Well, I am sort of back. Managed this, anyway.
Chapter 8 – Through the Valley
of the Shadow of Death
Joe Taylor, the man from the bell
foundry had suggested recasting the smallest bell as cheaper than repairing it.
“By the time I’ve sorted that
treble out, it’ll run to the price of a new bell,” he said. “T’others ... well I can make an
improvement.”
“Anything is better than ‘dung
clang pip’,” said Chaz, dryly.
“If you were looking to increase
your range, we’ve a bell at the foundry as would fit in with your three, which
was ordered and then they couldn’t raise the wind,” said Taylor. “We could let
you have it for five thousand on top of the six to fix yours; I’ll talk to the
boss, see if we can do you ten grand all in.”
“That I could manage,” said
Chaz. “It would give us plain bob
minimus to ring, at least.”
“That’s what I thought,” said the
bell founder. “One or two bells call to worship, three bells is neither flesh
nor fowl nor good red herring. You want
five, really.”
“I know, but that will have to
wait,” said Chaz. “I also need
bell-ringers.”
“Old Tom rings,” said the foundry
man. “If he’s still alive.”
“He’s still alive,” said Chaz.
“You know our bells?”
“Yes, the previous vicar wanted
us to fix one of them but the price was too steep,” said the foundry man
cynically.
“I suppose we can’t all have
independent means and a frugal lifestyle,” said Chaz. “Bellringing has always
been a hobby of mine, and to be honest, I can think of plenty of sports which
would cost more in the long run. And
once you have the bells, you have the long run.”
“Well, o’ course when you start
getting the larger bells, it’ll be a pretty penny, but then, a new car’d set
you back more’n a couple of bells,” said the foundry man. “Or a good set of clubs and membership at a
prestigious golf club.”
“Indeed,” said Chaz. “Are you good to dismount and take them away
to work on? They are not especially large.”
“Well, I have the boy with me, so
we should do just fine,” said the man. “Hello, you have company.”
Mrs. Hadley had just barrelled in
the door.
“Vicar! Tell me it isn’t true!”
she cried.
“Tell you what isn’t true?” asked
Chaz.
“That you are having the bells
taken away, and replacing them with electronic bells!” cried Mrs. Hadley. “ I saw
the ‘Nine Taylors’ truck. [1]My
dear grandfather bought the tenor bell, I couldn’t bear it if you did not keep
them!” she struck a dramatic attitude.
“You silly piece, the vicar is
paying out of his own pocket to have them tuned, and to add another bell,” said
Taylor. “You don’t think a campanologist like the Reverend Cunningham would
give up having bells do you? He’s been
part of a prize-winning team he has.”
“He has? But then why haven’t you been ringing the
bells?” Mrs. Hadley turned to Chaz.
“Madam, no musician would like
playing an ill-tuned piano and an artist does not enjoy painting with lumpy
playschool powder paint,” said Chaz. “The bells offended my sensibilities. I am rectifying the problems, and adding a
bell so we can ring some basic changes. Of
course, if you wish to emulate your illustrious grandsire, and add a fifth bell,
we can celebrate him with Grandsire Doubles.
Five bells gives us a lot more choice then Hunting and Plain Bob
Minimus. Stedman described nine cross-peals on five bells, and I am partial to
Stedman doubles.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about
it,” said Mrs. Hadley, “But I always felt that it was something to remember him
by. My grandparents brought me up.”
Chaz thought that this explained
a lot.
“Well, ma’am, Joe here will have
your grandfather’s bell sorted out in no time.
I saw it had ‘Big Will’ on it; was that his name?”
“Yes, and he was a ringer,” said
Mrs. Hadley, proudly.
“Aye, but he was a cheapskate,
which is why ‘Big Willy’ is a bit more of a ‘Big Dick’,” said Taylor.
“Joe!” said Chaz.
The foundry-man had the grace to
blush.
“Oh, no, Mr. Taylor, his name was
William, not Richard, and it was always Will, not Willy,” assured Mrs. Hadley,
who missed the coarseness entirely, to Chaz’s relief. A co-operative Mrs.
Hadley was easier to deal with than an upset Mrs. Hadley. “I ... I believe I might consider adding a
bell; but not yet, I ... there is no point if there is no interest in ringing.”
“Indeed, as I won’t be able to
ring on a Sunday,” said Chaz. “Unless I
get a locum in start things off.”
“I can’t see that being a
problem,” said Mrs. Hadley. “The churchwardens could announce a text and the
opening hymn. I am a churchwarden so I
think I speak for all.”
“Oh! And speaking of which, Mrs.
Hadley, do you have the key to the little vestibule to the ringing room?” asked
Chaz. “I tried to get into there to see
if there were things like new ropes, but it was locked and did not respond to
any of my keys.”
“Yes, indeed; I will go and get
my keys,” said Mrs. Hadley. “Dear me, I disremember when it was last open. I believe it was locked up by Amos Barrow
before he absconded, a piece of sheer spite, if you ask me, a disobliging old
man who lived alone and kept everyone at arms’ length.”
Mrs. Hadley soon returned with a
chatelaine of keys, and a disapproving look on her face at the youngest Taylor,
who wore slit jeans, a Khorne T-shirt and whose ears and eyebrows sported a
number of rings and other metalwork.
Introduced as ‘my boy Josh’ by
Mr. Taylor, he was grinning shyly at Chaz’s jocular comment that he had enough
eyebrow rings to hang a ring of seven.
“You couldn’t make them have the
right sound,” said Josh.
“No, and right is right,” agreed
Chaz.
Mrs. Hadley at least waited until
Josh had vanished up the stair before saying,
“Should you encourage such
monstrous fashions, vicar?”
“Certainly; he’ll grow out of
it,” said Chaz. “I grew out of wearing a safety pin through my nose to irritate
my father, and I expect you grew out of seeing how short a skirt you could get
away with by leaning forward when they measured the distance from the ground as
you kneeled for that purpose at school.”
“Reverend! However did you know?
Dear me, I have not thought of such rebellion for years!” said Mrs. Hadley,
flustered. “I used to wear the skirt
Grandma sent me off to school in over my mini skirt, and took it off in the
bus.”
“All generations rebel,” said
Chaz. “And the more older folk complain,
the more they rebel. I wager that
Shakespeare’s father hit the roof when young Will first started wearing an
earring.”
“Dear me, I ... I had not thought of that,” said Mrs.
Hadley. “This is the key ... dear me, it
does not seem to be going in.”
“May I?” said Chaz. She gave him the chatelaine, and Chaz tried.
“What can be wrong?” she
wondered, petulantly.
“You say this Amos Barrow
disappeared?” said Chaz.
“Yes, without a word to anyone,”
said Mrs. Hadley.
Chaz got out his mobile phone and
punched in the number of Collingham
police station.
“Superintendant Smythe? This is Chaz Cunningham, vicar of Lingley,” said Chaz. “Now I could be wrong, but I think I might
have a DB in my church ... one which is irregular as you might say. Eh?
Oh, a locked room, locked from the inside with the key still in it. Well,
before my time ... a moment.” He cupped his hand over the phone. “Mrs. Hadley, when did Barrow disappear?”
“Goodness! It must be ... nearly forty years ago,” said
Mrs. Hadley. “Yes, I was in my teens.”
“Forty years, superintendant,”
said Chaz. “Yes, I know; I understand he
was believed to have absconded. No, the
previous vicar left no intimation that he was concerned; I doubt he would have
entered the little room in any case, it’s little more than a cupboard. Thank you, I appreciate that.” He rang off.
“What is it, vicar? Why did you
phone the police?” asked Mrs. Hadley.
“Well, Mrs. Hadley, this is the
only door to that room, isn’t it?” said Chaz.
“Yes, it’s no more than a glory
hole for keeping spare ropes in,” said Mrs. Hadley.
“And it is locked on the inside,
with the key still in the lock,” said Chaz.
Colour drained from Mrs. Hadley’s
face as the implication of this hit her.
“So ... you mean the poor man got
shut in and could not make anyone hear?” she whispered.
“Whatever happened, I think he’s
still in there, not absconded at all,” said Chaz. “No spite, just ...
circumstance.”
Mrs. Hadley fainted.
The police have tools for turning
keys on the other sides of locks, amongst their many tools which would get any
other member of the public arrested for carrying tools for breaking and
entering. Pete Noakes and Timothy
Cotton, who were assigned to the village, soon had the door open.
Mrs. Hadley was by now resting on
a chaise longue in the vestry with a nice cup of tea, and Chaz raised an
eyebrow.
“Suicide,” said Pete. “There’s a
note and all; he hanged himself with a bell-ringing rope over one of the
beams. Chair kicked over, classic.”
“May I enquire what, in broad,
the note said?” asked Chaz.
“Basically that nobody cared,
that he was dying of cancer but nobody passed the time of day with him to ask
how he was feeling, and that he believed it would be Christmas before anyone
missed him and found the body. It was dated September, almost exactly 40 years
ago.”
Chaz whistled.
“I think I need to do a sermon on
loneliness,” he said.
“I’ve got two pop songs for the
congregation today,” said Chaz in church.
“First one, I suspect most of the older members will know; and I wonder
if some of the younger ones will know the second. I’ve hired a big screen to show the official
video for it.”
The first track he played was by
the Beatles, “Eleanor Rigby.”
“That spells it out, without
equivocation, what it is like to be lonely; especially poor, old and lonely,”
said Chaz. “That was in 1966. Do you think things have got better, or
worse? Please watch the video and then
think about it.”
He played ‘Numb’ by Linkin’ Park.
“This is the oldest video next to
‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ to break one million views on YouTube. It was released in
2003,” Chaz told the congregation. “You
don’t have to be old or even particularly poor to feel alone, isolated,
alienated. It can happen to anyone who
finds themselves feeling at odds with what is perceived as the mainstream. It happened to Amos Barrow, who was forty.
That’s not old, though some of you old enough to recall him may describe him as
old, because he was a loner, irascible, and not able to reach out. As most of you doubtless know, Amos’ body was
found here in the church, where he came, first to pray and then to commit
suicide. He had cancer. Nobody knew because nobody ever asked him how he was,
despite the fact that he was a churchwarden and a bellringer. Not even the vicar. Now, Reverent Shaw was a young man then, and
new in the district and perhaps he felt a little shy. Many of the folks here were only children and
perhaps felt that it would be an intrusion.
But now you are the adults, and other generations have grown up. And I want you to ask yourselves, have you
ever shunned anyone because they were a bit different? I know that Maggie Beales has welcomed Annie
Shaw into her flower arranging class.
Annie suffers from Down’s Syndrome, and Annie, I love this bright
arrangement you have made for me out of Dahlias.”
Annie crowed happily from the
congregation, and signed her thanks in Makaton.
Chaz smiled back. Maggie had introduced him to Annie, saying
that the W.I. had not permitted Annie to come along, meaning that her mother
was unable to join the W.I.
“Annie understands that her
flower arrangements praise God,” said Chaz.
“That makes her a better Christian than those who exclude her and her
mother from activities. Fortunately
Annie knows she has friends, and is not lonely; but she might be in the
future. And how much support does Mrs.
Shaw have? How many of you drop in to
give her an hour to herself by sitting with Annie? It’s more than it was a week or two ago. But why did I have to ask some of the more
generous souls who did not know the Shaws? Why weren’t there offers from those
people who live nearer?” He swept the congregation with a stern eye. “Being
different is not something to be punished by being ostracised. Being different is a blessing; a unique gift.
Our Saviour was ‘different’. He did not
toe the line, nor do what society wanted of Him. He went out onto the highways and byeways to
preach and to teach. He healed the
sick. He questioned the Old Testament’s
harsh laws. He did not despise publicans
and sinners, and nor did he despise the men of Samaria. You all know the story of the Good Samaritan,
but none of you apply it in real life!” he was thundering now, eyes
blazing. “You look on a kid with
piercings, or on a refugee from another country, and you treat them the same
way as the Jews treated the men of Samaria, and if you receive any blessings
from them, then you treat them like a dancing dog, a spectacle to be wondered
at like a token single good
Samaritan! Now we have the odd recluse
in the village, and I have not butted in before because I wanted to see what
the village does for its own. And I
discover that what it does is nothing!”
“Please, Rev. Chaz, I talk to the
man in Rose Cottage!” Piped up Summer Grey.
Chaz smiled at her.
“Of course you do, Summer; you
are a breath of fresh air. Does he talk
to you?”
“Well, sometimes,” said
Summer. “He doesn’t tell me to and find
something else to do like he used to.”
“Excellent,” said Chaz. “I did knock on his door but he didn’t feel
like opening it. You might tell him I
don’t bite and that I make good biscuits.”
Summer nodded solemnly.
“I shall,” she said.
“And there we have a little child
leading us all,” said Chaz. “Children have no preconceptions; they learn those
from their parents as they grow older. I
would love to see the children of today growing up without preconceptions about
other village folk who are not quite the same.
Which does not mean not warning them about dangerous people; but then,
if you know someone is dangerous, you should be telling the police to go visit
instead of telling your children to stay away.”
[1] There is
a Bell Foundry called Tailors, whom I am referencing; they fixed the ring of
five Wolsey bells in one of my local churches which now ring sweet and
clear. Nine Taylors, as anyone who reads
Lord Peter Whimsey will know, refers to the nine tolls to mark the passing of a
man. [6 for a woman, 3 for a child].
