Clock around the Block

It was Summer 1973, at the height of ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, a sectarian war waged against British rule. That is, admittedly, a much too simple description of what was, and remains, a wholly political and historical conflict. But there I was.

The streets teemed with British soldiers, Black Marias, ‘Pigs’ (Saracens) and were cordoned off such that, at every block, shoppers and pedestrians were stopped and searched for the sorts of things one would investigate during a war situation. Explosives mostly, but other items were also on the ‘no go’ list.

I was born in Belfast a long time ago and, because my father was ambitious and had a great job opportunity, we immigrated to Canada when I was four. That, of course, didn’t cut any links with Our Ireland. My mother, though an only child, was as close to one family of cousins as one would be with siblings. My grandparents, her parents, lived essentially beside us on the same street and it was a heartbreak for her to leave them all behind.

But we visited. A lot. Practically every summer during my childhood and 20s saw, at the very least, my mother and me plunked in the sitting room of her cousin, Isabel’s home. Those visits were the happiest of my life, and that family the kindest God ever put on His green earth. I mean, they put up with me every summer for at least five years, and that was no small ask.

In those days, I was actually interested in clothes and fashion and, though few would believe it back here in Canada, the styles over there – in the UK and Ireland – were far ahead of trends here. And I was young and sufficiently slender to fit into regular sizes so it’s no surprise that I spent nearly every pound, shilling and pence of my indulgence money on new bits and pieces of clothing to keep me in the vanguard of style back Canada-side. Everything stylistically seemed so vibrant and fresh, and I never took for granted my luck in having such opportunities.

But during those particular years, there was a war happening and things were very different than they were here, or pretty much anywhere else. Not only were we stopped and searched at every block in Belfast City Centre, we were stopped and searched entering any shop. There was no trying on of clothes in changing rooms and a girl could but dream of the days that toilets were accessible in stores and restaurants. No one could be left, literally, to their own devices.

Still, it was the new normal and everyone adapted.

That year I made the Belfast trip solo staying, of course, with my ‘Auntie’. I’ve yet to uncover sufficient words to describe how at home I was made to feel. I was taken out to pubs and parties (people still did that) and shown the best times imaginable. Lots of music and libation, laughter and dancing, and being the worse for wear the next morning.

It happened Auntie’s battery-operated kitchen clock was on the blink and deemed unsalvageable. And it was sorely missed. I took note of this and, as I always kept enough money aside to buy a ‘thank you’ gift, was clear what I must buy for that kitchen where I was always served food about which I still rave. And a lot of it.

And, so, on my last shopping day before returning to Canada, I sought a store that sold timepieces of all sorts. I forget exactly what kind of store it was, but it more than served my purpose. After making my way through the familiar stop and search routine, I found the shop and nearly the exact same clock as currently hung, useless, in that wonderful kitchen.

I must say I was pleased with myself, and couldn’t wait to give my replacement clock to the family. I imagined their surprise that I would have thought of such a thing and, while it was a spit in the ocean of their benevolence to me, at least it was something useful and important.

Gathering up my purchase, now boxed and covered in brown wrapping and tied with a string, and whatever other items I’m sure I’d bought along the way, I began my trek to the house of another cousin who lived near the city’s main street.

A few things in other shop windows took my fancy, and I stopped here and there along the block to admire and contemplate what I would purchase had I not just spent the last of my cash and travellers’ cheques. At the end of the block, I crossed the side street with the usual crowd of shoppers who braved the real possibility of being caught in an explosion in order to buy what things they needed. As usual, there was a British Army checkpoint which may have been manned by regular police but, in my memory, it was always the Army. Expecting to show my passport as usual and breeze through undeterred, my stomach turned over and my heart grasped my throat when I was told – in a serious voice, I’ll imagine with an English accent – to step out of the line and into a very consequential-looking area adjacent, where there definitely were soldiers and guns and a bit of commotion.

I was asked politely to place my parcels and shopping bags on to the table in front of a stern-looking woman I expected to frisk me (but didn’t). She turned and said something to an officer behind her and he walked off, seemingly with a job to do. I wasn’t sure if I should be smiling or shocked or looking terribly put out by such an erroneous search.

And then I heard it.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The kitchen clock! When what was happening finally registered with me, I practically screamed, “It’s a clock. A kitchen clock!” Needless to say, that wasn’t quite satisfactory and, after a lot of consternation and consulting among the officials, the woman asked me for the receipt for my ticking purchase. A simple request, but I hadn’t a clue what I’d done with it. I wasn’t planning a return visit to exchange it, so had more than likely crumpled the bill in one of my shopping bags. In what seemed like two years, with me sweating and breathing in a not nearly normal manner, I proceeded to turn beet red and simper something about losing it while making a valiant effort to point to the interior of my bags now laid out on the table before me.

Someone, perhaps with a death wish, stared at my brown-papered box wondering – I think – what to do. I assured him it was only a clock and, I think, because I wasn’t showing any fear of being immediately blown up, he pulled aside the paper and, seeing through an opening, ascertained that it, indeed, looked exactly like a clock. Another someone was dispatched to the very shop where I’d made my timely purchase, returning with a shop assistant who verified that, ‘yes,’ I had purchased a clock from her. Thankfully, she had the store’s documentation.

I’d held up the checkpoint line for a good 15 minutes and was withering under what I imagined was a silent disdain for outsiders. Before leaving to go on my way, I turned to the man standing behind me and apologized as profusely as I hoped would suffice for the delay. “Sure, you’re grand, love,” he said in typical Belfast fashion, as the next few in line laughed about what had just transpired.

The Irish have a wonderful, and very dark, sense of humour. That I’ve known as sure as I know my own name. I’m 100 per cent Irish – and proud of it – so I guess that’s why I couldn’t stop laughing at myself and my discomfiture as I walked to the cousin’s home, and all the way back (I flew) to Canada, minus the now infamous kitchen clock.

More than 50 years later, I’m still laughing.