The Bells of Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

  Fancy that, she thought, as she signed the last of the documents.

  She left the solicitor’s office and made her way down the stairs and exited into the side-return between the bakery and the card shop. She walked down the alley into the street and immediately turned into the bakers.

  ‘Three chocolate éclairs,’ she said to the shop assistant, ‘and three almond slices.’ She’d treat Amy and her grandson Ashley to a slap-up tea later today by way of a celebration.

  *

  Bex finished helping Olivia and walked down the hill to her own home. Her hands were grimy with newsprint from helping wrap up Olivia’s best dinner service and dozens of glasses in paper and bubble wrap prior to stacking it all in packing cases.

  ‘Not that I’ll ever need sixteen of everything again,’ Olivia had said sadly as they worked. ‘We’ll be pushed to squeeze all six of us around the sort of table that’ll fit into my new kitchen-diner – loathsome phrase that that is. And when the children get married and have their own families…’ She sighed. ‘No way will we be able to have them to stay and have the big family Christmases I’d planned. Still, water under the bridge.’

  Bex had nodded and wrapped up another couple of veg dishes in silence.

  ‘At least you haven’t said anything like “things might have been worse”,’ added Olivia.

  Bex hadn’t admitted that she almost had but she’d stopped herself because she couldn’t think how things could be much worse for her friend – death and disease excepted. Poor Olivia, she thought as she let herself into her own house. Moving from The Grange to Beeching Rise was going to be such a comedown. Worse was the fact that there were those in the town who would get a kick out of the schadenfreude Olivia’s changed circumstances would bring. Tongues had wagged enough when her house went on the market but, if the talk in the pub was anything to go by, most inhabitants had assumed she was going to be moving into something even bigger and swankier. When they realised she was on the new estate in a modest three-bed house the gossips were going to have a field day.

  Bex washed her hands and ran a comb through her hair, checked she looked clean and tidy then pottered next door to the pub. She banged on the door to be let in.

  ‘Hello, Belinda.’

  ‘Bex. Right on time as always. It’ll be so good to be working with you again. The students were fine—’ Belinda stopped, mid-sentence.

  ‘But?’

  ‘—but they weren’t you. No attention to detail, no spotting things that needed seeing to before it all happened. I was forever chasing my tail with them – reminding them to bottle up, clean the tables, refill the salts and peppers…’ Belinda sighed. ‘But it’s all better now you’re back.’

  ‘Well, that’s some welcome,’ said Bex, grinning. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated.’ She slipped off her cardigan and made her way to the bar. ‘After six weeks with the kids I’ve been feeling increasingly taken for granted.’

  ‘Oh dear, that sounds a bit heartfelt.’

  ‘Not really but when the weather was rubbish or if I hadn’t made plans to fill every waking moment of every day then I was deemed to be a bit of a failure. I think mothers should be issued with magic wands.’

  ‘Never mind, they’re back at school now.’

  Bex nodded happily and began looking at the shelves. ‘Bottling up first?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The kitchen door opened and Miles poked his head round it. ‘I thought I heard your voice. Welcome back – we’ve missed you.’ His very blue eyes crinkled up in genuine delight at seeing her.

  He had, thought Bex, and not for the first time, such a nice friendly face. No one could help but like him. And considering he worked with food, all day and every day, he was in remarkably good shape for someone of forty.

  ‘You make me sound,’ she said, ‘as if I’ve been up the Amazon not in the house next door, nor that you’ve been popping in and out a couple of times a week.’

  ‘That’s different. You haven’t been here.’

  ‘Stop it, you two. Or my head will get too big to go through this door,’ she said as she opened the door to the cellar and switched on the light. She pattered down the steps and reappeared with a tray of tomato juices which she dumped on the bar before she retraced her steps, this time to bring up a load of bitter lemons. With practised skill she ripped off the shrink wrap and, grabbing a couple of bottles in each hand, began stacking them on the shelf under the bar. As she worked Belinda cleaned down the tables and Miles disappeared back into the kitchen from where came the sound of him humming a happy tune.

  Five minutes later Belinda opened the door to the pub and five minutes after that in came one of the regulars.

  ‘Hello, Bex. Decided to come back to us, have you?’ said Harry.

  ‘I only took the summer off because of the school holidays. The usual?’

  Harry nodded and Bex took a glass off the shelf and began to pull him a pint of best bitter.

  ‘’Tweren’t the same without ’ee. Them students are all too busy on their phones and screens. They weren’t interested in talking to us old ’uns.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ No, well, she couldn’t see that twenty-somethings would take the same interest in the whitefly epidemic on the allotments or the cricket club tea-rota. She filled the glass to the brim and handed over the pint. ‘Three sixty.’ Harry gave her the correct money and Bex rang it up.

  ‘Do you remember,’ said Harry taking a slurp and then wiping his top lip with the back of his hand, ‘when you started here?’ He chuckled. ‘You made a rare old hash of things for a while.’

  Thank you, Harry, for reminding me of how bad I was, thought Bex. But she smiled at him benignly.

  ‘You’re quite the pro now, ain’t you?’

  ‘If you mean I can ring up a sale without making a complete idiot of myself then, yes, I am.’

  Bert came in. ‘I suppose I’d better buy him a drink and all,’ said Harry.

  ‘After the morning I’ve had,’ said Bert, ‘I reckon I deserve it. Pint please, m’dear.’

  ‘What’s up?’ said Harry as Bex pulled the pint.

  ‘Had to go up the belfry with the Reverend.’

  ‘Ain’t that part and parcel of being churchwarden?’

  ‘’Tis, but I ain’t getting any younger. Them steps are a right bugger. Anyway, at the top we found we’ve got dodgy joints.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be seeing old Doc Connolly about that?’ Harry hooted at his own joke.

  Bert gave Harry a hard stare. ‘’T’ain’t no laughing matter. Pete the steeple keeper says we can’t have no bells and the Reverend agrees with him.’

  ‘No bells. None!’

  ‘Not a one. Not till we’ve got them fixed at any rate.’

  ‘But what about on Sundays?’ said Harry.

  ‘Just got to hope the faithful can find their way to the church without ’em. But it’s a bad do,’ grumbled Bert. ‘A bad do.’

  Chapter 3

  Heather stared at her laptop screen as she ate her cheese and tomato sandwich at the kitchen table. She’d Googled the question ‘Problems with church bells’ and had been rewarded with a plethora of sites, many of which, she was discovering, seemed to be concerned with how members of the public could complain about the noise. She scrolled down the page to find something more appropriate. She clicked on a link and took another bite of her sandwich as it loaded. She quickly read the salient points.

  ‘There’s this,’ she said, swivelling the computer around so Brian could see the screen too.

  He scanned the website that she was showing him. ‘Still nothing about grants or handouts for church bells and a lot about fundraising,’ he said morosely.

  Heather nodded as she chewed and swallowed. ‘I think we’re going to have to face the fact that we might have to raise the money ourselves.’ She sighed. ‘It’s that or give up with the bells full stop.’

  Brian thought about the two options. ‘Let’s face it, these days there are many caus
es more worthy of funds than sorting out half a dozen big lumps of metal. Just think about the people at the food bank in Cattebury each day, the homeless, the underprivileged… and that’s before we get onto what’s happening abroad – disaster victims, refugees, orphans…’ He looked at his wife and ran his fingers through his increasingly sparse hair. ‘Can we really justify asking people to raise thousands for such a cause when there’s so much misery around?’

  Heather shrugged. ‘Have we any idea what it’s going to cost?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘I spoke to someone at the bishop’s office who gave me the number of a specialist. They’re going to send out an advisor to come and inspect the bells and tell me quite how bad it is.’

  ‘So we don’t know for certain that this is really serious.’

  Brian raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you want to think that you’re welcome, but I know what Bert and I saw… and it’s not looking good. And let’s face it, Pete knows what he’s talking about and if he thinks it’s bad, it probably is.’

  Heather sagged back in her chair. ‘We’re going to have to raise thousands, aren’t we?’

  Brian remained silent for a second or two. ‘I think,’ he said gently, ‘it’s going to be more like tens of thousands – maybe a hundred.’

  Heather gazed at him in horror. ‘I don’t know I’ve got the energy for this any more,’ she said. ‘The very thought is making me feel exhausted.’

  ‘And I need to tell the PCC,’ said Brian. ‘This isn’t the sort of thing for a unilateral decision from me. I’ll send an email to everyone and see if we can’t get together sooner rather than later.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Heather, ‘I think you’d better pray that the bell-frame problem isn’t as bad as you think it is.’

  *

  After lunch Heather left her house, walked past the cricket pitch to the main road and then up the hill to Olivia’s house. She knew she couldn’t possibly ask Olivia to help with any fundraising – not if the worst came to the worst and the bells were going to cost as much as Brian feared – no, that wouldn’t be fair, given what her friend was coping with… but she could pick her brains for ideas. She’d had some thoughts herself – no one who had been a vicar’s wife for the best part of thirty years was going to be a stranger to fundraising – but mostly the sums she’d been faced with finding had been a few thousand at the most. Tens of thousands, maybe a hundred thou… that was in a different league.

  Puffing slightly from her brisk walk up the incline Heather turned onto Olivia’s drive and walked over the gravel to the front door. She pressed the bell firmly.

  Olivia opened it after a pause of a few seconds.

  ‘Heather, how lovely. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I came to see if I could do anything to help, in exchange for a few of your brain cells.’

  Olivia snorted. ‘If you can find any live ones you’re welcome to them. Honestly, I have never felt more brain-dead in my life. There is nothing so mind-numbingly boring as packing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Heather, as she stepped over the threshold, ‘you obviously haven’t taken the minutes at PCC meetings, have you?’

  Olivia laughed. ‘Well, if the parochial church council is as dull as the town council…’

  ‘Duller,’ said Heather. ‘It has to be. At least the town council involves proper politics, not church politics.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Tea? I was going to put the kettle on.’

  ‘Love one.’ Heather looked at the organised chaos, the piles of boxes, the tape, scissors and packing materials set out tidily on the dining table. Then at the full boxes, the empty shelves… ‘You’ve done an awful lot. When are you actually moving?’

  ‘The weekend after next. Nigel’s hired a van and the kids are all coming to help. Mike, Zac and Nigel should be able to manage all the heavy stuff and Tamsin, Jade and I will sort things out at the other end.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Olivia nodded and filled the kettle. ‘It will be if I can ditch all the things we don’t need or won’t have room for before the big day.’ She plugged it in and leaned against the worktop. ‘But that’s a big if. Having all the kids around for a couple of days will be lovely – even if we’re going to be in the throes of a house move. Anyway,’ she said, trying to sound cheery, ‘enough of that. What did you want to pick my brains about?’

  ‘Fundraising.’ Heather held up her hand. ‘Not that I expect you to do anything – you’ve far too much on your plate – but I’m after some ideas.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’ Olivia got out the tea caddy and the teapot and Heather smiled to herself. In amongst all the upheaval Olivia still wasn’t reduced to mashing a teabag in a mug. ‘So what’s the cause?’

  Heather outlined the problem as the kettle boiled and Olivia made the tea.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Olivia as Heather fell silent. ‘That’s going to be expensive.’

  ‘Very. Well, if it’s as bad as Brian thinks… And, let’s face it, he’s not generally given to exaggeration.’

  Olivia passed Heather a mug and offered her the milk. ‘Let’s go and sit down.’ As she moved away from the counter she picked up a notebook and pencil and turned to a clean page.

  ‘Right,’ she said as she sat down. ‘Jumble sales, coffee mornings, a two-hundred club with a weekly draw…’ She jotted down her ideas as she spoke. ‘Cake sales…’ She paused and tapped her teeth with the pencil. ‘It’s a bugger it’s autumn otherwise I’d suggest treasure hunts and barbecues.’

  ‘Put ’em down,’ said Heather. ‘I can’t see this being over and done with this side of next year. I’ve a horrid feeling it’s going to be like the Great War; everyone said it’ll all be over by Christmas but no one said which one.’

  ‘Do you think it’d be worth getting some merchandise in? Mugs? T-shirts?’

  Heather considered the option. ‘The trouble is we’d be spending money in the hope of making money… and we may not. Supposing no one wants a Save Little Woodford’s Bells mug.’

  ‘Good point – but we can think about that if the campaign gets some momentum. What about sponsorship?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You know – a buy-a-brick scheme or, in this case, buy-a-bell. There must be some filthy rich people round here who’d like to have their name associated with a good cause.’ Olivia put the pencil down. ‘Earlier this year I’d have suggested tapping up Nigel for a fat donation. Heigh-ho.’

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  ‘Right,’ said Heather, putting her mug on the table. ‘I’ve picked your brains, now it’s time for me to roll up my sleeves and help. What would you like me to do? We can see if we can’t brainstorm some more ideas as we work.’

  ‘I’ve got a whole load of clothes upstairs that I can’t see me wearing again. I’ve shoved them in the spare room but I need to sort them into the ones that I can take to that posh second-hand dress shop which might be able to sell some for me, and the ones that are only fit for Oxfam. I could do with a second opinion and then someone to hold open the bin bags for the Oxfam ones.’

  Heather picked up her mug and got to her feet with alacrity. Despite being a good friend of Olivia’s, she’d never seen the spare room that, she’d heard from Amy, was monstrous. ‘Lead on.’

  The spare room was, indeed, vast, made to look bigger with a huge wall of mirrored doors on a built-in wardrobe.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Heather, as she took in the door that led to the en suite and the large picture window with views across the open countryside. She reckoned she could have fitted the whole upstairs of the vicarage into this space. No wonder Olivia was struggling with downsizing.

  On the back of the bathroom door Olivia had hung some seriously swanky and expensive-looking dresses. Even with a cursory glance Heather spotted a beaded cocktail dress and a long ballgown. She went over to examine them more closely and rifled through the hangers. There were some beautiful fabrics and – oh l
ook – some labels with names that even she, a vicar’s wife, recognised.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘Where on earth do you go wearing frocks like these?’ She hoped she sounded casually interested not green with envy.

  ‘Golf club ball, the Lord Lieutenant’s Christmas party, that sort of thing. But Nigel has resigned from the golf club and I doubt if we’ll get another invitation to Ashbury Manor. I can’t see the others at Gamblers Anonymous throwing the kind of parties that’ll need a posh frock.’

  She detected a note of bitterness in Olivia’s voice. Not totally surprisingly, thought Heather. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Shall we make a start?’ Olivia pushed back one of the sliding mirrored doors and revealed a rack of smart suits, coats and day-dresses. She picked out the first outfit. ‘Sell or Oxfam?’

  ‘Sell,’ said Heather. ‘Still very smart and looks almost new. I’d pay good money for it.’

  ‘Would you like it... as a gift?’

  For a second Heather was seriously tempted but she knew the suit was a favourite of Olivia’s and others in the town would recognise it. Her pride stopped her from accepting it, aware that everyone would know it was a cast-off. ‘You’re very kind but I couldn’t. Besides, you’re a size smaller than me, at least,’ she lied, to make her refusal sound more plausible.

  Olivia laid it on the bed. ‘OK. And this?’ She picked out another suit.

  How many suits did one woman need? Heather had two; a winter one and a lighter one for summer – both ancient. Heather considered the one Olivia was holding up. ‘Maybe a bit dated?’ Which it was, but not as bad as her own ones.

  ‘Oxfam, then.’ Olivia took it off the hanger and folded it while Heather shook open a black plastic bag and the pair shoved the skirt and jacket in.

  ‘And this…?’

  And so it went on until there was a pile of about another twenty items to go to the second-hand shop, six binbags full of other clothes and the wardrobe stood empty.