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