The sign

They took the glass door off the clock case. Ada wrapped it in an old tea towel while Mara held the hinge pins. Two different lengths. She put them in an envelope and wrote on it where the short one belonged.

‘If you ever want it running again,’ Ada began.

‘I don't.’

Her mother tucked in a corner of the towel.

‘I never liked it,’ Mara said. ‘At the market it seemed such a good idea. Eighty euros for something other people charge three hundred for. I kept saying that.’

‘You were very sure you wanted it.’

‘Yes.’

Ada put the wrapped door on the counter. ‘I've kept it all this time.’

‘I know.’

They both needed a drink, though the coffee was finished. Mara filled two glasses at the tap.

‘I'll take it to the second-hand place,’ she said. ‘With the movement. They can decide what to do.’

Ada nodded, but still ran a soft cloth over the top. The case would only fit in the car with the back seats folded. Mara brought the car to the door, and they slid it in together. Her mother went to put the box of parts beside it. Mara pointed to the floor behind the passenger seat. Ada put it there instead. Mara laid the wrapped door on the passenger seat and tucked the envelope of hinge pins into the box.

Back inside, the customer's chair was empty. A round dent remained in the upholstery. Mara sat on it while Ada carried the ladder outside again.

‘The sign isn't finished.’

‘I can put a note up for now.’

‘Have you got a smaller brush?’

Ada opened a drawer. Beneath a tape measure lay a fine brush with dried blue paint on the handle. Mara tested the bristles against her thumb. She pencilled the letters first. With so little room between the border and the other days, she wrote only CLOSED.

At the O, the doorbell rang. A man carrying a wall clock asked whether Ada could have a quick listen. He was already setting it on the counter.

‘I'm back tomorrow,’ Ada said.

‘Just a little noise. It runs perfectly well.’

Ada wiped her hands on her apron. ‘From nine.’

The man looked at Mara, her brush suspended above the sign. She returned to the unfinished letter. After a moment, he picked up his clock.

At five to twelve, the driving-school car stopped a few doors down. Ada took off her apron. There was a dark smear near the pocket of her blouse. Mara almost reached out to rub it away.

‘Is it paint?’ Ada asked.

‘Oil, I think.’

‘That'll do, then.’

Mara stayed in the doorway as her mother walked to the car. Ada adjusted the seat, then the mirror. It took longer than Mara expected. A delivery van pulled up behind them. Its driver tapped two fingers against his steering wheel. Ada checked over her shoulder once more.

Only after the car had gone did Mara hang the sign on its two screws. The letters were still wet. She pulled the shop door shut and tried the handle. Her mother hadn't given her a key.