FAIR EXCHANGE
Time is the most precious thing that anybody has in stock, and if time’s going to pass, its journey should be marked by something worthy of the honour. My clock is such a thing: form and function combined in understated, elegant efficiency. A monochrome dial signals the work of a complex, precise movement regulated by a tall gridiron pendulum. The case is a slender framework of rosewood; its narrow columns and plain cornices hold panels of pristine glass bordered by rows of long, sleek crystal prisms, and any sunbeam brushing against them sheds its modesty and flaunts its colourful passion.
It’s the kind of clock you could measure time immemorial by.
So there I am, perched at the top of the shelf-ladder, turning the key in the dial, and the clock’s making deep satisfying rasps as if it’s drinking in time from the key. I nudge the pendulum back into life, and I’m just enjoying that comforting ‘tick, tick’ when the front door gives its familiar rattle and the shop bell pings.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ I call.
I stroke one of the rosewood columns as I ease the front of the case closed. I come back down the ladder and when I turn around, there she is, walking towards me. I say ‘walking’, but it’s more like she’s gliding, really. There’s no obvious movement of foot, just a smooth slide as if she’s on castors; no mean feat considering the large leather portfolio she’s carrying.
She’s very tall and thin, and could give my clock a run for its money in the elegance stakes, but hers is a face that – well, if it didn’t launch a thousand ships, it could certainly have been used to cut the veneers for the captain’s cabin. No rounded cheeks to cushion a kiss or hold a falling tear; just ruthlessness made flesh. She’s like a long-stemmed cut-glass champagne flute that’s dazzling to look at but you daren’t drink out of it in case you slice your lip.
Anyway, in she glides. She’s wearing this floor-length raven velvet gown, with a deep stand-up collar – presumably to keep the draught out and cast dramatic shadows on her face, which is taking sand to the desert, believe you me; that face needs no help at all in that direction. And then there’s the crown; even if you don’t want to recognise it as a symbol of authority, you certainly don’t want to feel its vicious scalpel points scoring your skin – something she is quite prepared to do.
The gown sleeves taper to a point and hook round her middle finger on a silver ring. And talk about fingers! Not the usual stubby, cracked and begrimed fingers of the worker, no. Hers are slender and agile, and could have a harp singing to the heavens fit to make the angels weep, if it wasn’t for the nails; silver-painted, they look sharp and steely as fruit knives.
She doesn’t look at any merchandise; she’s not here to buy. She takes a direct line from the door to me, and puts the portfolio on the counter.
I open it up to reveal a flat parcel, diamond-shaped, wrapped in previously used brown paper and tied with the minimum amount of string needed to secure it. Now, my heart would normally leap to see such economy of packaging materials, and whoever tied this could have a job with me anytime, but it’s the wrong packaging for what’s in the parcel.
It’s disrespectful.
But that doesn’t matter to her.
‘I wish to return this,’ she announces.
I undo the knots and gently ease open the brown paper.
‘Why would that be, Your Majesty?’
‘It has ceased to fulfil its function.’
‘Stopped working, has it?’
‘Have I not just communicated to you that specific information as to its condition?’ she says, all high and mighty.
‘Right then,’ I say. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’
From the brown paper I lift a mirror. Mother of pearl triangles and polished black diamonds adorn the surround of a flawless, splendidly reflective silver centre.
‘There’s no problem with the picture, Your Majesty.’
One elegant black eyebrow arches gently.
‘Its reflective qualities are not under suspicion, unlike its ability to convey factual information.’
‘Ah. Stopped telling the truth, eh?’
She may use fancy words, but when all’s said and done she’s still on the paying side of the counter in my shop.
‘We’d better test it, then,’ I say, and look into the mirror.
‘Mirror, mirror, in my hand: do you tell the truth as planned?’
The mirror looks hurt at this slight upon its character…
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