was run by a single teacher, often a position held by women from the area. A small frame hung inside the doorway lists their names. The students certificates line the walls. The ink is faded and the cursive penmanship is almost illegible. Maps bearing unrecognisable names and antiquated political boundaries hang either side of the chimney. An ornately framed reproduction of an oil painting of Queen Elizabeth II is mounted in the middle. The final day at the property I am tasked with packing up the collection in the teacher’s house. It is a two-roomed building; one room contains a bed, a hat box and a sideboard with a jug and basin, the other room contains a fireplace, a sewing machine, a table with a tea set and a bookcase with manuals written for the single woman of the 19th century. Atop the bookcase sits a clock. The face of the clock is mottled. The hands point to 3 and 12 but are unmoving behind their glass frame. The wooden pediment is split like wings. I open the clock door and unhook the pendulum — an elaborate piece of metal work with floral ornamentation. I wrap the pendulum and clock key separately and place them aside as I tailor pieces of tissue paper to cushion the edges of the clock. Once the clock is sufficiently encased, I reattach the internal components to the outer layer of the tissue. As I prepare to wrap the clock in its final layer, it began to chime. The alarm ringing through the teachers house asserting the continuing impact of the past. It was alarming. The signal stayed with me once the chime ceased, its presence affecting those who were near, as it had done in the past. Ears ringing with the sound. I am not a horologist, so I can not claim to understand the workings of timekeeping technology. Instead of analysing or dissecting, I listened. It seemed like a moment of object agency. The time had come for the clock to be packed away and moved into storage,
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