything ok sir?' One boy says, catching my bewildered look.

'How long were you outside?' I ask.

'Just the usual sir, fifteen minutes.' I shake my watch and hold it to my ear again.

'Perhaps your watch is wrong sir?' Another boy says with a grin.

'My watch is NEVER wrong,' I almost shout, then smile a little to correct my tone. 'My watch is never wrong, Smith,' I repeat. 'It's Dutch made and has survived two world wars.'

'Were you in the wars Mr Vissers?' A titter of laughter. I raise an eyebrow.

'My grandfather was.' I explain. 'This watch was his and then my father's, before it was mine.' I hold it up and it gleams in the light. 'I keep it in pristine condition. I travel to the Netherlands once a year to have it serviced at the shop where it was made in Amersfoort.'

'Why don't you just have it serviced here sir?' asks Smith.

'Or just get a digital watch?' Jones adds.

'Because, Mr Jones...' I give him the stare. 'Ten Boom is the finest watchmaker in Europe, maybe even the world. Besides...' I smile. 'I enjoy the holiday and there's a fantastic café next door to his shop.'

We continue the morning's labour. A thick slice of comprehension followed by MFL which constitutes translating German nursery rhymes into English then swapping with a partner who must translate it back into German.

The lunch bell can't come soon enough. When it finally rings, I dismiss the class whom I won't see for the next two hours. The first hour is lunchtime, the second is PE where Mr Spike takes them onto the top field to get muddy kneed and chase a ball around. I dash off to the courtyard, securing my favourite spot at the base of an apple tree where I sit blissfully for the next thirty minutes. I dive into my book and bite into a shop bought apple which is twice the size of anything this tree has ever managed to produce.

I devour two chapters and the rest of my apple. I check my pocket watch with just a sliver of doubt.

12:58

The period in which Mr Spike takes my class after lunch is supposed to be spent planning and marking. I head back up to 2B then remember I'm supposed to be in the old library then make a quick detour via the staffroom - more black coffee - then one wrong turn before finally arriving at the old library.

13:05

The standing clock stares at me as I enter the silent room. I approach it sceptically then examine the timer mechanism once again. I've really never seen anything like this on a standing clock before. I check for a maker's mark or a plaque or something. Nothing.

I decide to test the mechanism again. I set the dial to fifteen minutes then read my watch.

13:07

When the timer goes off my watch should read 13:22; then we'll know how accurate it is.

I heave the pile of papers and exercise books onto my desk and slump into my chair. I stare for a few minutes before turning the first page over, leaning in with my critical red pen.

'Honestly Harris, how are you still mixing definitely with defiantly!'

In truth, it's a mistake I made myself as a boy, that is until my own teacher, Mr Woods, stood me up in front of the class and read aloud from my work.

'Paris is a city I would defiantly like to visit.'

Everyone laughed, but none harder or more mockingly than Mr Woods.

Page after page, my red pen scratches away.

Brrrrrrr!

The buzzer shocks me no less than it did the first time. I pull my watch out with great interest.

13:07

'It can't be?' I gasp. I shake the watch. I hold it to my ear. I hold it to the light. It dawns on me that this is no mechanical issue, for I know that time has passed and yet it hasn't. I have marked a dozen papers in a quarter of an hour that only lasted a quarter of a second.

I creep towards the standing clock with a new sense of wonder. I examine it carefully, looking for some outward sign of the magical properties it clearly possesses. One final test is needed. I turn the dial, this time a full 360 degrees. The door shrieks on its hinges as I push it and step into the silent corridor.

13:10

My footsteps are deafening in the tangible silence I have stepped into. Everything looks the same, yet it isn't. There is no movement except for my own, as if I have stepped into a photograph.

All is silent and yet I swear I hear, or perhaps feel, the faint ticking of the standing clock, though I'm far down the corridor.

It is only when I stand at the open window and look out onto the playing fields that the shock truly hits me. There are my class with Mr Spike. Each one is a statue, still as stone, not so much as a hair blown in the absent breeze. I too am a statue until I am able to shake myself loose and steady my heartbeat.

I run. I tear through the corridors, whipping past the staff room, round the next corner and out into the stairwell when:

'Oh! Headmaster!' I stop myself short of crashing into him. My mind is busy pulling together an explanation of why I'm running like a madman, but my eyes tell me that none is needed. There he stands, one foot on the top step, one bony hand resting on the worn wooden banister. Another silent statue. His head is down, glancing at his wristwatch and I am glad, for I have no desire to look into his face and see the frozen life in his eyes.

I stare for a moment then shuffle past him, the ticking of the standing clock beating in my own chest.

In two great leaps I'm down the stairs and out the fire exit into the still air.

My pace slows as I approach the playing fields. With all the mystery and wonder of the standing stones at stone henge, the shapes of my class are silhouetted by the brilliant sky. I walk among them like a ghost among gravestones. Not a single breath or a heartbeat can be felt among them.

And so I wander. I wander to the edge of the field where a stone wall sits among a cluster of young birch trees. I wander the length of the wall where a fence rises up at the boundary of the school grounds. I gaze at the groundsman taking an endless sleep on the back of his little tractor, his collie frozen mid jump between the ground and the back seat.

The daze I'm in gives way to a sudden excitement. I spin on my heels.

'This is a gift!' My words hang in the empty air. I march back up the field with purpose. My mind is filled with all the ways in which I will use this gift, the books I'll read, the moments I'll savour!

When I arrive back at the stone wall and am heading towards the school, the ticking grows louder and reverberates between my ears.

Brrrrrrr!

The statues come to life. It's the noise that's the most disorientating, screams and wails and whistles. I cover my ears.

'Sir?' shouts Harris, spotting me from a distance.

'What's Mr Vissers doing out here?' calls another boy.

'Out for a walk sir?'

'He's trying to escape!'

I quick march past them, ignoring their remarks. Mr Spike blows his whistle and barks out a new set of instructions. I check my pocket watch in time to see the minute hand twitch into position.

13:11

'Ah, Vissers!' the headmaster calls as I pass him on the corridor. 'Hope the old library is proving adequate?'

'Yes,' I shout, already turning the corner. 'Quite adequate!'

More than adequate I feel I should say but I'm keen not to give anything away.

He's always been decent to me. He lets me get on with my business and he expects his staff to let him get on with his. He's a prolific writer by all accounts. Not the sort of thing I'd read myself, but he's had more than a few academic papers published.

I pull the library door closed behind me. It must be an hour since I left the room but, in reality, it has only been minutes. But which is reality: the timeline of my own consciousness or the time kept so faithfully by my pocket watch? A shudder runs through me as I ponder this question; I am suddenly afraid. What realm did I step into when I turned the dial and it began to tick? I shake the thought loose and return to my work.

By two o'clock I have done very little marking. My red pen is all chewed at the end.

'Everything alright sir?' asks Smith, standing at the head of the line as the class wait by the door.

'Enter,' I say, hardly looking up from the page I've been staring at. I instruct the class to take out their textbooks and read from page thirty-seven. Jones has left his textbook in 2B and so must read from my teacher's copy.

'Silent reading until...' I check my pocket watch.

14:06

It gleams as always. It's polished casing is smooth against the thoughtful strokes of my thumb.

'Until when sir?' Asks Harris. How much time just passed? A cold bead of sweat runs down my forehead as I realise I have no idea.

'Thirty minutes.' My voice is weak and troubled. 'Thirty minutes,' I repeat with an effort which makes it sound like shouting. There is a rustle of pages followed by obedient silence.

I still have more than half the pile left to mark but all I can do is stare at the standing clock, biting my nails. When the afternoon is over and the class is dismissed, I am still staring but have no nails left to bite.

I am alone with the clock, but I dare not turn the dial again, yet it's all I can think about doing. I pull myself from the chair and take my bag. At the door, I take one last glance at the clock before switching off the light, leaving it in darkness until tomorrow.

That evening, I surf through the TV channels, snack on junk food and go upstairs early. I brush my teeth and stare at the face in the mirror.

I have squandered this evening. I have done nothing. Time spills out from the cold tap, swirls around the basin and disappears down the drain. If only I could put the plug in.

But what is there to be frightened of? I ask myself. You said it yourself, it's a gift! Why not use it? Think of all you could do!

---

I arrive at the old library early the next morning. Before drawing the curtains or even dropping my bag, I approach the clock. I take a breath, then turn the dial.

The steady ticking beats like a drum in my chest. I breathe slowly. I master myself.

As I flit around the room, drawing the curtains, straightening the desks, I can't help but wonder at the idea that in the real world (whatever that means anymore) this will all be done in an instant. I stare at the early rising sun, captured so perfectly like a photograph only better because it's real - it's happening now. In this world, now is all there is.

I take out a book, not one to mark but a proper book to read. I'll get through at least a few chapters before the day starts - and I suppose when the day starts is entirely up to me.

Brrrrrrr!

I don't check my pocket watch. I simply get up and spin the dial again - just a few more pages...

---

Three months have passed and whilst the class has been back in 2B for a while now, I still make frequent visits to the old library. I made my annual trip to the Netherlands over half term and whilst I enjoyed the holiday, I felt it was over far too quickly. Ten Boom was particularly interested in my description of the standing clock but said he wouldn't be able to tell me much about its origins without inspecting it himself. Of course I didn't tell him everything I knew about it.

I've started a book club for some of the more enthusiastic readers in my class. We discuss our favourite sci-fi and fantasy books.

'How do you manage to read so many sir?' They ask.

'You just have to make the time,' I tell them.

I tell them about my own concept for a sci-fi novel and their eyes light up.

'You should write it, sir!'

I tell them it's only a few notes on a scrap of paper at the moment. In reality, I've written almost fourteen chapters and am researching literary agents.

One thing I still don't seem to have the time for is marking. No matter how I try, I just can't find the motivation. Perhaps it's because I'm always so tired. My days are so long, all sense of routine and structure has disappeared. Why would I need to structure my time? There is an endless supply, and I can spend it how I wish.

I nap, I read, I write, I nap some more. I daydream about being interviewed on podcasts:

'How does a schoolteacher become one of the greatest sci-fi writers of our generation?' they ask. I rehearse my answers, I nap some more.

I go to the staff room to get more coffee.

'Bloody hell!' says Mrs Wilson. 'You're drinking coffee like it's going out of fashion!'

She's right of course, in her timeline, I was only in here five minutes ago. Since then, I've read three chapters, slept twice and drafted more notes for my novel.

I feast at the buffet of time, I grow fatter each day.

---

It's a Wednesday. I head up to 2B after my morning session in the old library.

'Ah, Vissers!' The headmaster is waiting outside my classroom. 'Do you have the reports ready? We're sending them out to parents this evening.'

I try to hide my annoyance.

'Today? That came around quickly.'

'You have written them though?'

'Of course I've written them.' I spin on my heels.

'May I have them?' he calls after me as I march down the corridor.

'Just a moment,' I call back, then race to the library.

He's always been fair, lets me get on with things my own way. But when he needs something doing, he expects it to be done. I wonder at how long he's been in post here. Rumour has it he's been offered many a prestigious role elsewhere due to his fame as an expert in his field. He turned them all down in favour of staying here.

I burst through the library door to the shock of the school nurse who is in there examining a pupil. She shoots me a look as if I'm supposed to apologise.

'I didn't realise anyone was in here.' My tone is accusing.

'Yes,' she says. 'The medical room has a leak.' I clap my hand to my face. 'Is something wrong?' she says. I don't answer. I storm out, back to 2B where the headmaster is still waiting.

'Vissers?' There is a hint of concern in his tone. 'Everything alright?'

'Yes, yes. Fine,' I mutter.

'Look, if you haven't done the reports, perhaps we can...'

'I have done them!' It comes out louder than I mean it to. 'Of course I have!' I chuckle. I can tell he's not convinced.

'Perhaps you'll bring them to me later then? Maybe when you're not so...' he doesn't finish his sentence.

The morning passes in the usual way. When the lunch bell rings, I sprint for the library. I burst through the door only to be greeted by the same shocked face as this morning. The nurse stares at me. I turn to leave but then a thought strikes me.

'Sorry,' I say, striding towards the standing clock. 'I think I left something in here.' Before she has time to answer, I've turned the dial a full turn and she is frozen. I sigh and slump to the musty carpet.

I pull the reports out of my bag. Not a single one has a single word written on it.

It's fine, I tell myself. I have time - I'll make time.

But the task proves harder than I expect. My thoughts are muddled. Each paragraph takes an enormous effort of concentration yet still comes out riddled with errors.

Brrrrrrr!

'Surely that was too soon?' I exclaim.

'Pardon?' says the nurse. I grunt and spin the dial again.

There are twenty children in my class. After three full spins of the dial, I have managed two and a half reports, and they're getting worse as I go.

With regards to grammar, Jones has defiantly improved this term.

I can't believe what I've written.

Brrrrrrr!

The nurse unfreezes to find me frantically scribbling out the mistake.

'Mr Vissers?' she says. I reach for the dial. 'Are you quite sure everything is alright?' There's something in her tone that makes me pause.

'No...' I begin. 'Everything is not alright, but it soon will be.' I spin the dial.

I need to get outside. A change of scene will help, surely? I gather my things and head out into the sunshine. I sit under my favourite apple tree in the courtyard and take out the next report.

After a shaky start I find my flow. It's all going quite well and I'm telling myself that all I really needed was to calm down and sit in the sun for a bit when the ticking swells and grows and bursts into:

Brrrrrrr!

The most hideous scream echoes from a high window and I immediately know why. It came from the old library. I feel the blood drain from my face. I should have been more careful. I check my pocket watch.

12:35

I estimate that I've had about a four-hour lunch; I can't extend it any longer. I can't step back into the old library - that would only make things worse. Not knowing what else to do, I head up to 2B to await the afternoon.

'Vissers?' The headmaster is waiting for me outside my room.

'Sir, about the reports...' I begin.

'Never mind that for now,' he insists. 'Come with me please.' I sulk along behind him.

We arrive at his office and he asks me to sit.

'I've just had a rather interesting conversation with Ms Dale, the school nurse,' he begins as he takes a seat opposite me. I don't answer. 'She told me quite a tale I must say! Do you know what she told me?' I swallow hard but keep silent. Surely this is it? How can I keep my secret any longer? How can I explain? The headmaster continues:

'She said: Mr Vissers burst into the old library and began messing around with the old standing clock. He seemed troubled. When I asked him what was wrong, he said "everything is not alright but it soon will be." And do you know what she said happened next?' I shake my head. 'She says you vanished! Disappeared into thin air! Now what do you think of that?' I shrug.

'Perhaps she isn't feeling well?' I try. The headmaster frowns and shakes his head.

'Perhaps she isn't, but still, it's very peculiar, don't you think?'

'Very.' I nod.

'Well anyway...' He plays with his shirt cuffs and checks his wristwatch. 'I've given her the rest of the day off.'

'Probably for the best.'

'So, the old library will be free for the afternoon should you need to use it.' His pale grey eyes lock onto mine.

'Sir?'

'I just imagine you might want to use that particular room to, say... finish your reports?' My heart stops. 'Only I suggest you be extra careful when using the facilities of that room from now on, is that understood Vissers?' A hundred years of silence passes between us.

'So, you know about...?' I begin. He holds out his palm.

'We won't speak of it,' he says firmly. 'All I will say to you is this: some things that seem at first to be a gift can turn out to be a snare. I have achieved much in my long years, but borrowed time is only borrowed. Sooner or later, you will pay for it, one way or another.' I check his worn face, his bony hands, the depth of years in his eyes.

There's so much I want to ask but he is a locked door with a hidden key. I am dismissed.

I finish the reports. They are hastily written, though I had ample time to complete them. I take the rest of the week off sick and spend most of the time sleeping.

For the next few weeks, I hardly use the clock. I wake up early and block out time for marking as well as reading. In the evenings I work on my novel; the TV never goes on.

I portion my time out, deciding my own rations.