A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  Soon they were playing crib and drinking and chatting, almost as if they were friends. Violet had noticed that when men met they often did something – played cards or darts or did the crossword together. It made conversation flow more easily because they didn’t focus as intently on each other as women sometimes did. It was what had made embroidery sessions for the Cathedral pleasurable.

  Over the course of the evening, during their games they talked about things they had in common: Gilda (“a grand girl”), the workings of the Cathedral, local elections. She was pleased that Arthur assumed she would vote; her mother had never voted since she got the right in 1918, and that made Violet diligent about exercising her own right once she gained it. She told him about transferring to the job in Winchester, and Arthur said she had been lucky, that the town was well-off enough to be less affected by the depressed economy. He talked for a time about unemployment in Britain, on the Continent, in America, and what it would take to shift things. “Germany,” he concluded. “That is where the pressure is most concerning, particularly with the rise of the Nazi Party. Winston Churchill has expressed unease, and I rate him.”

  “He is not in the Cabinet, though, is he?” Violet offered this remark up timidly, for she did not discuss politics with others much, and worried that she was simply repeating what she could recall from the wireless and the occasional newspaper article.

  “That does not mean he is not perceptive. Sometimes backbenchers are more sensible, because they don’t have to answer to the Cabinet and the Prime Minister. They can say what they really think.”

  Violet cleared her throat; she was scoring. “Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six and a pair royale makes twelve.” She did not really want to talk about Germany; it was still too painful to think about the country responsible for ruining her past. But she was thrilled that Arthur thought her clever enough to talk to about what was going on in the world. So many men assumed otherwise, even Tom and her father.

  Gradually Arthur revealed more personal details: that he had two grandsons he had never met in Australia. That he was a surveyor but had recently taken early retirement. That he rang bells at the village church as well as at the Cathedral, cycling from one to the other on Sundays. “I’ll be taking the service ring tomorrow morning,” he added. “You may hear them as you walk. Now, whose box is it?”

  What she did not find out, because she did not ask and he did not offer, was anything about his wife. It was not that he left her out – he said “we” had lived in Nether Wallop for thirteen years. But he gave no specifics – not her name, nor what she was doing now that meant she did not join them at the pub, nor what she thought of Nether Wallop and whether she missed Winchester. Arthur spoke about concrete things, and did not reveal much about what he felt.

  When she’d seen Arthur’s wife with her unkempt grey hair and her eyes closed against the sun, Violet had immediately known that something was amiss, though she could not have said what it was, either physical or mental. She had given off the impression of hidden damage, of a pot finely cracked that you could still use but must handle carefully or it might break apart in your hands. Violet suspected Arthur was good at careful handling, the precision required for his job as a surveyor making him an expert at measuring and keeping track of things. But she sensed somewhere a crack in him too, probably from the War; most cracks these days were.

  It’s over and we don’t have to go through such a thing again, Violet reminded herself while Arthur was off at the Gents’. She was slightly tipsy from her second half of mild.

  She was pleased that he also asked her questions. With her sherry men she had spent many evenings listening to them and realising at the end that they knew nothing of her apart from a brief physical sensation. But Arthur wanted to know more about what brought her to Winchester and where she worked and how she came to be involved with the broderers. It was hard to avoid the “why” of her move to Winchester, and she found herself telling him about her father’s death, and the difficulty of continuing to live with her mother. That led back to the death of her brother, with a quick skirt over the death of her fiancé. Arthur nodded but did not probe. “Your mother is heartbroken over the loss of her son,” he said with such quiet authority that Violet understood he was speaking of his wife too, and of himself, and of the cracks that are never mended.

  “Yes,” she said. “But she needn’t take it out on me and Tom. We’re still here.” She knew she sounded petulant but she couldn’t help it. “Tom fought in the War too. She should be glad he survived, and show it.”

  Arthur was silent for a moment. “It is perhaps difficult to understand if you have not had children yourself. The biological imperative of the parent is to protect the child, and when that is impossible it feels like a failure, whatever the circumstances. It is a complicated feeling to live with for the rest of your life.”

  “Are you – living with that feeling?”

  “Yes. We lost our son.”

  “I am so very sorry.” Her words felt as dry as paper, even though she meant them.

  “Yes.”

  They had been talking earnestly, their game suspended, their heads bent towards each other. As Arthur leaned back, turned over a jack and declared, “Two for his heels,” Violet looked up and caught sight of the man she’d encountered in the corn. He was standing at the edge of the men drinking at the bar, holding a glass that was three-quarters drunk – so he had been there some time – and watching her. Violet started, knocking over her own glass so that the last of her mild spilled over the cribbage cards. “Oh!”

  Arthur was the sort of man who had a handkerchief for every spill. He had clearly seen something in her face, though, for even as he pulled one out from his pocket – similar to the handkerchief of his she still had, with his initials embroidered in one corner – he looked around, scanning the crowd at the bar. Then he turned back to the table and began mopping up the beer. Here was the moment when she could give him back his first handkerchief, and apologise for accidentally taking it. But she did not.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your cards are ruined.”

  “These cards have had plenty of beer spilled on them over the years. I’m not worried about them. Was it the man with the longish hair who startled you?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Only by sight. He drinks here sometimes. He doesn’t live in the village.”

  “He – I ran into him in a field down near Horsebridge. It was—” Violet was not sure how to describe what had happened.

  “He frightened you?”

  “Yes.”

  Arthur looked at her, waiting.

  “It’s not easy being a woman on your own,” Violet explained after a moment. “No one expects it, though there are plenty of us. The ‘surplus’ women. One would think it would not be such a surprise to see a woman walk through a field, or have a cup of tea at a pub.”

  Arthur gazed at her, his crystal blue eyes sober. “I’ll find out who he is. And if you can wait until after I ring the bells tomorrow morning, I will walk with you some of the way to Salisbury.”

  “That is kind of you to offer. But aren’t you expected elsewhere?” She was imagining a roast dinner, his wife passing him the gravy boat.

  “Nothing I can’t change.”

  Violet glanced over at the corn man, but he was gone, his empty glass still flecked with foam. He had done his disappearing act again.

  “Then yes, please,” she said. “I would like that very much.”

  Chapter 11

  VIOLET HADN’T TOLD ARTHUR, but she had not visited the church during her wander around Nether Wallop. After such an eventful day – the long walk, the man in the cornfield, the surprise of running into Arthur – she had not felt equipped to tackle the memories of a place so connected to her late brother and father. Indeed, she wondered why she’d ever thought it a good idea to revisit. In the past she had been careful not to go to the dances, the clubs, the fields and villages she’d been to
with Laurence.

  However, it was easier to go to the church with a purpose: she was meeting Arthur. They had confided in each other in the pub, and she knew him better now. After serving her a substantial breakfast of eggs and beans, sausage and fried bread, the publican handed her a doorstop of bread, a slice of ham and a wedge of cheese for lunch, made without her even asking. When she shyly showed him her Thermos, he asked, “Coffee or tea?” and filled it for her. Then Violet paid the bill, swung her rucksack onto her back and waved goodbye to him, grateful for his silent kindnesses.

  It was another warm, still day. There were clouds in the distance, but with so little wind they hardly moved. As she walked past the post office, Violet sighed. She had blisters on both little toes, her calves ached and her walking dress was scratchy with dried sweat. It was sobering to imagine three more mornings where she would have to get up and walk from Salisbury down through the New Forest to the ferry for the Isle of Wight. She had thought of herself as reasonably fit and full of stamina, but walking long distances was a surprisingly tiring business.

  Then the bells began to ring the familiar descending scale she had heard from bell towers all her life, and the sound was like a magnet drawing her to the church. It was set on a small slope on the southern edge of the village, and as she approached, Violet’s stomach clenched as she remembered George. But seeing it wasn’t as bad as she had expected. A compact Anglo-Saxon stone building with a short square tower, it had been altered a bit by the Victorians, added to and taken away from. Though solid and handsome enough, it was not that different from other country churches she’d seen. Its only quirk was the stone pyramid topped with a flame that George had claimed all those years ago. Seeing that did make her pause, but the bells sounding insistently in the tower right next to the pyramid did not allow her to tip into the void of past loss.

  She made her way to the church porch, self-conscious with her rucksack. The door was open, and she stepped inside. The church had a nave and two side aisles, and was filled with wooden box pews. Overhead were wide whitewashed gothic arches and high windows mostly of clear glass so that while it was dark on the ground, sunlight shone overhead. Its size was completely different from Winchester Cathedral’s: it was a village rather than a city, with the cosiness and claustrophobia that accompanied it.

  Two women were setting out hymnals and prayer books, and the vicar was busy shuffling his papers on a wooden pulpit carved in the shape of an eagle. To the right of the entrance, Violet caught a glimpse of movement. She had expected the ringers to be hidden away up in the tower, so was surprised to see Arthur and four other men standing at its base, facing each other in a tight circle and pulling on ropes, each with a long striped woollen section for them to catch. Each ringer pulled his so that it came down to his waist, then let it snake back up so he was reaching above his head to pull the tail end down again. They stood very still and solid, feet slightly apart, only their arms moving, and watched one another intently. Occasionally one would call out something, though Violet couldn’t work out what he said. It was as if the men were privately communicating, yet also taking part in a theatrical, public ritual. The vicar and the women setting out the books seemed not to notice, but Violet could not take her eyes off the ringers. She found their movements extraordinary – especially Arthur’s, fluid and confident and completely natural. He did not see her, so focused was he on the others.

  Suddenly the bells went back to their descending scale. “Stand,” someone called, then each bell sounded twice more and went silent. The spell was broken, and the men relaxed, nodding at one another and murmuring. Arthur spotted her then, and moved his head almost imperceptibly. She nodded back, less subtly, for one of the women sorting prayer books stopped and stared at Violet in the way that only happens in a small village.

  “Grandsire doubles,” one of the men announced. “David, you take the treble this time. Arthur, take the tenor. All right, lads.”

  Their focus swung back into their circle. “Look to,” David called, pulling on the striped section of his rope. “Treble’s going … She’s gone.” His bell rang and they began ringing down the scale, over and over, until the leader called, “Go Grandsire,” and the scale broke down into what sounded to Violet like random sounds. The prayer book woman was still staring, a frown beginning to form, so she withdrew outside to the churchyard. There she found a bench at the top of the graveyard that sloped around on two sides of the church, and sat down.

  Though Violet had heard bells ringing many times before, she had never properly listened. She could not make out any pattern in these bells – though each was clearly struck, they seemed to clatter over each other in no particular order. Yet they were deliberate, not chaotic. It was like listening to people speaking German and sensing there was a grammar and structure, a rhythm and logic to it, even if you could not understand the meaning.

  People were beginning to come up the path and enter the church. Some studied Violet and her rucksack, possibly struggling between a Christian desire to welcome and a villager’s suspicion of a stranger sitting in the churchyard. Finally a tall man in a wool suit detached himself from a group of worshippers and loped up the slope to her. “I say, are you lost? The service will start shortly if you intend to come in.” He glanced down at her rucksack.

  “Thank you, but I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “I see.” The man gave her a peculiar look. Don’t worry, she wanted to say, he is not a sherry man.

  At that moment, the bells changed from their unfathomable pattern back into the recognisable descending scale, then rang quicker and quicker until they all stopped, apart from the bell with the lowest tone, which continued to ring insistently. The man hurried away as if it were chivvying him along. As he entered the church, a few of the bellringers were leaving. Arthur was not amongst them. They headed off into the village, the single bell still sounding urgently. Eventually it too stopped, and the familiar chimes of the hour began on this lowest bell, struck so evenly that Violet suspected a machine had swung into action. The sound was completely different from when the men had been ringing: even and mechanical and soulless, like the difference between homemade biscuits and those from a packet.

  After a few minutes she heard the congregation singing the first hymn: “Before the throne of God above”. As the second verse began, Arthur came out of the church and climbed the slope to her. Violet scrambled to her feet, the rucksack on her back pulling her off-balance.

  “Sorry to keep you,” he said. “I was stuck on the tenor – that’s the lowest bell – and had to get it ready for the clock chime. I call it the Calling All Sinners bell.”

  Violet smiled. “It had its effect on the stragglers. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay for the service? I can stay too.”

  Arthur shook his head. “You have a twelve-mile walk ahead to Salisbury. It’s best you don’t start too late. Besides, it’s a fine tradition for ringers to leave as the service starts. We’ve done our service to God for the day.”

  “So I saw. And heard.”

  “Now, let’s have your rucksack.” Arthur grasped the shoulder straps and lifted it from her.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  But he had already swung it onto his back, and was absorbing her sweat and body heat. Violet swallowed at the unexpected intimacy. “You’ll be carrying this for much of the walk,” he said. “It only makes sense that I should take it some of the way and give you a rest.”

  She could think of no argument to that, and her sore shoulders silently thanked him. She followed as he led the way up a steep path to a small lane that took them south out of the village. “We’ll go on a few small roads and then take a path down to the Roman road,” he explained. “Once you’re on that you can’t go wrong, as it’s so straight, and there’s an inn for your lunch not too far from where I leave you. Would you like to see on the map?”

  “Not yet.”

  They walked in silence for a time, and she was surprised at
how comfortable she was with him, though she hardly knew him. She had not spent so much time alone with a man since Laurence.

  “I found out a little about the man at the pub,” Arthur said. “His name is Jack Wells. He lives on a farm a few miles south of here. A quiet sort.”

  Violet bit the inside of her cheek. She did not want the man to have a name – it made him too real. “Thank you,” she said, and pointedly changed the subject. “How long have you been ringing bells?”

  “Since I was eleven. I grew up at Barton Stacey, about ten miles north of Winchester. My father rang at the church there before me. It was expected.”

  “So you do it out of duty?”

  “Not at all. It’s in my blood, is what I meant. It would feel odd not to do it – like not brushing my teeth.”

  “It must be quite different ringing at a church like this rather than at the Cathedral.”

  “The principle is the same at a church as at a cathedral: you pull a rope, a wheel turns the bell and the clapper strikes it. But there are twelve bells at the Cathedral whereas here there are only five. There’s much less you can do with five. Barton Stacey had only five bells as well, and not very good ones at that. Some of the Cathedral bells are heavier, so you have to take that into account when you ring. I do like ringing in a village church, though. With fewer people the circle is smaller, so it’s easier to see what the others are doing.”

  “But you are ringing out in the open here.”

  “It is rather a public display, isn’t it? At the Cathedral we’re tucked away in the tower. It’s our own little world up there. I’ll show you sometime, if you like. The bells are quite a sight.”

  “I would like that.” She paused. “When I was listening earlier I wasn’t sure what it was I was hearing. It wasn’t a melody.”

  “You were hearing patterns. We start by ringing the five bells down the scale, one after the other. These are called rounds. Then we switch the order of two of the bells, so that each sequence of bells is different from the last. We call them changes. One of the rules of change-ringing is that no sequence is repeated.”