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Aafter my father passed away, this thing happened that I can’t get past. It was when I went to the undertaker to collect his ashes. They weren’t ready, the lady there said, but she had his watch to give me. She handed it into a small velvet pouch. As she began to explain about the ash hold, I took the watch out of the bag and just stared at it, stunned. I couldn’t believe it was still ticking, showing the correct time. I mean, I know: why would a cheap battery-powered watch die just because the wrist it was on was gone forever? On some level I must have thought I would have the decency to stop the moment my father did, out of respect. But no, it went on regardless, heartlessly.
It’s funny what makes you tick. And what not. Dates, for example, mean absolutely nothing to me. On Sunday I was asked if I felt particularly sad for my father. I really didn’t understand where the question came from, although I knew it was Father’s Day as my daughters texted me. I just didn’t make the connection. I didn’t feel sadder or less sad on Sunday than I did on Saturday or Monday. And it will be the same when his birthday approaches; and the anniversary of his death. Dates are just random numbers. I’m not proud to feel this way; All my life I’ve forgotten birthdays and anniversaries – both mine and others – causing quite a bit of offense and upset in the process.
But now, strangely, the dates really came into play, albeit in a different way, because my father was forever angry about the wrong date on that damn clock. I had bought it for him because he had smashed the one he had before, which I had bought him to replace the one he had smashed before. Although he lost interest in almost everything he had ever cared about, he became even more obsessed with his watch, checking and rechecking it for accuracy, wanting another hole put in the strap. There was always some problem.
It wasn’t clear to any of us, including him, why time had become such a concern—since the very few things he did with that time weren’t time-specific at all. In trying to make the necessary adjustments to the dates at the end of the shorter months, he would run into an old mess and completely mess it up. This drove him to despair—probably because he could forgive himself for never coming close to mastering his iPhone, but he couldn’t accept not being able to change the date on his watch. “Fix this, will you?” he’d say every time I saw him, handing me the watch. If he broke it, I’d buy him another; if it wasn’t, I would correct the date.
I don’t know how long I stood there in that undertaker, jaw dropped, watching the second hand merrily work its way around the face, and the date was right until the end of the next short month. Finally I heard someone say my name. This was the woman who had probably long ago finished telling me when the ashes would be ready for collection and couldn’t let my trance go on forever. I wouldn’t blame her if she had snapped her fingers a few times, like a stage hypnotist. Time flies, obviously.
A clever, if cringeworthy, ad campaign for an epically expensive Swiss watch brand featured a handsome father who looked like he ran a hedge fund and his son who looked like he would soon run one too. “You never actually own a Patek Philippe,” the ad insisted. “You’re just looking after the next generation.” I guess that’s the kind of nonsense you have to come up with to convince people to part with tens of thousands of pounds for a mechanical watch when you can get a more accurate quartz one for £20. like my father’s. Although, when the senior hedge fund man’s time was up, his reassuringly expensive, precision-engineered watch—requiring a movement to wind it—would soon stop ticking and a period of mourning would ensue. Elegant. It’s worth £30,000 of someone’s money.
But our cheap clock just ticked relentlessly. Some time passed and my mother went to Croatia for a while. Before leaving, she happened to sow some chili seeds. Not for a keepsake or anything – she just had some seeds and some soil in a tray so she thought she might as well throw them in. Now he realized that he wouldn’t be there to water them, so nothing would come out of them. Anyway, she shrugged. After a few weeks I went in to check on the house and saw that every seed had germinated and countless budding chilies were jostling for space, gasping for air and light.
I took them home with me and tried to choose the strongest ones for replanting. The task turned out to be too much for me. I couldn’t send any of them. So now I’m sitting here at my desk with my dad’s clock not missing a beat and no fewer than 54 chili pepper plants crowding the windowsill. I feel like it should be. Yesterday, a pigeon came into the apartment and with the ensuing squawk began to trample my crops. I wondered if my dad had come back to tell me to stop being a rascal, get a grip, put on the clock and stop the chili madness. But I can’t comply. The damage from the pigeons turned out to be less serious than expected. Five of the plants looked doomed, but three came together overnight and I hope the other two will make it. And it was only then that I remembered that my father’s nickname at school was Chili. Strange. Anyway, if you see me around and want a chili plant, please let me know. I must disperse them before this pigeon comes back again.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and columnist for the Guardian
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