The problem with the likes of Andrew is the times they find themselves in. They’re okay while they’re still ticking along – a little old-fashioned maybe, but there’s always room for nostalgia. The trouble starts when they become unreliable. Then, as often as not, they find themselves on the scrapper. It’s a pity because with only a little attention, a little love and care, they could be kept going nicely. It’s just that no one has the time for them any more, and the professional skills of care are becoming niche. So then it falls to the question of class and position, whether the likes of Andrew can get help or not. Were he your stately home type, your eccentric millionaire collector type, you could still summon the trades, and they’d be swooning at your feet, while naturally charging you an hourly rate to make your eyes water.

But my Andrew’s not that type. He’s more your old-fashioned parlour type, your crackly kitchen range type – Grandma’s house on Sunday afternoons, or counting the minutes on rainy Monday mornings before rushing out to catch the bus to work. So when that class of Andrew starts to struggle, it falls to amateurs like me to do what we can, and we’re a mixed bag. Sure, some of us have skills we’ve transferred over from another life, then some of us what we lack in skill we make up for with enthusiasm and curiosity. Others… well, the least said the better, for opening up the Andrews of this world and seeing what it is that makes them tick can be a dodgy business. Outcomes are uncertain – indeed, they can be fatal. For the Andrews, at least.

Regardless of class, you see, we’re essentially all built the same way – the same things can bring us down, make us fail, make us lose track or just plain stop altogether. When I first met Andrew, someone had already had a go at him – and not much time taken over it. It had stopped him in his tracks for a while, rendered him useless as a companion, so they’d chucked him out – tried to palm him off on a gullible passerby.

Yes, I could see he’d been misused. But we were of an age, he and I, and I reckoned I could do something with him, make something of him. Just a bit of attention was all that was wanted, nothing deep, nothing too meaningful, and he’d be right as rain for a while. We could be friends. So yes, I smartened him up, gave him a home and he’s been good company. But that earlier intervention was always hanging over us, like a cloud in the background, and I knew it was going to catch up with him eventually. I didn’t mention it as he seemed happy enough. I mean, why go poking about before I needed to, especially when I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d find, or even if I was up to it?

But sure enough, the time came, and there he was one morning, silent as the grave. I put it off for a good long while, before I dared broach the subject, but there was no avoiding it. I was going to have to see what more I could do for him.

We’d known each other for three years. When I first saw him he was lying on his back amid an assortment of clock bits, springs, wheels, pendulums, empty cases, screwdrivers, hacksaws, oily bits, rusty bits, broken bits and sad bits. Gingerly, I lifted him clear, brushed the dust off him, and checked for signs of life. He had a nice looking two-train movement, by Perivale, which meant a passing strike on the half hour, and he counted the hours at the top. He had a platform escapement, and I’d been interested in one of those for a while – expensive to replace, and hard to source – but his looked okay. His case was in good nick, but the glass had gone, and there was no key, so we couldn’t give him a turn to see if he was ticking.

Date? Late fifties to mid-sixties? So, yes, we were of an age he and I. Perivale’s Middlesex factory had links with Bentima, another English clockmaker, a milestone in domestic manufacturing (and not just clocks) – its rise, its decline and its final extinction.

His rear plate was thick with a gummy oil which didn’t bode well, but for the price, Andrew was worth a chance. Often, a good strip and clean is all that’s required in such cases. Why’s he called Andrew? It says so on the dial.

At home, I borrowed a key from Norman, another of my clocks. (All my clocks have names). And we gave him a cautious wind. He was hesitant at first, like someone woken up after a long sleep, then, in spite of that layer of sticky oil, off he went, and settled to a lively ticking. Goodness knows when he’d last run, but he seemed keen to make up for lost time. He kept good time, too, kept it for years, bonged when he should, and with a rich resonance.

Until now.

So, yes, sadly, the time has come to get some tools together. Time to open him up and take him to bits – no light intervention this one either, not like last time – more a serious strip and clean. Some parts, like that platform escapement, I’m better leaving alone – just set it to one side a bit, maybe clean up what I can see. The rest, well, there are a lot of wheels in there, a lot of pivots and bearings, all gummed up. We take photographs of how it should all go back together, then we don’t panic. Undo everything, clean it, oil it sparingly. Getting that rear plate back on will be a test of patience, and not a bit of luck. And of course with every screw undone, every part removed, it’s never far from my mind that after sixty or seventy years…

This could finally be the end of Andrew.