THE IMPORTANCE OF THE WATCH
by Richard Banks
When
Glen was asked which of his grandfather’s possessions he would like as a
memento of a long and well lived life he choose his pocket watch. Even in those
final, bed bound days Granddad and his watch were seldom seen apart and Glen’s
first childhood memory was of sunlight reflecting on its glass face. Determined
to continue its working life Glen invested in a made to measure suit that
included a waistcoat with a pocket deep and broad enough to accommodate the
watch. This he wore at his grandfather’s funeral, and the following day
departed to his work in the same suit resplendent with watch and chain. His
mother told him that he looked ridiculous, that no one ‘in this day and age’
wore pocket watches but this he was prepared to risk. Indeed the reaction of
his fellow clerks was remarkably positive and the watch much admired by old
Penrose, a senior partner, who still wore his. It was he who found the catch
that opened up the back of the watch to reveal its mechanical workings and an
inscription on the inside of the casing.
“What’s GOPOC?” he had asked and Glen
previously unaware of the inscription could only plead ignorance. Whatever the
answer to Penrice’s question it was they who had presented the watch to
grandfather ‘in recognition of his distinguished service over many years’. The
discovery had not only opened an intriguing window into granddad’s life but
also attracted the attention of a person well placed to advance Glen’s career.
How better to keep that person’s interest than by finding out all he could
about GOPOC, but in the days before home computers and the Internet this proved
less than straightforward. Indeed after trawling methodically through the
reference books in his local library and other libraries recommended to him
Glen was none the wiser. It was his Uncle George, a long time member of the
Honourable Company of Water Hogs, who suggested that GO probably stood for
Grand Order and that the ‘P’ might refer to the printing trade in which
grandfather had been a typesetter.
“Why don’t you advertise for
information in The Times,” he suggested. “that way it will be seen by the paper’s
well informed readership and the men who print it. Someone’s bound to know.”
*****
A few days after the placing of the ad
three letters were received but they were wrong in everything they said and
Glen was in a place that definitely wasn’t England.
*****
How he had got there he had no inkling
apart from an open coffin at the base of a shuttered window through which thin
shafts of sunlight had come to rest on the wall above him. As his head began to
clear he took stock of his surroundings: the narrow bed on which he lay, the
half lit room between bed and window and the dark shapes of furniture within
it. Outside in the sunlight the sound of many voices could be heard. Were they
English voices? He wasn’t sure. An oppressive heat reminded him of Morocco which
he had visited on an 18–30 holiday.
He sat up and attempted to stand but
finding his legs unresponsive to the demands of his brain fell backwards with a
loud crash onto the bed. On the other side of a plasterboard wall someone else
stirred and a few seconds later the turning of key in lock told Glen that he
was about to receive a visit from someone who could only be his jailer.
He struggled to his feet determined at
this first meeting not to put himself at the disadvantage of looking up at the
person about to appear. That was for those who knelt, lackeys his grandfather
called them, men who touched their forelocks and did homage. Granddad had been
a lay preacher in a church of equal, Godly men. There was no room for Lords and
Masters in his life and in this moment of peril and uncertainty every word he
had said resonated with the power of revelation. This was the moment for angels
and heralds, for burning bushes, trumpets and heavenly light. The world was about
to change, then the door opened and the world went on much as before.
*****
Nevertheless, there were certain
logistical matters that required explanation and although the man entering the
room would rather this was not part of his job description the young man in his
care would almost certainly be wanting to know why he was here and not in the
place from which he had been collected. Indeed, as he would have no
recollection of being collected this too would have to be explained, as well as
the reason he should feel pleased and honoured to be here. And all this might
have to be undertaken while their ‘guest’ was still woozy from the effects of
an injection that had rendered him cataplectic across several continents.
Fortunately the young man was scarcely able to stand and his fight or flight
responses were as impeded as his present ability to take in the geo-political
complexities that would also have to be explained to him. For now the best
course of action was to assure him that he was safe and among friends.
The man switched on his smile and
explained that he was the Gatekeeper. There was another man who was also the
Gatekeeper but he worked only on Sundays and every second Thursday, otherwise
it was him. “Call me Gus,” he said, “everyone else does.” The young man’s lips
opened and shut but were unable to establish the necessary connection with his
vocal cords. The look on his face, however, suggested that an angry
confrontation was unlikely to occur.
“I expect you’re wondering what has
happened to you. Of course you do, and all will be explained I assure you, but
not before you have eaten. You must be hungry, and thirsty too. What say you to
some roast beef, Sunday dinner with all the trimmings?”
The words lodged in Glen’s brain and
assumed an importance that almost dwarfed the mystery that he hoped would soon
be unravelling. He was hungry, more hungry than he could ever remember and this
hunger was apparently about to end. All he had to do was to signify his
agreement with a single word.
“Yes.” The word pushed roughly through
a sandpaper throat. The sound it made was not the sound that Glen was expecting
but nonetheless it was definitely a yes. The man was pleased, progress was being
made. It was time to take his charge into meeting room A, sit him down at the
head of its long table and get him to lubricate his throat with a cordial
recommended for convalescents. The liquid enabled further words to be said,
although still not yet enough to facilitate the conversation that was forming
in Glen’s head.
The man left the room for the kitchen,
returning a few minutes later with a large plate of food and a gravy boat. He
had, he said, also spoken to the Director who was looking forward to seeing
him. If Glen felt up to it they could meet after dinner. There was much to tell
him, much that would be to his advantage. After that Glen could, if he wished,
take a stroll around the town. There wasn’t much to see now the market had
ended but the exercise would no doubt blow away the cobwebs. It was evening
now, the most pleasant part of the day. The man hesitated for the want of
further things to say but there was no need, Glen was busy eating, for now the
talking could wait.
“Coffee?” said the man as Glen cleared
the plate of everything but a thin veneer of gravy. Normally he also ate a dessert but for once
the quantity of food he had consumed was more than enough. A walk would
definitely be needed, so would coffee. The man departed the room for a second
time and returned bearing a tray on which was a large coffee pot with six cups
and saucers. “The Director’s on his way,” he murmured as if this was news not
to be mentioned too loudly. He glanced back at the door through which he had
just passed. Beyond it the sound of an approaching delegation could be heard.
There was a brief pause as they arrived on the other side, a possible
reordering of bodies and then the door was pushed open by a middle aged man in
a well tailored suit. In his wake followed three other men, the last of whom
was dressed casually in a zip-up jacket and jeans. The first man in introduced
himself as the Director and those about him as his associates. As of now, he was
unable to reveal their names. They could, he explained, have used false names,
but this would have been incompatible with the free and friendly conversation
they now wished to have. He sat himself down and signalled his entourage to do
the same. The last man in occupied a chair away from the table and observed proceedings
with a detachment that suggested that as of now his importance consisted only
in him being there.
The Director seemed in no hurry to
proceed onto the business that was his reason for being there. First he had to
build up a rapport with the young man, gain his trust, ensure he was clear in
both his understanding and his choice of words. Finding him both lucid and
apparently not ill-disposed to his abductors the Director abandoned small talk
for the serious business in hand. Glen, he said, required answers and he was
going to get them. His advertisement had asked what GOPOC stood for. Few people
knew and those who did were required to keep this information to themselves but
Glen was the son and grandson of former members. He had a right to know.
The Director reminded himself that this
was not a public meeting and that although he expected to do most of the
talking it was essential that Glen should also speak. “So, Glen, GOPOC
stands
for Grand Order for the Protection of Commerce. Does that mean anything to you?”
Glen shook his head. “No, Grandad never
mentioned it.”
“Or your father?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s the way it should be.
Only those within its ranks should know of its existence and the mission it
fulfils.”
“And what is that?”
“A good question. In short to oppose
the Moscow Collective. But what’s that you are thinking. You want to know about
GOPOC and I am telling you about another organisation, but with good reason, for
without the Collective there would be no GOPOC. What, Glen, do you know about
the Bolchevik revolution?”
“The usual stuff, 1917, Lenin, Stalin,
the end of Czars and the beginning of Communism.”
“Well said, a succinct summary to which
you can add world revolution, the destruction of the old order in Europe and
its replacement by satellite states subservient to mother Russia. In this
were significant opportunities for personal profit, opportunities very apparent
to the small and middling entrepreneurs who in 1917 renounced capitalism and
belatedly joined the ranks of party bureaucrats and commissars. But how were
they to benefit from the opportunities about to unfold? Their past was against
them. At the back of every queue they were also the most likely to be purged.
The Secret Service was where they wanted to be, stirring up trouble in
countries ripe for change, destabilising their economies and taking their cut
from the chaos that ensued. But when they failed to get the preferments their
talents deserved they decided to form their own secret service, an organisation
known only to themselves that would mop up the commercial opportunities
insufficiently exploited by the politicos primarily concerned with regime
change.”
The Director took a sip of his coffee. “All
clear?”
Having signalled his response with a
nod Glen decided to interpose a few words of his own. “And did they ‘mop up’?”
“Oh yes, and with great success,
extending their operations into more and more countries. In 1952 both their
existence and the extent of their operations were discovered by a commercial
analyst working for the London Chamber of Commerce. The UK Government was duly
informed but on the advice of our NATO allies choose to believe that the only
credible threat to our political and economic well-being came from the Soviet State.
A few months later the murder of an eminent London banker convinced the City Fathers that
if the Government were blind to the dangers they faced there was no alternative
but to defend themselves. That’s when the Grand Order was formed, a covert
watch and response force that would, when necessary, provide an armed deterrent
ready and able to go head to head with the Collective. Recruited from the City
institutions its membership passed down families from father to son. If you
decide to join you will be the third generation of your House to do so.”
The Director poured himself another
coffee observing as he did the affect of his words on the young man. “Any
questions?”
“Yes. I take it from what you have said
that my father and grandfather were not permitted to tell me this.”
“Absolutely not. In the normal way you
would have been recruited on your twenty-first birthday and your membership
confirmed in a ceremony attended by senior officials and those members of your
family within its ranks. Unfortunately the death of your father ten years ago
and the more recent passing of your grandfather means that you will be the sole
representative of your family; that is, of course, if you decide to join. The
Grand Order is not without its dangers – your father’s death may not have been
the accident it was assumed to be – but nonetheless you may consider that the
benefits of membership are worth the risk. Firstly in serving your country you
will be continuing a family tradition; your father and grandfather would have
been proud of you. Secondly no member of the Grand Order has ever been
unsuccessful in business. Your grandfather took great care in securing for you
a position at Penrose Morgan. It was his ambition that in time you would become
a partner. We can, of course, make that happen. So, as you can see, there are
opportunities as well as danger. The choice is yours. What say you?”
“But I’m not twenty-one yet.”
“Two months shy but when you placed
that advertisement in The Times you identified yourself to the Collective as a
potential threat that must be eliminated. So, early or not, you need to make
your decision now. Are you with us or not?”
Glen pondered briefly on the choice he
had been asked to make and decided that there was no choice at all. If Dad and
Granddad had been members then so must he.
“Count me in.”
*****
The Director allowed himself a few
moments reflection. It had been a cruel deception, but a necessary one. Once
recruited into the Grand Order who knows what harm the young man might have done, but sometimes a family link was
not continued despite the benefits of membership; for some a quiet life was
better than the uncertainties of one more eventful. He could have expressed
doubts, said no, but by his assent had declared war against the comrades that
he, the Director of Operations, was duty bound to protect. All that remained
was for him to pass sentence in the name of the Collective and watch as the man
in the zip-up jacket took aim and sent their enemy tumbling lifeless to the
floor.
The Director placed his cup and saucer
back on the tray and retreated without comment to his office. He had a report
to write. By the time it was done the coffin would be in use once more and on
its way to the crematorium. Everything had been done by the book. The story of
Glen was at an end.
Copyright Richard Banks
