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Pick of the Clocks? More ‘Clock of the Picks’!

Every clock has its own story to tell. Sometimes though, getting them to talk proves challenging. Take this one – clues galore it would seem, but before I strike lucky, before I can tick boxes in its time line, it stops. I need the help of some ancestry detectives.

There is such a nostalgia surrounding clocks. Just the look of this one takes me back to my grandparents’ terraced house in Leicester. They too had a mantel clock with barley twist pillars. There, above the open fire on the tall wooden mantelpiece it stood, chaperoned by horse-brasses and a clutter of incongruous glassware and pottery. It took pride of place and, I recall, it too had a little brass plaque marking my grandfather’s time served as a bespoke tailor.

Irresistible mystery

So when I saw this clock at a Devon auction house, it was hard to resist.

It was in a sorry state, grubby and unkempt. One of the feet had fallen off. The movement teetered precariously on its rickety wooden platform and rattled ominously inside the case. The clock showed no signs of life.

I didn’t mind. To be fair, that excited me all the more. I dismantled and examined it. There was nothing much wrong with it that a modest investment of care and a good clean wouldn’t put right.

All the time I was working on it, the case sat on my workbench and the plaque glinted and beckoned alluringly, with its irresistible mystery.

“Presented to G W H PICK
On the occasion of his marriage
Dec 15th 1923
By his friends at
BABWORTH and AUCHNAFREE”

I manage to track down some wedding details.

If I have the right one, he went by the name of Walter and his new wife’s maiden name was Atkins. They married in the parish of Williton in Somerset.

Initially, I thought that Babworth and Auchnafree must have been a manufacturing business. It sounded a bit like an engineering company.

The past is a foreign country

It makes sense that his work colleagues would pool their resources to buy him a wedding gift. Odd, perhaps, that they would use only his initials and offer the gift to him alone and not jointly to the happy couple. But protocols change. The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there.

What of Babworth and Auchnafree? A quick Google search links the two. The correspondence address for Auchnafree Estate Company is Babworth Hall in Retford, Nottinghamshire.

And it quickly becomes apparent that my initial surmise is off the mark.

Engineering company my foot! It seems they own a fair bit of Scotland. Was Walter a Nottinghamshire lad, a young estate worker? Did he meet a girl from Somerset and marry in her parish?

I email the company secretary but receive no reply.

Working backwards

When researching history, perhaps the best idea is to start as near to the present as possible and work backwards.

On the inside of the clock case door there is a sticker, modern-ish, which references David Cooper. It bills him as a watchmaker of Sidwell Street in Exeter. That would link Walter’s clock with a man who married in the South West and who perhaps stayed there. Maybe they raised a family?

I am guessing that Coopers either resold the clock or, more likely, carried out some work on it. Possibly, from the handwritten reference number on the printed label, that was back in the year 2000.

I discover that David Cooper is still in business so email the business which has a retail and repair shop at the same Exeter address. Two months on, I have still heard nothing.

So, for now, the trail goes cold.

I’ll cope. As I’ve mentioned before, working with clocks has taught me to play the long game and learn the art of patience. Time will deliver, I am sure. In the meantime, it keeps perfect time and strikes with satisfyingly deep resonance on the half hour and the hour. It is good company.

Calling all ancestry detectives

But it would be such a joy to reunite the timepiece with descendants of GWH Pick who might treasure its sentimental value as an heirloom, albeit one with little monetary worth. For now though, I have no idea who they might be.

So if anyone who has time on their hands and fancies themselves as an ancestry detective wants to take up the challenge, please feel free to join in the search. You now have as much information to work with as I do. Let me know how you get on. I’ll be happy to be told I am entirely wrong.

The yes-no interlude

And once again, writing about the clock and its plaque takes me back to my own warm memories of my grandparents’ house where, in the early 1960s, through the comforting fog of Ogden’s St Bruno Flake, we all huddled round a rented 405-line black and white TV. Beneath the ticking clock we thrilled to contestants playing the Yes-no game and we screamed at the players to ‘open the box’ or ‘take the money’ while Michael Miles invited contestants – in what seems now like an alarmingly cheap and primitive game show – to ‘Take Your Pick’.

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That worrying moment of no return…

There comes a time when you have to take the plunge. It is that worrying moment of no return.

Ansonia drop dial wall clock — *Once dismantled, will all those parts go back together again?*

There it is. Exposed, out of its case, separated from its hands and face. One plate is removed and everything is just about holding in place, for now. Thankfully you have remembered to let down the power on the springs so that all that pent up energy contained in their wound coils has been released. That way, as you start to dismantle the mechanism, it won’t come to bite you back.

And they are all there, all the bits that go together to make something which is so much more than the sum of its parts.

Now is the time to take things apart, mindfully dismantle, inspect, resolve flaws, clean and nurture. There will undoubtedly be a point when all those components sit on the workbench, a puzzling array of disparate bits, and the fear kicks in that you will simply never remember how they all go back together.

One of life’s simple pleasures

Another time I’ll write about how dismantling and reassembling clocks has taught me the art of patience – of quite literally ‘taking time’. But here, suffice to say that one of the beauties of clocks is that they comprise elements all of which have their rightful place. With applied patience, they do fit together, they connect, perfectly. The sense of achievement at the point at which those wheels once again interlock and turn each other in turn is one of life’s simple euphoric pleasures.

And as with so many things in life, by gently, sensitively taking them apart with care – inspecting, refreshing and reassembling – you get a better understanding of what makes them tick.

To see the clock whose movement is pictured above, click here

Perpetual calendars – elusive history and a Catch 22

They call them perpetual calendars. But that may be a persistent misnomer. It certainly needs some further exploration.

classic dark wood vintage or antique perpetual calendar — *Classic dark wood vintage or antique perpetual calendar – for sale*

It is so hard to find out definitive information about them, those simple, neat stylish wooden cabinets, often no more than eight inches high, variously made out of oak or mahogany or beechwood.

Four screws hold the two vertical side panels to the base. The top almost invariably features a ridged and angled wooden cap, held in place by staples into the vertical side panels.

Each side panel has four circular holes in which sit the spindles which feature the information the calendar presents. The top and bottom single spindles have paper sleeves, one featuring the day and the other the month. It would take an almighty spindle diameter to accommodate the possible thirty one days of the month, so those numbers are housed on a linen roll with a spindle top and bottom. When you reach the end of the month, the reel often helpfully instructs you to ‘rewind’ and the turning the upper spindle takes the reel back to the beginning. More on that later.

side and rear view wooden perpetual calendar from theclock-shop.co.uk — *Side and rear view wooden perpetual calendar*

Sliding between the side panels at the rear is an often flimsy panel slotting into grooves and, at the front, a slightly more robust and decorative wooden panel behind which, in good quality examples, sits a glass panel.

Into the wood are cut three chamfered ‘windows’, openings to display the day, the date and the time.

And in a nutshell, that’s it.

An elusive history

Read on. I’ll expand a little on other ‘perpetual calendars’, much more sophisticated than these. But try as I may, I cannot find any definitive history of this type of simple date-keeper. Look on antique or vintage websites and you’ll see them variously claimed as ‘antique’ or ‘vintage’. Some will claim theirs date from late Victorian times. Others boast 1910. Some describe their as ‘Edwardian’. Then there are those who say their example dates from the 1920s or 1930s.

I am not sure how they know or how they can be so precise in their dating. Because, apart from a 1950s version which happily acknowledged it was echoing times past in a Vintage range (it is lovely but I’m afraid it has already gone to a new home), I have never met one that had any means of dating itself. The typography on the reels may give a clue, but only loosely so. I have never come across one that has a maker’s name on it or any kind of date stamp.

Timeless appeal

So what is it about them that makes them so desirable, so collectable, at a time when clocks seem to be losing their appeal?

I think it is their analogue mechanical simplicity that makes them so attractive. A digital display automatically updates every day without any intervention. It even adjusts to leap years and daylight saving changes. Time goes on with no human connection.

Each morning, I love to step into the lounge and address the perpetual calendar on the bookcase. I love the feel of well-worn wooden spindles as I turn them to move time on by a single day. I love the sense of tightening the date reels to ensure the numbers display correctly. And I know that twelve hours apart, over in Australia, my ten year old grandson has gone through exactly the same ritual, turning the calendar he took back with him from England on his last visit here. And at the end of each month I am reminded of the inexorable passage of time as I rewind the date reels and turn one small turn, the bottom reel to welcome a new month.

Handled gently, not a lot can go wrong. Perpetual calendars have been keeping tabs in the passage of time for a hundred years or more. They take no maintenance, apart from the odd dusting and light polishing. In their simplicity they have a decorative elegance. They make a statement. They make a great gift.

Not really perpetual

Truth is they require manual intervention. So they are not really perpetual. That title surely goes to those amazing calendar devices that, with a few twists and turns, tell you what day it was on any given date in the past or the future. Now, the idea that that is possible baffles me entirely. But they were managing it in ancient times, and since the 18^th century watch makers have been devising devices that will show the day and the date without the need for manual intervention, even allowing for leap years.

I’ll leave it to others cleverer and more knowledgeable that me, to elucidate. For background on the original concept, click here. For information about the development of perpetual calendar watches click here.

Where’s the catch?

I’ve noticed something odd. On a number of examples I have come across, there has been slight damage to the linen reel which features the date. It may be just a crease or more likely a slight tear, easily fixable, but strange in its consistency. Because it often seems to feature around the number 22. As if something has been catching, at 22.

Catch 22 - on a vintage perpetual calendar — *Catch 22 – on a vintage perpetual calendar*

It got me thinking. Apart from clocks, another of my passions is poetry. And on seeing one particular perpetual calendar with the ‘22 catch’, I got to wondering about the history of the calendar, and its previous owner. I wondered how that tear came about. And I tried to imagine what impact it might have on the imaginary owner each time the date was rewound, forcing time backwards and snagging, always at 22, in the process.

Here’s the result of my musings. If you are interested, you’ll find more of my poetry at hughvenablespoetry.com

(If you are reading on a phone, turn the screen sideways to landscape – the lines in poetry always read better that way.)

Catch 22

Here’s the catch.
At day 22 the perpetual calendar’s fading canvas sports a tear
not torn entirely, still just holding on, where
the number in its window sits askew, ragged,
misaligned as if at some time past the roller snagged

and someone, eager to hurry the memory on
desperate of heart to leave behind a day just gone
had forced the piece one waking morn in haste
to jettison a memory they hankered to obliterate.

And, in daily ritual scrolling up, by 26 or 28
everything had realigned and all looked straight
again, that scar of rip concealed in case beneath the day,
all equilibrium restored, the past securely scrolled away.

But through mechanical mundanity, the curse of vintage days,
with brooding certainty as each old month plays
out, the familiar scene requires that rolls reverse to
wind back time, to start next month anew.

And there it is, in passing, always, still catching, 22
where the past itself snags and threatens to undo
the present and the future too, the tear a tear loosed free
a timeless sore, the wound unwound in perpetuity.

Conceived on 22nd January, 2022
Completed on 22nd February 2022

To see what perpetual calendars are currently available for sale, click here.

The Miller’s tale – can you solve the intriguing mystery?

Ansonia Tunis mantel clock john miller inscription

I love this clock for a host of reasons. And one of them is the mystery contained in the strange case of John Miller.

I’ve written about this clock before because it has stories to tell, all of which raise questions – some with answers, some without.

It is an Ansonia Tunis clock, one of thousands made at the end of the nineteenth century and sold in the US and the UK. I bought it at auction. To be honest, I can’t remember why, other than that I liked the look of it. I can’t remember where either. It was in the early days.

It’s nothing special. In fact, I have two Ansonia Tunis clocks with identical cases and movements, but differing dials. The other has a paper dial which itself asks questions. Why, for example, should the ink on the dial be more worn between X and XII than anywhere else? I know the dial gets worn from fingers pushing the hands to re-set after it has stopped, but why there especially?

*Ansonia Tunis clock with the paper dial numerals worn in the north west quadrant. Why?*

Answers on a postcard please.

Making compromises

I’ve repainted the numerals on the paper dial but not tried to recreate the divisions around the edge. I could claim that it is about my commitment to minimal intervention, respecting the clock as it is and conserving rather than restoring. Actually, it is because I don’t trust my hands to stay steady on such fine pen work. And I am perfectly happy with the compromise.

Ansonia Tunis mantel clock with repaired paper dial. But what about that bent nail holding the hands in place? Should that be replaced, or is an earlier repair, however clumsy, part of the clock’s story, to be treasured?

Inside, the movement gleams. It has been thoroughly cleaned in specialist clock cleaning fluid in my ultrasonic tank, then reassembled, oiled and reinstated in its case, behind that part-restored paper dial. The original glass in the bezel was broken. I replaced it. The clock is on the website in the clocks section. It is yours if you want it.

So why is that different from the second Tunis I love so much?

I don’t remember where or when I bought the favoured clock. But I do know when its first owner, John Miller, bought it, and from where. It was a Saturday in December. December 31^st specifically, the last day of 1892. It was indeed a Saturday. I’ve checked. John Miller bought it from a Mr Ronnison at premises on Bridge Street.

I know all this because it is handwritten on the inside of the door of the clock case.

*Ansonia Tunis mantel clock with inscription on the inside of the door*

The movement housed in the case was patented ten years earlier, on June 18^th 1882 by the Ansonia Clock Company of New York. I know that because it is stamped on the backplate of the movement.

The Miller Mystery

I wonder if you would do that – write in pencil, loosely, on a newly purchased item? Even on the inside where no-one else would see it? And if John Miller did write that on the very Saturday that he bought the clock, why did he do it? Surely, however proud he might have been of a pretty ordinary mass-produced mantel clock, he can’t have thought it would add anything to its provenance in years to come.

Was it connected with any guarantee that came with the clock? But if so, surely there would have been a piece of paper – invoice or receipt – confirming the sale, and dated. And that would also refer to any warranty that the clock might carry.

Was it something to do with security, in the same way that we now electronically tag our valued possessions as a deterrent against theft? But why then write where it was bought from and when? An owner’s name and address would suffice. And if you must do that, etch it in ink – make it harder to erase.

Whoever said clocks are just mechanical objects? They are so much more. They are part of individuals’ histories. Clocks have lived their lives in the heart of the homes of the people who own them. They have stories to tell. Can you shed any light on the Miller’s tale?

Shelf life

This clock has ‘patina’ in spades. By patina I mean dirt. (See my blogpost on the subject here – ‘dishing the dirt on patina’). The wooden case is blackened. I will not be cleaning it – that black timbre is too ingrained into the clock’s soul to be scrubbed away, and besides, it adds to its character. But for the sake of its future working survival, cleaning the movement is now essential.

Filthy lantern pinion on an Ansonia Tunis mantel clock — *Filthy lantern pinion on this uncleaned Ansonia Tunis mantel clock*

The wheels and pinions are so caked in oily sooty grime that it is remarkable it still runs, and in running it will surely be doing damage, if nothing else, to the pivots and pivot holes. Probably having spent years on a mantelpiece above a smoky coal fire, its lantern pinions are full of black sludge.

For years I have left the clock unattended, worrying that perhaps it is only the grease that is holding the whole thing together.

But the time has come to work on it. And that is another story.

Worth its weight in gold?

Isn’t there something very sad about seeing a once treasured jewellery item have its value estimated at auction by its metal weight? Is everything merely worth its weight in gold?

For me, the idea that something with so much artisanry – a hand-crafted ring, a gold necklace, a beautiful brooch – is now being sold with a view to its scrap value, is akin to a tragedy. How do you put a price on the sentiment and memory that is embodied in the item, once presumably loved and cherished by its former owner?

As it heads to the crucible of meltdown, all those memories associated with it also burn away to oblivion.

I get it. In this age of decluttering – and especially the menacing ‘death cleaning’ (couldn’t the Scandinavians have come up with a kinder, more gentle name?) – we need a sense of ruthlessness. And I understand too that some ‘memorabilia’ doesn’t carry with it the right memories. Why, for example, would a divorcee want to hold on to a wedding ring from an ex-partner?

On TV’s dreaded ‘Flog it’, people are asked why they are ‘letting go’ of their items. ‘It was just gathering dust on a shelf.’ ‘The kids aren’t interested.’

‘And what will you do with the money?’ oozes the patronising host, all velvet jacket and insincerity. A holiday, they say, or give it to the grandkids. Occasionally, to buy some other vintage or antique piece, even though the cost of a fish supper for two is often as much as the sale value will deliver, once the auctioneer has taken his cut.

It is cheap and easy daytime TV. But however upbeat Mr Velvet Jacket tries to be, there is a deep seam of sadness running through it.

Watch out

The issue of value is brought home to me when I take a friend’s Waltham wrist watch to a clock and watch-repairer on the Yorkshire Wolds to see whether it is fixable. Ken is a warm-hearted but straight-talking Yorkshireman. He tells it like it is.

The initial signs are promising. Before even removing the casing, he notes that the mainspring is intact but spots that the hands are catching as they pass each other. Perhaps, I hope, that is the problem, easily fixable.

But immediately the gold back is removed he can see the real problem. The pivot on the balance is broken and the hairspring is damaged. The watch dates back to the 1920s or 30s. The chances, he says, of finding an identical replacement are at best slight. A specialist antique watch repairer might be willing to try but the costs, against the value of the watch, will be prohibitive.

I thank him for his diagnosis. And as he is reassembling the watch, he smiles. Always one to look for the positives, Ken says that given the current record high prices for gold, the watch might possibly realise £250 for its precious metal weight alone.

Clutter or valued keepsake?

It is not my call. My friend Mike has treasured this watch since he first donned it over 50 years ago. Then it cost the princely sum of £15 and subsequently served as his main timepiece for decades. Before he bought it second-hand, it had already had a long and productive life. But Mike is realistic too. He knows that getting the item back in working order now is not really a viable option.

So, does he realise its scrap value, or does he keep it safe in a drawer as a reminder, on the odd occasion he looks at it, of all the good times they have shared?

Clutter, or treasured memento? Or just worth its weight in gold? It’s a tough call. Only time will tell.

Whether you care for clocks and watches or not, you will absolutely love Rachel’s Walnut Cottage Tea Rooms (click on the link), nestled alongside Ken’s workshop in the Wolds village of Huggate. While Ken engrosses himself in mending timepieces, his wife Rachel bakes perfect cakes and scones, and serves delicious teas and coffees in the cutest fine bone china tea cups. I’ll not say more, for fear I am accused of being an ‘influencer’. Heaven forfend!

*Waltham 9ct wrist watch – worth more than its weight in gold?*

Mindfulness? I forget to do it and fix clocks instead

There seems to be a whole cod-science out there these days. We are constantly being told to be ‘authentic’, or ‘mindful’, or ‘in the moment’. Influencers tell us to ‘live our best lives’ then to splatter it all over social media. Me – I’d rather quietly tuck myself away in the workshop/study, tinker with clocks, and write. But maybe that’s not so far off what is ‘on trend’.

Congratulations if you have found this post. Maybe you’ll give me a shout-out or an uptick to let me know you’ve made it. Or you will re-post it, or share it, or whatever else the social mediasphere recommends to keep those algorithms happy.

I do sometimes feel very left behind in a world where telling everyone about your every move is the norm – how sad or happy you are, what you’ve just eaten, or even that burglar’s dream when you announce you are away from home for the weekend. (Why not tell them the front door key is under the plant pot too?).

Something to say?

I shun social media, although I suppose writing this blog is akin to participating. I don’t expect others to be in the least bit interested in my thoughts and deeds, unless I actually have something interesting to say.

It was strangely reassuring to find that many of the podcasters touting their wares on Podbean have followers in single figures. Even the ones who might class as celebrities often numbered followers only just in the hundreds or low thousands. So I feel better about the limited readership of this blog, tucked away as it is at the back of a niche website about clocks and time.

It is a long time since I have posted anything here. Perhaps life itself overtook me, and that’s no bad thing. But with time on my hands, and clock parts in my hands, I am ready to start again, living my ‘best life’, mindful of the need to keep busy, and happy to tell the stories that result.

And, on mindfulness, isn’t getting lost for hours in the intricacy of reassembling a clock movement the epitome of what mindfulness is all about? And haven’t we actually been doing it for generations – cross-stitching, model-making, knitting, basket weaving, sketching? Who needs a life-coaching guru to teach you that?

Watch this space for the latest clocking adventures, and more.

Bakelite – and a perfect Wyn-win encounter

It started with a call out of the blue, delivered in a lovely Welsh lilt from a village near Carmarthen, west of Swansea. Two weeks later, over half a century of family history had been restored. And some Bakelite was gleaming on the Welsh dresser.

Enfield Bakelite mantel clock — *I’ve got a clock. It doesn’t work*.

“I’ve got an old clock that doesn’t work. How much should I pay to have it fixed?” asked Wyn.

It’s a nightmare of a question and the answer is tricky. He sent me a picture of the clock. He had been quite rightly quoted literally hundreds of pounds to service it. But the clock itself was worth only a fraction of the repair cost. Economically, it would be hard to justify doing it.

(When people baulk at how much a professional clock repairer charges for a complete overhaul of a Smith Enfield clock, I point them towards this article, quite old now but still relevant – “why I won’t be servicing your clock for £40”).

But clocks have histories. Their true worth lies in the stories they tell, the memories they evoke. How can you possibly put a value on that?

Housemaid to homeowner

Wyn had moved out of his family home at 16, leaving behind happy memories and his parents’ old Bakelite mantel clock whose ticking and chiming was etched indelibly into his being. It had been part of the soundtrack of his childhood.

Many years later, in 1986, his parents moved home again, taking with them the Bakelite Enfield mantel clock – a wedding anniversary present. They bought a house which had a long-established place in their family history. Deep in Carmarthenshire, Wyn’s parents moved back into the very house where his mother had worked as a humble maid when she was just eighteen years old. To return as the owners must have been a hugely proud moment.

Wyn’s beloved parents have now both passed. But 23 years after moving into that family home himself, Wyn yearned to hear the tick and chime of the mantel clock again, as a reminder of his parents and of his childhood.

Trust

He agreed to entrust me with the clock, and I promised to return it in no worse state than when it arrived. (That’s a promise I always try to keep!) I didn’t want paying, I insisted – I just wanted the pleasure of helping reconnect a man with his happy past.

*A comfortingly familiar classic Enfield movement*

The movement is classic Enfield, comfortingly familiar. Coaxing it back to life presented no issues. Amazingly, it required no re-bushing. The case was in Bakelite, a material I had never worked on before. And that too provided the surprisingly easy cosmetic uplift that brought the whole clock gleamingly alive.

You’re looking at the future, past

Bakelite is an early form of plastic. When it was created, and then patented in 1909, it offered a brilliant future. Strong, durable, mouldable, heat-resistant, non-conductive, scratch-resistant, it became a go-to material. Many kitchen, household and industrial items, including those new-fangled telephones and radios, featured Bakelite. In the 1920s, Coco-Chanel developed a range of Bakelite jewellery. In WW2, British army uniforms sported Bakelite buttons. There was even until recently a UK Bakelite Museum in Somerset. Sadly, its artefacts are now in storage, seeking a new home.

Coming clean

The case was wholesome. It had one slight crack on the rear panel where the door hinged. It didn’t compromise the operation of the door, so I left it. And just as I was preparing to return the clock, the plastic circular handle on the rear door snapped in its brittleness and needed repairing.

Enfield Bakelite mantel clock case — *One slight crack on the rear of the case*

But otherwise, a firm wipe down on the dulled, greasy thick dust film on the case worked wonders. Then the light application of liquid Brasso, thoroughly buffed off with a soft cloth, returned a fabulous sheen to the surface.

The mottled brown and black case was restored with a shiningly iridescent gloss coat. The same Brasso took the tarnish and blemishes out of the bezel. I simply used a damp cloth to clean the decades of fingermarks off the clock’s dial, always careful not to press too hard and compromise the painted black numbers.

And there it was, reassembled, in beat, striking once on the half hour and counting the hours on the hour, just as it would have done new. And it was ready to be homeward bound, accompanied by instructions on how to reattach the pendulum, set the clock in beat and adjust the speed.

Keeping the customer satisfied

“Better than I could have hoped for,” said Wyn when it arrived home. “It brings back so many fond and loving memories of my parents.”

*Gee but it’s great to be back home – home is where I want to be.*

And he sent me the picture of the clock restored to its rightful place, fittingly on the family’s Welsh dresser, in a homely lounge which no longer resounds to the sound of silence.

For me, for Wyn – a real Wyn-win.

Bakelite

To find out more about Bakelite – its history, properties and collectability – click here.

Taking a hammer to a clock feels hit and miss

Bush bash bosh – this looks like a case of horological vandalism. I may be wrong. I would love it if those who know better correct me.

Gary, custodian of the ‘Robinson of Bishop Auckland’ longcase clock, had said it hadn’t run for forty years. (See two previous posts). And while cleaning it and reassembling, I noticed an inscription etched into the front plate, at its bottom right. It supports his contention.

It is hard to make out the initials but they look like W McG and the date is clearly 10/10/82. What might it tell us?

Crude Hammering

Clockmenders often leave their mark to indicate they have worked on a movement and I am certain that is what this denotes. But as I look more closely at the plates I wonder whether he was the one who did what many professionals would call ‘clock vandalism’. I like to believe not – and that the crude hammering of the plate to avoid the trouble of re-bushing the pivot hole which accommodates the escape wheel pivot was done by someone some time earlier – someone who did not leave their calling card.

*Bad bushing. Taking a hammer and punch to the plate to reshape the pivot hole, top centre.*

Circling the oval

Taking a hammer to a clock. Let me explain. Clocks wear with time. Mostly they wear through abrasion. The arbors (or rods) which hold the wheels (or cogs) sit in little pivot holes in the front and back plates which hold the movement together and in between which half the excitement of a clock happens. As the pivots turn in their snug holes, over time the light oil that lubricates their movement gathers dust and creates an abrasive paste. This grinds at the bottom of the hole, turning the round hole into an oval. In turn this drops the arbor ever so slightly lower. This means that the teeth of the wheel which the arbor holds don’t connect quite so accurately with the pinion on the next wheel. The whole thing gets out of alignment and ultimately stops.

This requires the now oval hole to be made round again, by skilfully broaching it out. But this makes the hole too big. So into it is inserted a bush – a small circle of brass with a hole the size of the original with the centre of the hole exactly where the original centre was. The pivot is cleaned and smoothed to make perfect fit, and the clock runs like… well, like clockwork.

Horological sacrilege

Alternatively, you take a hammer and a punch to the clock and smash the brass plate to fill the worn away brass and make the hole vaguely round again. It can sometimes achieve the same result but it is a bit… well, hit and miss. And it is horological sacrilege.

So, my next dilemma. Effectively, to misquote the song, the bad craftsmanship is ‘hiding in a hiding place where no-one ever goes‘. Continuing the musical theme, and to misquote a Motown classic, it lurks ‘behind a painted dial’. No-one will see it.

Do I accept that the clock runs in its current state or do I intervene and attempt a proper re-bushing?

I am prone to hyperbole. And this may sound like an exaggerated over-dramatisation. But now it feels a little as if, in expectation, ‘a nation turns its lonely eyes to me’.

With thanks once more to Simon & Garfunkel, and The Isley Brothers.

Forging ahead proves a treat – Robinson Part 2

There is more to this clock restoration than meets the eye. Coaxing precision crafted clock parts to work in harmony when they have been battered by neglect and the passage of time is one thing. Entering the mysterious and timeless world of the blacksmith is another. And it turns out to be an unexpected treat.

I must say, I was daunted when at first I saw the extent of the damage to the Robinson clock. (See My Word – here’s to you Mr Robinson for the beginning of the story). It wasn’t so much what was there, it was more what wasn’t there, and how on earth to source it.

Hooked

A missing pulley wheel is one thing – the brilliant clock components wholesaler Cousins could easily supply a new one almost matching the one that had survived forty-five years of neglect. The missing hook on one of the weights was another issue entirely. I could see what was needed – a new hook – but not how to source it or apply it.

*Two weights, one hook – and even that has a closed loop that means I can’t attach the pulley wheel in the standard way.*

Then, taunting me from the workbench, there was the remains of a pendulum rod, rusting except for the brass header which was crimped too tight shut to be prised apart. And the last several inches of the rod, which should have sported a thread for the adjusting nut to hold up the sliding pendulum bob, also missing, was also nowhere to be seen.

Talking old solders

But most alarming was the crutch arm, or what was left of it, still attached to the arbor holding the escape pallet. Half way down what should have been there, the rod stopped in an ugly glob of solder. Someone’s earlier attempt at repair had gone disastrously wrong.

*Someone’s earlier efforts to sort a problem had clearly gone horribly wrong.*

It’s a 2mm diameter of steel. It should extend by a further three inches than it does. And at its base there should be attached a hollowed piece of plate steel, 2mm thick, into which slides the brass plate of the pendulum spring.

Jesus loves you more than you will know

I check the catalogue, and sure enough, the wholesaler can supply me a replacement which, with minor adjustments, would work, I think. But the broken crutch arm looks at me from the bench, and pleads to be sorted. Surely it would be more respectful to Mr Robinson (Jesus loves you more than you will know) to use as much of the original clock as possible. A little piece of wire, a bit of neat soldering and Bob’s your uncle.

While I try to work out what to do, I clean off the solder and ready myself to angle the end of the rod to provide a better connection when I solder the new piece to it. First, though, I need to source the new three inches of 2mm steel rod.

crutch arm comparison — *The crutch arm. Top and right is how it should look. Bottom and left, how it was once I had cleaned off the old solder*

The sales team at a steel stockholder in Wetherby send me packing. Looking at the pictures on their website, of coils of steel bigger than my growlery workshop, I understand why. I am too proud to ask if I can rootle through their garbage skips for scraps.

I try the local blacksmith, and strike gold.

Tom Heys is a craftsman, more used to dealing in large chunks of iron heated to white in his hearth and coaxing into ornamental railings and gates. But he’s an affable chap and too polite to say no when I call. Instead, he suggests that I call round to see him at his forge in Flaxton north of York and he’ll take a look.

He greets me, his smile as warm as the brazier glowing in the corner of the forge. And effectively, we share the work. He cuts me a small length of plate metal and drills holes into it which I will file out to create the sleeve we need to affix the new piece of rod he will cut and attach to what is already there, to create the new crutch arm.

With steel drilled to start me off, and a model of how the finished piece should look, I set to with file.

And the job is done – sleeve neatly filed by me and attached by Tom.

Yes – he can put a new hook on the smaller of the two weights. Meanwhile, I file away like a jail breaker at the completed loop of the other one, in order to accommodate the pulley wheels which will feed the gutline. He prises open the brass head of the pendulum rod, tapping out the rivet that is holding it together.

While Tom attaches a new hook to one weight, I file the other hook to allow me to slide on the pulley wheel.

Heaven holds a place for those who pray

We can’t sort everything. I have to buy the replacement pulley wheel and the pendulum bob and slider to adjust the speed at which the clock runs. The longer the pendulum, the slower the clock runs. I have to buy a new suspension spring to replace the missing one.

But we get there and with new gutline fitted, the clock is almost ready to reassemble.

Will it all work? Mr Robinson will have to wait. Heaven holds a place for those who pray. And there are more dramas ahead.

My Word – here’s to you Mr Robinson

What started as a walk with friends on the fringes of the Yorkshire Moors developed into a thrilling encounter with an early 19th century clock and the inevitable meeting with a mid-20th century mantel clock. Serendipity, or more?
*

I love clocks, but ever since before I can even remember I have loved words too.

When I was younger the word I most enjoyed was ‘serendipity’. Later, I favoured ‘curmudgeonly’. Both have such a mellifluous resonance. But this is a clock story built on another word – reciprocity – with some signs of serendipity but not a hint of the curmudgeon about it.

Serendipity – unexpected good fortune. I loved the idea of that, and the sound of the word too, strangely onomatopoeic for an abstract concept. But the more I progress through life, the more I think that chance good fortune isn’t so unexpected after all. It comes from an attitude, a frame of mind, an outlook, an openness to opportunity.

And that’s what happened. Towards the end of our stroll we met a lone walker, Gary, out exercising his dog. He lives in the village on the Western edge of the Yorkshire Moors and owns a letting holiday home in a North Yorkshire coastal village of Staithes. It’s called Johnny Reb Cottage and it’s five star rated. Check it out.

We chatted for a good while, and I gave him my card so he could send us a link to his holiday cottage. I thought nothing more about it.

Time passes

It was several months later that Gary and partner Sonia made contact again. They had a clock. Gary wondered if I could do anything with it. He feared it was beyond repair. It had been in his garage for five years. Before that it had stood ornamentally in a relative’s hallway. It had not worked for forty years.

Send pictures I said, and he did.

Robinson stored in garage — *Stored in a garage and not running for 40 years, a classic Northern longcase clock with painted dial*

Here it is. A classic example of a northern longcase clock from the first half of the 19th century. They are derided as ‘vulgar’ by some clock purists, for their squat appearance and wide trunk, inelegant stubby door and sometimes garish, sometimes sentimental painted dials. They have seldom been in favour. But to their pre-Victorian owners, probably rising middle class tradespeople or farmers, they will have represented status and wealth. And I love them.

I took a guess at 1820-30 as a date for this one. I’ll happily stand corrected if anyone provides evidence to the contrary.

And another thing…

I said I would love to pop over and take a look at it, to see what state it was in and whether it was retrievable. And before I could fix a date Gary came back to me with the inevitable. “While you’re at it, I have another clock,” he said. “It’s a mantel clock and it doesn’t work. Here’s a picture.”

*HAC mantel clock, after servicing – every home should have one.*

It is exactly the clock everyone’s Nan had, and I find them irresistible in their ubiquity (another favourite word from younger days).

Grime – and a growing sense of excitement

Eventually, we meet – and I take away the mantel clock in its entirety. Of the longcase clock, I take just the movement and dial, on the seat board, with two weights and what’s left of the pendulum rod and a solitary pulley wheel. I also take with me plenty of encased dirt and grime, and a growing sense of excitement.

Back in the growlery, I remove the hands, separate the movement from the dial and set aside the longcase clock.

*Robinson longcase clock movement and seatboard – begging to be sorted.*

Fit to grace any lounge

Instead I focus first on the mantel clock, removing it from its case to see it is a Hamburg American Clock Company (HAC) movement which, provided it was made before the takeover by Junghans, dates it to pre-1930.

The case is jaded. The movement is grubby but intact and, with a little TLC and minor adjustment, soon back to keeping perfect time. Some liquid case restorer quickly removes the layer of grime and restores to the case an easy sheen, fit to grace any lounge from the 1930s to the present day. And that’s where it sits now, providing pleasure whilst awaiting its return to its owner.

*HAC mantel clock case before and after*

Monetarily, it is worth nothing much. But it has a history and it has its own period style and, almost 100 years since it was made, it does the job it was designed to do, without a fuss. Everyone’s Nan had one – every current day home should too.

So, back to the longcase

Assuming the dial is original to the movement, and there is nothing to suggest it isn’t, the clock was made by Robinson of Bishop Auckland, in the north east of England. For now, I have not managed to find out more about the maker. There is the suggestion of a Joseph Robinson, clockmaker, trading in Bishop Auckland in the early 19th century but no detail. There is a William Robinson, clockmaker, trading in Bondgate, Darlington in 1827/8. In the same year, a Joseph Robson, clockmaker, is trading from Far Bondgate in Bishop Auckland. But this, as with restoring the clock to full working order, is currently work in progress.

Careful dismantling of the movement suggests there are few major flaws, just a lot of dirt from years of neglect. The crutch arm is broken with signs of some bad soldering from a previous repair, since which the last two inches of the arm, with the sleeve for the suspension spring, are nowhere to be found.

Some good specialist cleaning fluid, and an afternoon of gently abrasive brushing with an old toothbrush interspersed with time in the ultrasonic tank sees the dirt removed and the return of a brass lustre to the plates, pillars and wheels. The movement reassembles with surprising ease. With everything comfortably in place, both going and strike trains turn as smoothly as the day they were made.

*The movement, after a preliminary clean – all intact and running smoothly*

There’s a long way to go – this is decidedly work in progress – but so far it feels good. I’ll report further on the trickier aspects of restoration still to come, once they are sorted.

Chance good fortune, or something more?

But meanwhile, where is the ‘beyond-serendipity’ and the reciprocity? Had it not been for a friendly encounter, an openness to conversation with a stranger after two hard years of lockdown, Gary and I would never have exchanged cards, the connections would never have been made.

We engaged. Gary and Sonia get their lovely clocks fixed, hopefully! I get the pleasure of working on two clocks I would not otherwise have encountered. They offer me, my wife and our two walking companions, free accommodation in their beautiful cottage in Staithes. I am touched by their kindness. Everybody has gained something.

Call it chance good fortune if you like. I think it is something more, and it starts with an open mind. Curmudgeons take note!

To be continued…

For Part two, ‘Forging ahead proves a real treat’, click here.

Just checking in – marking time in the workplace

I wonder whether in fifty years’ time anyone will be writing nostalgically about their relationship with their Automatic Employee Hours Trackers App. Only time will tell. Meanwhile, clock on to this – it seems that using contemporary technology to monitor workforce behaviour is nothing new.

Gledhill-Brook Time Recorder Clock in the entrance lobby at Stanley Harrison House, York.

I’m of an age to remember old-fashioned clocking in at work. I didn’t do it using an elegantly oak-cased machine like those produced by the legendary Gledhill-Brook Ltd of Huddersfield in West Yorkshire.

Instead I registered my attendance via a more prosaic battered bland grey box of an electric clock which clung unceremoniously to the wall of the factory workers’ entrance to Robirch. I’ve no idea whether office staff were subject to the same scrutiny.

Not heaven scent

Robirch was a sausage and meat pie company. Its factory was behind the railway station in Burton-on-Trent. As they travelled from Sheffield and Derby to Birmingham, train passengers would reluctantly imbibe the clingingly sour tang of Robirch with its on-site abattoir. Often the smell was strong enough to overpower even the stench from the neighbouring Bovril factory. Or the noxious rubber bouquet of the Pirelli tyre works. Or the heady scent of the brewery maltings. In the late 60s and 1970s, Burton-on-Trent had so much to offer.

You can imagine what an olfactory relief I felt when I eventually moved to York with its sweet aroma from two chocolate factories filling the summer air.

I’ve always been a meticulous timekeeper so I actually enjoyed the disciplined certainty of clocking in – firmly pressing the card which featured my name and roll number into the slot at the front of the clock then sliding it, printed, into the adjacent rack. Then heading off for another day making skinless sausages.

Skinless sausage sabotage

For the record, this was a process so brain-achingly dull that, two weeks into the role, I began deliberately breaking, in turn, each one of the three machines I operated to see if I could still keep up the required production rate using just two whilst simultaneously mending the machine I’d sabotaged. I wasn’t quite a Luddite machine wrecker but the spirit was there!

Payday for Arthur Seaton (Albert Finney) in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960)

Clocking in was a part of life, an accurate way of logging attendance, if not productivity. It was the starting point for the process by which those little brown envelopes, dispensed from a low-sided wooden tray, could be relied upon to deliver exactly the right number of neatly folded one, five and ten pound notes and handful of balancing coins, each Friday afternoon. Such simple pleasures – such instant gratification!

But to achieve that level of time-recording accuracy in a pre-digital age required well-made, reliable mechanical clocks.

Night watchman’s clocks, or ‘tell-tale clocks’ as they were often known, were used in the 18th and early 19th

watchman recorder — *Dent Royal Exchange Recording clock – picture courtesy of NAWCC*

century. They monitored whether night watchmen had diligently completed their rounds by clocking in at set points on their inspection route.

But these were watchman-specific, not for wider factory use. So in the late 19th century, enter Mr Brook – and soon afterwards, Mr Gledhill.

Checking in? Check it out

Frank Brook was a weaver in a cloth mill in Huddersfield during the 1880s. Workers there would check in by throwing their check – a disc bearing their name or number – through the open window of the timekeeper’s office. Disputes arose frequently as the timekeeper was accused of opening the window only for his friends, but not for those with whom he was not on good terms. During heated discussions with the managers, Frank Brook, who ran a small watch repair business on the side, said that an impartial mechanical means of monitoring attendance would work better. He was invited by the mill owners to source one. He did and, working with Swiss clockmaker Ulrich Feicher, provided the first time-recording clock for the mill in 1889.

Hero? Zero!

*The Paragon Time Checker, invented by Frank Brook.*

You might expect his fellow workers to hail him as a hero in the pursuit of justice. Far from it. The clocking-in clock was hugely unpopular with many workers. And so was Frank. So he left the mill to concentrate on his time-keeping clock-making endeavours. He achieved his first patent in 1893 and set up his own company in 1896 to make and market The Paragon time checker machine.

But time ran out for him just three years later and his business folded.

*The size of a 50 pence piece, these checks were used in the Paragon.*

He remained undeterred. After a couple more unsuccessful partnerships, in 1912 he teamed up with thriving cash register manufacturer Arthur Gledhill. And the rest is industrial history. The Gledhill-Brook Time Recorders Company, based in Huddersfield, continued supplying high quality fusee clocks, with the addition of a time recording mechanism, to companies across the UK and beyond until 1964 when it was sold to Massachusetts company Simplex Time Recorder Company which itself closed in 1975.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning – a Raleighing cry!

*Foreman Jack, (actor Brian Pringle) alongside the Gledhill-Brook Time Recorder at the Raleigh factory in Nottingham*

In the 1960 film, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (always worth revisiting, heralding as it did the era of the working class kitchen sink drama) watch Arthur Seaton arguing with workmates as he clocks out of his shift at the cycle factory in Nottingham where he is a frustrated lathe operator. You will see the Gledhill-Brook Time Recorder in the background. The scenes were filmed at the Raleigh Cycle factory in the city, clocking-in clocks a standard part of life there and in factories across the country. They had become an integral feature of our industrial heritage, and they are still around today, collectors’ items for the connoisseur.

It’s not Terry’s – it’s time

A Gledhill-Brook identical to that in the film is currently installed in the entrance hallway at Stanley Harrison House in York. It graces the stylish space – strong, elegant, forthright. It serves as a reminder of the building’s past. And it keeps perfect time. It is only for show though – a relieved Harrison staff aren’t required to clock in these days.

*Gledhill-Brook Time Recorder Clock in the lobby at Stanley Harrison House, formerly The Time Office at Terry’s site in York.*

That building has its own place in the history of time. Now HQ to S Harrison Developments, the 1920/30s two-storey structure was originally called The Time Office. It was a key part of the famous chocolate maker Terry’s of York’s site. In the chocolate factory’s heyday, literally thousands of clock cards would be processed daily there.

Gledhill-Brook Time Recorder helping the war effort — *In an advertisement from June 1944, Gledhill-Brook was playing its part in increasing productivity to help the war effort. Image courtesy of Graces Guide to British Industrial History*

Clock history – on the move again

And just yards from the Gledhill-Brook in Harrison’s hallway, one more piece of industrial history is on the move.

*The Clock Tower and the famous Terry’s clock in York*

The landmark clock in the clock tower at the Terry’s site has been still and silent since 2005. Now it is being given a new lease of life.

In keeping with the times, the Terry’s site, formerly workplace for thousands of Yorkies, is now mostly given over to luxury apartments. The PJ Livesey Group, which converted the original main factory building into residences, is now converting the clock tower into new homes. In the process, they commissioned experts from Smith of Derby to bring the clock back into working order.

*The iconic clock face at the former Terry’s site in York. Credit to P J Livesey Group for commissioning and funding the restoration.*

In 2018 the four restored clock faces, each etched with the words ‘Terry York’, were re-instated. It was a complex engineering operation. Now the intricate working mechanism is ready to get the giant hands moving once again.

The movement itself is a rare Waiting Train Clock, made by Gents of Leicester and powered by an electrical impulse from a master clock. It was a visionary concept, well ahead of its time, but by the 1940s had already started to fall out of use.

Time out

According to an excellent report by Maxine Gordon in the York Press, Smith of Derby, who were charged with restoring the clock, faced huge challenges. When they came to remove the clock they discovered that the actual mechanism was not there. Despite extensive inquiries it could not be found so they set about sourcing original parts to recreate it.

This search involved speaking to horologists all over the country, chasing tip-offs and poring over auction house catalogues. Eventually the team succeeded in sourcing the majority of the parts needed. The movement is now ready to be reinstalled and once again mark time for the city.

Sadly the heady chocolate aroma that once emanated so sweetly from the Terry’s site is less likely to make a comeback any time soon. With Terry’s gone, the locals rely on Nestle – which many still insist on calling Rowntrees – for their daily aromatic fix.

Please use the form below to share your comments about time and the workplace – or to put me right on any factual errors.

There’s no present like the time – just ask the homeless

This is not a post about buying someone a clock for Christmas – although that’s not such a bad idea. It is about giving the gift of time in a different way.

Charity begins at home – which is all very well if you have one. For the homeless or rough sleepers, winter must bring a renewed sense of dread. And when someone who you know – who was recently a fully paid-up member of society with a home, job and family – turns up at a street kitchen looking lost and broken, the stark reality really hits home.

*The University of York generously provided a new home for HOPING – the grounds of the beautiful King’s Manor, in the heart of the city.*

The homeless are not wasters who need to be told to sort themselves out and get a job. They are another version of you and me, but struggling and failing to make sense of a world which seems to have forsaken them.

Here’s Hoping

My wife, Jayne, helps to run a local charity called HOPING Street Kitchen. Staffed entirely by unpaid volunteers, it provides nourishing hot meals to the homeless and others in need in York. HOPING receives no government funding. It relies for its survival entirely on donations – from businesses, other charities and the public.

On Sunday nights Jayne joins fellow volunteers in the heart of the city. As they dispense hot drinks and gourmet hot meals to those who need them, she chats with the homeless. But more than that, she listens.

*Rough sleepers and the homeless are provided more than just a hot meal.*

Give them the time and the patience and they all have stories to tell. These are people who have lost everything. Some freely admit to being complicit in their own downfall. Others are puzzled at the circumstances of fate that have seen them helplessly lose family, friends, jobs, homes – everything they held dear.

Many have drug or alcohol issues – sometimes the cause, sometimes the effect of their current plight. Many have been the subject of sexual abuse or domestic violence. In an age where mental welfare is taken more seriously than it ever was, almost all are facing very real mental health issues of their own. There is nothing snowflake here – other than the bitter snow-bearing winds which scour the city on wintry December nights.

Everyone in

During the 2021 lockdown, HOPING delivered hot meals to the hotels and temporary homes where rough sleepers were accommodated as part of the ‘everyone in’ programme. But council traffic rule changes meant the charity couldn’t get back to its old city centre pitch once lockdown ended.

The University of York stepped in and generously provided space in the grounds of the historic King’s Manor just 400 yards from the Minster. Local businesses and the York Vikings Rotary Club gave funds for food and equipment. By November, HOPING Street Kitchen was back on the street.

Listening – the telling difference

A letter from a local councillor, in support of a successful grant application to the excellent Arnold Clark Community Fund, brilliantly highlights the message that it is not just the donation of food, but the generous gift of time, that makes the telling difference. Here are some extracts from Councillor Michael Pavlovic’s letter of endorsement –

In my role as spokesperson for the formal opposition on City of York Council on Housing and Safer Communities, and in my career working with homeless people with multiple and complex needs, I am able to see the difference that Hoping Street Kitchen have made to the lives and the well-being of some of the most vulnerable people.

We often see people who are sleeping on the streets as faces, often dishevelled, dirty begging for money but rarely stop to think of the person, the human being in front of us, often lost, without hope, resigned to their situation but each with their own story, their need for acknowledgement, for love, for their perspective to be understood and this is what Hoping York volunteers give to them.

Users of their street kitchen and their food bank are accepted, listened to, cared about and treated with respect and with care as individuals, not just their circumstances. I speak with many of the people who genuinely see the food and the support given by Hoping Street Kitchen as a lifeline and an escape from their situation, for a few minutes a week.

A Lifeline

Hoping Street Kitchen do what statutory organisations cannot, they offer their support unconditionally and that is why they need to have our support and why fundraising is vital.

*Hoping York has no paid members of the team. Everyone works as an unpaid volunteer – so every penny donated to the charity is spent improving the lives of those in need.*

It is, as Cllr. Pavlovic points out, the gift of taking the time to listen, to empathise and genuinely to hear their stories with compassion and care, that makes the real difference.

Pride and shame – the paradox

I am in awe of the work of the HOPING volunteers.

And, for me, there is that terrible paradox – I feel a sense of immense pride that society has within it people like the volunteers at HOPING in York who give their time and their effort to help those in need on the streets. And I feel a sense of utter shame that we live in a society where that need should ever arise.

Here is wishing you, and those who matter to you, health and happiness and a warm home this Christmas. And, of course, thanks for taking the time to listen.

*Piping hot food – especially welcome on cold winter nights.*

Some homeless facts:

There are more than 280,000 homeless people in England
Being homeless doesn’t just mean sleeping on the streets
The average amount of time spent in temporary accommodation is 199 days
The average age of death for a homeless person is between 43 and 45
Rough sleepers are 17 times more likely to be violently abused
Suicide is nine times more common in homeless people than the general population
80% of homeless people have mental health issues
75% of homeless people have physical health condition issues
Nine in 10 Britons think homelessness is a major issue

https://www.ilmuk.org/news/uk-homelessness-facts/

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