For twenty-three years, Mr. Tock had lived in the grandfather clock at the back of the antique shop.
He occupied a cozy space behind the lower panel, furnished with a thimble for a stool, a scrap of velvet for a rug, and a button he considered particularly handsome. The clock hadn’t kept proper time in years, but Mr. Tock had his own schedule.
Every morning, he inspected the shop from beneath the clock face. Every afternoon, he took his tea. And every evening, once the shopkeeper had gone home, he made his rounds among the antiques.
It was a perfectly satisfactory existence.
Until Tuesday.
“Thursday should be fine,” the shopkeeper said, dusting the clock. “I’ll have someone help you load it.”
Mr. Tock, enjoying a biscuit crumb, stopped chewing.
Load it?
He climbed to his lookout and discovered, to his horror, a red tag tied to the clock.
SOLD.
He spent Tuesday attempting to remove it. By Wednesday morning, he’d chewed through the string, only for the shopkeeper to replace it with a larger one.
Wednesday evening called for more serious measures. He rearranged the weights, loosened a screw, and stuffed lint behind the pendulum.
The clock, which hadn’t worked in eleven years, suddenly began to chime.
Mr. Tock was as surprised as anyone.
On Thursday, two men arrived with blankets and a trolley. Mr. Tock retreated behind his velvet rug, clutching his handsome button, and prepared for the worst.
When the blankets came away, he found himself in a bright room overlooking a garden. Sunlight warmed the floor. A little girl sat reading while an old dog slept nearby.
“Oh, Grandpa,” the girl said, looking up at the clock. “It’s beautiful.”
Mr. Tock peered out cautiously.
There were roses beyond the window. A bird feeder. And, unless his eyes deceived him, a promising gap beneath the kitchen door.
He considered the situation.
Then he straightened his spectacles, retrieved his thimble, and put the kettle on.
After all, Thursday was tea day.
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