Grandad’s Clock

My maternal grandfather, Reginald (Reg), retired from work in the mid-1970s. As was not uncommon at the time, he was gifted a carriage clock, which took pride of place as the centrepiece in his living room until the day he passed away.

As a younger man, I was struck by the irony of this gift. In my ignorance, I saw it as an unkind and potentially cruel reminder that, for him at least, the clock was now ticking. There were fewer days ahead than behind.

The clock was not warning him about time running out. It was acknowledging the time he had already given away.

“Congratulations on retiring. Here is a clock to remind you that time is running out.”

Age has allowed me to reinterpret the meaning of the gift. And I fully intend to have one of my own. Before I explain this change in view, allow me to add some context to this article.

For men of my grandfather’s generation, retirement was seen as an abrupt and proper ending to working life. Most were forced to retire whether they wanted to or not. I have written previously that wellbeing is often linked to usefulness and activity. Yet it seemed to me that Grandad would have been perfectly happy to quietly disappear into his greenhouse or relax in his armchair watching Emmerdale Farm. Society would not, and did not, raise an eyebrow.

Grandad belonged to a generation shaped by war, rationing, duty and routine. At the beginning of the Second World War he served as a Special Constable in the Woking police before later being drafted into the Royal Artillery. After the war he joined Unwin Brothers and remained there for his working life.

I am not convinced that personal fulfilment ever entered the conversation.

The world he retired into was very different from our own. Shops shut on Wednesday afternoons and all day Sunday. Letters arrived at least once a day. Sundays were for family, church and mowing the grass. Information moved slowly, or not at all if the paper boy slept through his alarm clock again. Retirement itself therefore felt slower and perhaps psychologically calmer.

I regard his life as far more linear than my own. The traditional model of work, retirement and then leisure no longer resonates with many, especially those who still have energy, expertise and ambition.

Today everything is instant. Everybody is reachable. Social media feeds compete endlessly for our attention. We refresh screens and notifications almost compulsively, waiting for the next small burst of stimulation. In a world that now seems to value visibility more than usefulness, retirement itself almost feels unfashionable. We are all expected to remain productive indefinitely in the gig economy.

Of course, his clock was never counting down to death. It acknowledged a life of work, service, responsibility and duty. What time remained was now his to own and to do with as he saw fit. For those who had lived through war and helped rebuild the country afterwards, leisure itself was never guaranteed.

Now, approaching retirement myself, I realise that I misunderstood the gesture entirely.

Grandad had earned the right to stop. Yet my own generation seems quietly terrified of becoming irrelevant if it does. I am preparing for retirement far more actively and thoughtfully than many men of my grandfather’s generation ever could. Modern life has undoubtedly given us more freedom in retirement. The problem is that it has also made it much harder to stop.

And what of my own clock, you may ask?

Well, I have decided that I will purchase one for myself. An intentional choice to acknowledge that time is passing, and that I myself will decide how to use it.

Art Deco in style, mechanical, slightly vulgar and requiring winding every day. Its tick will not act as a countdown, but as a metronome reminding me that there is still energy and rhythm to life.

Perhaps that is why I have become rather fond of the idea of Grandad’s clock.

Not as a reminder that time is finite, but as a welcome gift of another day to ponder the conundrums that have puzzled mankind ever since we first climbed down from the trees and started arguing about whose turn it was to make the tea.