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Objects
His father's watch
A Smiths wristwatch. It loses about eleven minutes a day.
Tell me about this one. That's my father's watch. It's a Smiths, nothing special, you wouldn't get £20 for it. He worked underground at South Crofty till his chest went, and every January he took that watch to Mr Rowe's pawn shop on 4th Street, and every April he fetched it back. I thought that was what you did with a watch. I thought everybody's father's watch spent the winter at the shop.
Did he always get it back? All but once, the winter of 63, the bad one, the mine laid men off and April came and he hadn't got it. He started walking home the long way so he wouldn't have to go past the window. I was 15. I went in to Mr. Rowe and asked him what was owed, and he looked at me a good while, and he said I could sweep his floor on Saturdays till it was paid. It took me 11 weeks. I never told my father how I got it. I put it by his plate on a Sunday morning. He picked it up, he wound it, and he put it on. He looked at me the once, and then he ate his breakfast. He never said a word about it, not then, and not ever.
That was the nearest I came to being told I was loved, and I've thought about it most days since.
Does it still work? It loses about eleven minutes a day. Funny that. Eleven, I could have it seen too. There's a man in Truro who offered. but here's the rule and you can tell them I said so. Whoever's got it, you wind it on a Sunday. It doesn't have to be right. It only has to be going.
What was he like, your father? Quiet hands like shovels. He sang in the chapel on Sundays and that was the only time you'd hear what he had in him.
How did you two meet? At the bus stop in Camborn in the rain 1968, I asked her the time, I had a watch on, she looked at my wrist, and she looked at me and she said, it's about time you thought of something better, there's a green glass button in there, off that coat.
The button tin
A toffee tin full of buttons, kept by Margaret.
And this the toffee tin That's your grandmother's, Margaret's, buttons. She cut the buttons off everything before it went for rags, every coat, every school shirt. You could tell the whole story of this family by tipping that tin out on the table, and she did, on wet afternoons. Your mother learnt to count on that tin.
How did you two meet? At the bus stop in Camborn in the rain 1968, I asked her the time, I had a watch on, she looked at my wrist, and she looked at me and she said, it's about time you thought of something better, there's a green glass button in there, off that coat.
I always wondered about the green one. She had it in the pancreas, 4 months start to finish, about 3 weeks after the funeral I went to the tin to mend a shirt. I took off the lid and there was a bit of card on top in her writing. Arthur, it said, the green one is for Nell when she marries or when she doesn't. She knew she was going, you see. She'd gone through the buttons and she never said. I sat on the stairs for a long time with that card.
I didn't know that. No, well, now you do. That's what this is for, isn't it?
A key that opens nothing
To 14 Albert Terrace, Redruth, demolished in 1974.
This key what does it open? Nothing, that's 14 Albert Terrace in Redruth, where Tom and I grew up, they pulled it down in 74 for the road, I went down the morning after, and the door was gone, the whole street was gone, and there I was with the key in my pocket, I don't know why I went on carrying it, yes, I do.
Why did you and Uncle Tom stop talking? That one I'll leave alone, you can ask me and I'll tell you I'm leaving it, put that on your machine.
Is there anything you'd want Tom's children to know? That he taught me to swim, at Portreeth, by walking out till I couldn't stand and then walking back without me, that he was a better man than I ever let on, they can have that, that they can have.
What should happen to the key? Give it to whoever's moving house. For luck, tell them it doesn't open anything and that's not the point.
narrator That's my father's watch. It's a Smiths, nothing special, you wouldn't get £20 for it. He worked underground at South Crofty till his chest went, and every January he took that watch to Mr Rowe's pawn shop on 4th Street, and every April he fetched it back. I thought that was what you did with a watch. I thought everybody's father's watch spent the winter at the shop.
interviewer Did he always get it back?
narrator All but once, the winter of 63, the bad one, the mine laid men off and April came and he hadn't got it.
narrator He started walking home the long way so he wouldn't have to go past the window.
narrator I was 15.
narrator I went in to Mr. Rowe and asked him what was owed, and he looked at me a good while,
narrator and he said I could sweep his floor on Saturdays till it was paid.
narrator It took me 11 weeks.
narrator I never told my father how I got it.
narrator I put it by his plate on a Sunday morning.
narrator He picked it up, he wound it, and he put it on.
narrator He looked at me the once, and then he ate his breakfast.
narrator He never said a word about it, not then, and not ever.
narrator That was the nearest I came to being told I was loved, and I've thought about it most days since.
interviewer Does it still work?
narrator It loses about eleven minutes a day.
narrator Funny that.
narrator Eleven, I could have it seen too.
narrator There's a man in Truro who offered.
narrator but here's the rule and you can tell them I said so. Whoever's got it, you wind it on a Sunday.
narrator It doesn't have to be right. It only has to be going.
interviewer What was he like, your father?
narrator Quiet hands like shovels. He sang in the chapel on Sundays
narrator and that was the only time you'd hear what he had in him.
narrator That's your grandmother's, Margaret's, buttons. She cut the buttons off everything before it went for rags, every coat, every school shirt. You could tell the whole story of this family by tipping that tin out on the table, and she did, on wet afternoons. Your mother learnt to count on that tin.
interviewer How did you two meet?
narrator At the bus stop in Camborn in the rain 1968, I asked her the time, I had a watch on, she
narrator looked at my wrist, and she looked at me and she said, it's about time you thought of something
narrator better, there's a green glass button in there, off that coat.
interviewer I always wondered about the green one.
narrator She had it in the pancreas, 4 months start to finish, about 3 weeks after the funeral
narrator I went to the tin to mend a shirt. I took off the lid and there was a bit of card on top in her
narrator writing. Arthur, it said, the green one is for Nell when she marries or when she doesn't. She
narrator knew she was going, you see. She'd gone through the buttons and she never said. I sat on the
narrator Nothing, that's 14 Albert Terrace in Redruth, where Tom and I grew up, they pulled it down in 74 for the road, I went down the morning after, and the door was gone, the whole street was gone, and there I was with the key in my pocket, I don't know why I went on carrying it, yes, I do.
interviewer Why did you and Uncle Tom stop talking?
narrator That one I'll leave alone, you can ask me and I'll tell you I'm leaving it, put that
narrator on your machine.
interviewer Is there anything you'd want Tom's children to know?
narrator That he taught me to swim, at Portreeth, by walking out till I couldn't stand and then
narrator walking back without me, that he was a better man than I ever let on, they can have that,
narrator that they can have.
interviewer What should happen to the key?
narrator Give it to whoever's moving house. For luck, tell them it doesn't open anything and that's not the point.
interviewer What did you do for work all those years?
narrator I was on the telephones, 38 years up poles for the post office and then BT, I liked it, you were up above the hedges and nobody could ask you anything.
interviewer What would you tell someone who's just lost their wife?
narrator Eat at the table, sit down, put a plate out, use a knife and fork.
narrator You'll want to eat standing at the sink, and I did for a year, and it does you no good at all.
narrator And don't tidy her things till you can do it without hurrying.
interviewer Were you ever really frightened?
narrator When your mother was born blue, two minutes it was, before she cried.
narrator I've been up a pole in a gale with the line down and I've never known anything like those two minutes.