Reggie Upton had always believed that a gentleman should carry a watch.

He did not insist that others should do the same, after all, Hopeless was not a place inclined toward punctuality, but he himself preferred the quiet assurance of knowing that time, at least, was behaving in a predictable manner somewhere in his pocket.

The watch in question was a heavy silver hunter, inherited from a distant uncle who had believed firmly in the empire, cavalry charges and correct waistcoats. Reggie wound it each morning without fail. The faint tick of it had accompanied him through wars, shipwrecks, two engagements that never quite reached the altar, and more cups of tea than he could count.

It had also survived Hopeless, which was saying something.

Winston Oldspot, the current Night-Soil Man, did not carry a watch.

He carried many other things: a shovel, a bucket, and an optimism that had yet to be dented by experience, but not a watch. When contemplating the time, Winston would look at the sky with cheerful uncertainty and hazard a guess that was rarely accurate but always enthusiastic.

Reggie watched this for several weeks before deciding that something ought to be done.

It was a quiet, late evening at The Squid and Teapot when the matter finally came to a head. Doc Willoughby had recently decided to eschew the relative comfort of the flushing indoor privy, after Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, decided to manifest unexpectedly while Doc was in the throes of relieving himself. Unfortunately, her sudden appearance took Doc by surprise and there followed certain embarrassing consequences of a trouser-related nature, which we need not go into. Anyway, these days Doc relied on the outside privy, and was enjoying its facilities when Winston blundered in, thinking that it was the early hours of the morning.

Disturbed by the commotion this caused, Reggie went to investigate. Quickly summing up the situation, as the indignant Doc made a quick exit, he drew the watch from his pocket.

“Winston,” he said, in the tone of a man about to issue orders that could not be refused, “have you ever owned a proper timepiece?”

The Night-Soil Man looked slightly alarmed.

“No – though we were taught to tell the time at the Orphanage,” he volunteered.

Reggie nodded, as though confirming a theory he had long suspected.

“Splendid,” he said, placing the watch in Winston’s palm, “I believe you need this more than I do, old chap.”

There was a pause.

Winston turned the watch over carefully, as one might examine an unfamiliar species of crab.

“It’s… very shiny,” he said.

“It’s a hunter,” Reggie replied. “Silver case. Reliable movement. Wind it daily, and never argue with it.”

“Isn’t that the one you carried in India and Africa?” Winston asked.

“The very same,” said Reggie briskly.

The young man looked horrified.

“I can’t take that,” he said. “It’s far too important.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie. “A watch is only important when it is being used. And I find that these days, time and I have reached an understanding. It no longer needs watching quite so closely.”

Philomena, who had been standing safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man, leant against the door of the inn, dishcloth in hand, and pretended not to listen – but, in reality, listened very carefully indeed.

The Tomte appeared briefly out of one of the outhouses,  glanced at the exchange, and nodded once before disappearing again.

The following morning Winston attempted to wind the watch.

This proved more complicated than expected.

He turned it too quickly at first, then too gently, then not at all, and finally presented it to Reggie with the expression of a man who feared he had broken something older than history.

“It ticks,” Reggie said, holding it to his ear, and suppressing a smile. “That’s always a good sign.”

Drury, who had followed at the old soldier’s heels, lifted his head and watched Winston with mild interest, as though assessing whether this new responsibility suited him.

Over the next few days, the watch became a small but noticeable presence in Winston’s life.

He checked it before setting out to work. He consulted it when the tide seemed uncertain. He began planning his rounds to coincide with what the rest of the island would call ‘Unsociable Hours.’

“It is remarkable what a bit of silver can do,” said Tenzin.

“It isn’t the silver,” said Reggie. “It’s the trust.”

One morning, just before dawn, Winston paused at the edge of the marsh to check the watch. The tide was turning, or perhaps thinking about turning, and the air held that faint sense of expectation that Hopeless sometimes indulged in.

For a moment, the watch stopped.

Winston frowned.

He tapped it gently, as he had seen Reggie do, and held it up to his ear.

Nothing.

The silence lasted only a second- maybe two at most – but it felt longer.

Then the watch resumed its steady ticking, as though nothing had happened at all.

Winston shrugged, closed the case, and continued on his way.

Later that night, as he prepared to start his rounds, Reggie appeared at the cottage door.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” he said quietly.

Winston blinked.

“Felt what, Reggie?”

Reggie smiled faintly.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Come on, I’ll keep you company. Did I ever tell you about my fight with Jan Smuts, during the Boer War…?

Winston heaved his bucket onto his back, and smiled to himself in the darkness.

Hours later, after the night’s work was done, Winston stood outside his cottage, with the watch cupped carefully in both hands.

“I think it likes being out here, by the marsh,” he said.

Reggie nodded.

“Some things do,” he replied.

They stood together for a moment in companionable silence, listening to the tick of the watch blending with the soft settling sounds of the island.

At breakfast Reggie told Philomena what Winston had said. 

“The funny thing is,” she said. “Since Winston started carrying that watch, everything else seems to be arriving just when they’re meant to.”

“Things on Hopeless happening on time?” laughed Rhys. “That’s impossible.”

“Granny Bucket always used to say that time is a courteous guest,” said Philomena. “It behaves when treated properly.”

Reggie tapped his empty waistcoat pocket thoughtfully, and raised his teacup.

“To Winston,” he said.

Drury thumped his tail once, approvingly.

And somewhere, deep in the machinery of things that were older than any of them, the hands of a small silver watch continued their patient work, keeping time not for Reggie Upton anymore, but for the island that had decided it might, occasionally, be worth the effort.