My father’s watch

WE were in the kitchen having breakfast on a Saturday morning. The night before I had been out painting the town, ending up in Whites Barn dancing to Jack and the Jackpots with the interior of my mouth coated in grease from the chicken and chips that came with the ticket. It was a way around the late night drinking laws: bars were obligated by law to close at 11 p.m., but if a club supplied dinner, they could serve alcohol until 1 a.m.

My father rolled back his shirtsleeve and pulled the expanding strap of his watch over his hand, he had been out the night before too. He would’ve had a good few Guinness’s and probably a few short ones. He and his best friend Harry would’ve been in the smoke filled back room of Stones dealing cards, playing poker for small change, laughing and cheating in plain sight.

Now he was hung over and, observing a tradition, he had cooked a fry for anyone who would have it, sausages, rashers, eggs and tomatoes fried in lard. I was tucking into mine when he pulled off the watch. It was probably just an ordinary watch that kept good time, but it had come from a time when a watch was a watch, an instrument of value. The gold coloured strap was still sturdy after decades of use, expanding and springing back with certainty. He had taken care of it; the glass still appeared scratch free.

‘Here! I don’t know if you want this or not!’

He was handing it to me like it had been pre-arranged almost. I found it bewildering, and didn’t comprehend any deeper motivation other than the plain act of giving me his watch. I had a perfectly good watch, and didn’t want to take his away from him, how would he keep his own time?

‘I don’t want your watch,’ I replied softly with ineffectual bewilderment.

‘Aye, bates all you don’t want my watch.’

He pulled it back on to his wrist and went back to eating breakfast. We were the first ones up; the kitchen was quiet other than the thin sound of the transistor in the back kitchen. I was home for Christmas, and as usual my father was reminding me of his mortality.

Year in year out, it was always the same sentiment, ‘I probably won’t be here when you get back the next time’, and my usual refutation. Now he was offering me his watch, this was a new and surprising twist. He wasn’t a wealthy man; he had worked his whole life in a factory and was prudent with the money he earned, always keeping a nest egg in the Credit Union. Believing in the rainy day, he was ready for it. He was a Union man, a shop steward and a devout unimposing Catholic as well as believing in socialist values. If my Mother ever wanted to go on a holiday, he had the money to pay for it. I couldn’t imagine that the watch had financial value, but that didn’t matter to me, I didn’t want it regardless.

This was a leaf from the book of tradition that his generation observed. His watch was the most valued possession that he could give me. But he had given me enough, he owed me nothing, we were equally non-materialistic as people. I had gone off to America to play music, not to become rich.

I hadn’t earned a fortune to show my parents big things, no trip to Italy to see Pavarotti, no palatial apartment in Manhattan to peruse the skyline or East River. I had inherited his modest ambition, and I already had a watch.

His watch was the most valued possession that he could give me. But he had given me enough.