The Clock Ticks

1800 words (Background)

. . . It's two in the morning. I told his older brother to go back to bed, I wasn't sleepy. He seemed relieved, though he tried to sound guilty at not taking his turn. What would I do alone in bed, a new bride. The clocks are chiming at thirty second intervals, three or four begin the slow wind-up and sing out their silly ring-a-ding sounds. Ten minutes later and the one in the billiard room, this room on the ground floor, is about to make its double dong. I wait for the whirr of the mechanism and as the first toll sounds the tape machine kicks into life, on the second toll she speaks.

"Don't worry, my dear," she says, as loudly and crystal clear as a woman half her age, "he is thinking of you."

I blink in astonishment. Her accent is one that I have never heard before. Resonant with breeding. This apart, the words she spoke with eyes tightly closed fit exactly what I was thinking. I'm rooted to the spot, scared to move, ready to scream for help just in case. Should I speak, I wonder. No, the tape would record it.

She seems to be smiling and I think she's delirious.

"It isn't raining where he is," she adds, and the smile seems to widen. I feel like the wall has hit me.

"Where who is?" I ask, quietly, hoping the tape will fudge its recording.

There's no answer. What I think is a pause turns into ten minutes. I want to relax. I want to play the tape back so I can hear it again, just to be sure. I want his brother to come back so I can escape before I give into the temptation.

It's the quarter hour and the clocks ring it out, starting the tape machine rolling again. "You shouldn't call him Kin." Her voice startles me. "All his brothers are also called Kin. You should call him by his own name."

"I will," I murmur, but I know I won't. He's Kin to me and always will be.

She's smiling as if she knows my thoughts and I wait for a reprimand, but nothing comes. I can't see her moving and I think she's asleep. I must be sleeping really and dreaming this. At least, I hope I am.

"Dreams," she breathes, "are often reality's guardian."

The old woman's voice has changed again. She's speaking French now and her words are hard to catch.

I'm just about ready to pee with the fear of it. My mother-in-law walks into the room.

"Better get some rest now," she tells me, "I will sit until morning."

When I come down to breakfast she is sitting at the table with her husband, talking low as if I might catch what they say. It makes no difference, they could shout at each other and I wouldn't understand, they are talking in Cantonese. It's only when the rest of the family arrive that I learn the old woman has died and though the grief hits me more than I thought it could for someone who barely knew her, I see that they hardly grieve at all. It's like a celebration.