Not Andrew

After a long run of wet days, you know the paths will be a quagmire, so good footwear is in order. But on the way out, I pull up at the garage for a bit of petrol, and realise I’ve left my boots at home. I’ve been distracted of late, the memory having reached capacity – one more thing in, like remembering to put the bin out, and out pops something else, like remembering to pick up the walking boots. By the time I’ve gone back for them, the time will be too short for a decent walk, so, what to do? A change of plan is required, which is why I’m now wandering Eccleston’s Grove Mill, otherwise known as Bygone Times.

The Grove has been around, in one form or another, since the seventeenth century, but finally called a halt to manufacturing in 1980. It now houses one of the biggest collections of junk, antiques, bric-a-brack and up-cycled what-nottery you can imagine, as well as several ghosts. On your first visit you pay £3.00 on the door to get life membership, and a little gold card. On subsequent visits, you just flash your card like a VIP, and you’re waved in for free.

I like to pop in now and then on the hunt for broken clocks. I’ve had an eye on an Acctim pendulum clock for a while, and I’m tempted to finally take the plunge today, if it’s still there. It is. Closer inspection, though, reveals it’s not a true mechanical movement, but “electronically assisted” and therefore beyond my competence if it proves to be a fixer-upper. Plus, at the asking price, I’d expect it to be working, and what I really want is a project, for a tenner.

Furniture, books, vinyl records, old tools, maps, a curious and fantastically hairy tweed kilt jacket with waistcoat, but minus the kilt, walking sticks, paintings, musical instruments, garden ornaments, pot-pourri, fine china, cracked china, wool, art supplies, ancient postcards, Victoriana, Art Deco, sixties chic, seventies sideburns and bell-bottoms,… it’s all here, and more. I can only manage a half hour before my head starts to spin.

Then I see Andrew.

Andrew is lying on his back amid an assortment of clock bits, springs, wheels, pendulums, empty cases, screwdrivers, hacksaws, oily bits, rusty bits, broken bits and sad bits. Gingerly, we lift him clear from this detritus and have a look for signs of life. He has a nice looking two-train movement, by Perivale, which means a passing strike on the half hour, and he counts the hours at the top. He has a platform escapement instead of a pendulum, and I’ve been after one of those for a while. They’re expensive to replace, and hard to source, when bust, but this one looks okay. His case is in good nick, but the glass is missing, and there’s no key, so we can’t give it a turn and see if he’s ticking.

Date? Late fifties to mid-sixties? Perivale’s Middlesex factory had links with Bentima, another English clockmaker, and, like the Grove Mill, was a milestone in domestic manufacturing, its rise, its decline and its final extinction.

The rear plate is thick with a gummy oil which doesn’t bode well, but for the price, Andrew’s worth a punt, and will be interesting to tinker with on rainy days. Often, a good strip and clean is all that’s required. Why do we call him Andrew? Well, it says so on the dial. Okay then, Andrew, mate. You’re coming home with me. He smells of fags, but we’ll soon cure him of that.

At home, we borrow a key from Norman, another of my clocks. (All my clocks have names). We give him a cautious wind. He’s hesitant at first, like someone woken up after a long sleep, then off he goes, and settles to a lively ticking. Goodness knows when he last ran, but he seems keen to make up for lost time. He keeps good time, too, bongs when he should, and with a rich resonance. There’s not much wrong with him. A new glass off Ebay, cleaning and oiling, and he’ll be as good as new.

Some people rescue puppies, or cats, or birds, or hedgehogs. I rescue old clocks, not your posh country house type clocks, more the clocks that might once have sat on the mantle-piece of your grandma’s house, and kept the time of an ordinary kind of living, the kind of clocks that were practical, humble, reliable, didn’t need batteries or plugging in, and were not made to be thrown away. These are the forgotten clocks, the clocks the high priests of clock mending dismiss in favour of the luxury end, and they charge the earth to get things going. So your grandma’s clock ends up in the bin, and one by one they’re disappearing from the world for want of a bit of attention.

But not Andrew.