The Memory Watch

Eleanor pushed the wooden panel door and it creaked open to reveal the Watchmaker’s shop. An assortment of clocks, different in size, design and shape, adorned the old tattered wallpaper. The clock-covered wall faced another wall, on which numerous posters and pictures were hung. The shop’s floor squeaked under Eleanor’s feet as she made her way to the polished wooden counter. The shop smelled like old wood and burned metal. An old man bent over a small wristwatch, behind him an old beaten up wooden door. The man was engrossed in the watch and Eleanor did not want to disturb the aged man, divulged in his craft. So she went over to the posters and pictures.

The brown pictures were framed within glass, all consisting of a man, whom she understood as the old man on the counter, and several other men, shaking hands with the old man, smiling ear to ear. The old man had the same warm smile in every photograph. She analyzed the photographs, the man getting older in each one. She deduced one to be the youngest version of the man and touched the glass frame, observing the wooden sides to be chipped and frame covered in dust. Even in the youngest photo, the man had seemed mature and wise. Looking over at the posters, it read of The Great Watchmaker, capable of fixing any watch or clock, a man well versed in his craft. The paper gave away under Eleanor’s hand. It was definitely ancient.

“Oh hello there! Sorry, I did not notice you there.” A voice low but mellow reached Eleanor’s ears. Seeing Eleanor occupied with the posters, the Watchmaker said, “Looking at these old papers, huh?”

“They’re ancient.”

“Of course they are!” The shop boomed with the old man’s laughter.

“What brings a fine lady like you to this old man’s shop?” the old man said eyeing Eleanor.

She was dressed in a long dress, which was mended in a few spots. She wore a red scarf with her pastel green dress, but the color of the scarf was washed out so much it appeared coral.

As the old man stood up to greet Eleanor, she saw him. He was short, almost equal to Eleanor in height. He was dressed in his checkered pantaloons and white undershirt, with a fitted waistcoat, which failed to hide his protruding belly. His face was as wrinkled as it could be for a man in his 80s, but his white beard hid his chin, which she supposed to be a fat double chin. But through his old appearance, his warm smile gave tribute to a young, loving soul. Even his brown eyes, crinkled and wrinkly, were tender but gleamed with a shine, a childlike shine.

“I need you to repair a watch, a pocket watch.” Eleanor said.

“Well, that is what I do here. Can you show me the watch?” The Watchmaker extended his hand, heartily.

Eleanor retrieved a broken pocket watch from her hand purse and placed it delicately on the counter. The Watchmaker keenly looked at the pocket watch, or the remnants of it. The glass had been broken and only a few shards lined the golden dial of the watch. Some of the internal gears were spilled out and the face of the watch was shattered. It had definitely been dropped. The Watchmaker attempted to touch the watch and Eleanor whispered, “Careful!”

The Watchmaker looked at Eleanor, assuring and said, “I will be careful young lady.”

Years of watchmaking had taught the Watchmaker to read eyes along with time. The Watchmaker could see in Eleanor’s eyes: grief, fear and guilt.

The Watchmaker turned the watch over and found the back dented. It looked as if the watch was irredeemable.

“Can you fix it?” Eleanor asked, her eyes brimming with both hope and dread. “I have taken it to several Watchmakers and they all said it was not mendable. But you are very skilled right? You can fix it, right?”

“Well I sure can. They don’t call me the Great Watchmaker for nothing do they?” the Watchmaker chuckled, hoping to relieve the distressed Eleanor. Eleanor did sigh with relief, and smiled faintly.

“Well, how much time will it take you? And don’t worry about money, I have enough to pay you.”

“Don’t worry my dear. I will try to repair it in the least amount of time. But I can’t give you a date. My body’s old and it takes a break whenever it wants to!”

Eleanor politely smiled. “Well then, I’ll visit here and there. I ought to go now. Goodbye, mister?”

“Hartwell. Fredrick Hartwell, my dear.” The Watchmaker smiled, as old men often do.

“Goodbye Mister Hartwell. I’ll see you later.” Eleanor left the shop with a dim smile but the smile didn’t hide Eleanor’s sad grey eyes from Mr. Hartwell.