A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

  She realised she had stopped dancing and was standing still as Gilda’s father moved on his own, embarrassed. Then the pianist segued into a slow song: “Love Is the Sweetest Thing”, Al Bowlly’s latest hit which played every night on the wireless. En masse, the crowd began crooning the words:

  Love is the sweetest thing

  What else on earth could ever bring

  Such happiness to everything

  As love’s old story

  Violet thanked Mr Hill and sat back down, though she continued to hum along as she fanned herself in the heat of so many people crammed together. Gilda and Dorothy were still dancing, but closer now, fluid, with hands on shoulder and waist, almost like a couple. They seemed to have perfected just how close they could get and not cause raised eyebrows, for no one else seemed to be watching them.

  After the song ended, another man took over the piano and Gilda and Dorothy came to sit down again. “You all right there?” Gilda murmured to Violet.

  “Yes. Yes.” She did not want to talk.

  The new pianist played older songs, encouraging even more singing. By now most of the men and some of the women had drunk a fair bit, and were becoming rowdier and more sentimental. So it was not really surprising that the man at the piano would eventually play the song Violet least wanted to hear. When he began picking out “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”, she gritted her teeth. The song’s chipper, nostalgic, insistent cheeriness was jarringly at odds with what the War had actually been for her. It made her stomach clench every time she heard it to think of the soldiers – George and Laurence amongst them – dutifully singing it when they boarded trains to the Continent or in the trenches.

  She seemed to be the only one with this visceral response to the song, however. As the men round the piano began to pound its top with their fists while bellowing, “Goodbye, Piccadilly/Farewell, Leicester Square!” Violet shrugged into her coat. “I’m just going for some air,” she said to Gilda, then pushed through the crowd to the door and stumbled outside. As the crisp winter night struck her she took a deep breath and pulled on her hat, then leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The smoke reached deep into her lungs and woke her.

  She gazed up at the sky, which was dotted with stars but no moon. New Year’s Eve revellers passed by on their way down the High Street. Then she heard the bells. They were not the full-throated ringing she’d grown used to. Instead a round sounded normally, and the next was dull, as if heard through an eiderdown. Back and forth, they alternated between loud and soft. They must be half-muffled, Violet thought. She seemed to recall hearing fully muffled bells when she was young and the King had died, and the strangeness of it, like a thud with no tone.

  She glanced at her watch in the light from the pub windows. Half past eleven. Would they ring all the way through midnight? Was Arthur one of the ringers? She had a sudden urge to be up in the ringing chamber, high above the city. Perhaps someone at the Cathedral would let her in, or the ringers had left a door unlocked. Before she could talk herself out of it, she stubbed out her cigarette and crossed the stream of people to walk in the opposite direction up the High Street, then turned into Market Street, a narrow passage that led to the Outer Close. It was lined with shops, their windows still decorated with holly and crèches and snowflakes for Christmas. Here there were fewer people, and it was dark. She passed a few laughing couples – why were people always in couples, and always laughing? She hurried along. The Old Market Inn was on the corner, and she could hear people inside singing.

  Then she was alone, walking across the Outer Close, the Cathedral ahead of her lit by spotlights, though inside it would be dark and deserted, for there was no service tonight. Only there were bells: louder now but still half muffled, as if a hand were being placed over a mouth but a shout was now and then escaping.

  Even as she thought of it, Violet shuddered at the image, and walked faster. Then she heard footsteps, and she instinctively knew it was him.

  Jack Wells was whistling “Love Is the Sweetest Thing”, and he was doing it so that she would understand he had been in the pub with her, he had probably spent the evening watching her without her knowing, and now he was following her, because he could. It was as if she were back in the cornfield, running through the same thoughts and choices. It was hard not to walk faster, yet she did not want to show him she was afraid. Now he has ruined it, she thought. Ruined a song I love.

  There was no one on the Outer Close now, just her and the corn man approaching the Cathedral, hunched and dark, with only the muffled bells to comfort and guide her.

  Their sequence metamorphosed into the descending scale, repeated a few times, and then they fell silent. The bells’ sudden desertion was more than Violet could bear, and she ran.

  She was wearing low heels rather than the boots she’d had on in the corn, and they clattered conspicuously. But she also knew where she was going and how far it was. And she surprised him. By the time he recovered and came after her, Violet had rounded the corner of the Cathedral and plunged down the narrow passageway that led to the Inner Close. Unfortunately it was also deserted, for it was far from the New Year’s celebrations that drew people out. She could have turned right and run across the cobblestones and through the narrow lanes to the Wykeham Arms, but he would catch up with her before she reached the pub. That was not where safety lay.

  She kept running parallel to the Cathedral, heading for a large archway and a tunnel through the south transept, where there was a door to the Tower – the tradesman’s entrance, Arthur had called it. She had passed it once or twice on walks. The entrance to the tunnel was a great black mouth, but she could not hesitate. She plunged into it, her footsteps echoing, mingled with his, for he was catching up. Any second she expected to feel his hands grabbing her. She turned to where she thought the door was, and caught her shins on the steep step up to it. “Oh!” she cried, then found a heart-shaped metal handle, and pulled at it. The door was locked.

  Violet began to whimper as she turned the handle this way and that. It was pitch black, for they were far from any street lights. Something was snagging at her memory – something Keith Bain had said about this entrance. There was a spare key hidden, if she could just find it. She ran her hands over the stone wall on each side of the door, feeling for chinks in the mortar.

  Jack Wells’ footsteps had slowed down. He must have sensed that his quarry was trapped. He began to whistle the song again.

  Then, high to her right, her fingers discovered a hole between two stones, and touched cold metal. Violet fished out the key and, hands shaking, quietly inserted it in the lock, trying to focus on what she was doing and not on the man closing in on her. She turned the key and the door gave way. Darting inside, she slammed the door in the face she could not see.

  She scrabbled in the dark to find the lock and reinsert the key from the inside. Jack Wells pushed at the door, and Violet threw herself against it, then managed to turn the key. She stood still, leaning against the door, trying to calm her breath so that she could hear him. He rattled the handle and swore. Then he sang softly, “This is the tale that never will tire/This is the song without end.”

  Violet turned and ran blindly up the stairs.

  They wound round and round in a tight spiral, the stone walls close around her. She scraped her fingers along the cold stone to maintain a sense of where she was, and tried to listen to what might be behind her, but her pounding heart and wild panting drowned out any sounds of her would-be pursuer.

  Long after she thought she should be at the top, she was still climbing, slower now. At last the curved stairs lightened ahead of her and she reached the clerestory, then another flight of steep, narrow steps that led into the ringing chamber. Violet had not really thought further than getting to Arthur, and drew up short, wondering what they would make of her bursting dishevelled and terrified into their ordered little world above Winchester.

  But she had no choice. She headed up the stairs a
nd paused in the doorway at the top, panting. The band of bellringers was gathered, all in suits and waistcoats. William Carver glanced over and saw her, and then she had to step into the light. The ringers turned en masse and stared. One or two even exclaimed. It was as if a ghost had appeared.

  Arthur hurried over. “Violet, what is it?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. Arthur took her arm. “Come and sit down.” He led her to the chairs along one wall, where she’d sat before to watch them ring.

  “Arthur, this is highly irregular,” William Carver announced. “You know any visitors must be agreed upon beforehand with the Tower Captain.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a visitor,” Arthur replied. “Clearly this is an emergency.”

  There was a clattering of steps, and Violet froze. But it was Keith Bain and a few others, appearing from the stairs above. “Muffles are off!” he announced, then started at the sight of the surprise visitor.

  After a minute she began to feel more herself. There was a small electric heater whirring near her feet, and light, and people. Here was safety.

  Arthur knelt by her. “Can you tell me what is the matter?”

  “Jack Wells was following me,” she explained. “Across the Close. He—” She could not explain about whistling Al Bowlly – it sounded too silly. She was beginning to feel sheepish. “Well, I had to get away from him. I ran – and ended up here.”

  “Did he follow you up?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I knew about the hidden key, and I locked the door behind me.”

  “Who told you about the key?” William Carver demanded.

  Violet looked down at her feet, for the answer was obvious.

  “Where is the key now?”

  Violet stared up into William Carver’s angry eyes. “I – I left it in the lock, I think.”

  “I’ll nip down and get it,” Keith Bain declared, “and make sure he didn’t get in. What does he look like?”

  “My height,” Arthur said. “Dark hair and eyes. Wiry.”

  “There’s no time for that,” William Carver interjected. “Gerald’s about to ring the hour, and then we’re ringing a touch of Stedman Cinques. It’s all hands on deck. You’re needed.”

  “Switch to Stedman Caters with nine plus the tenor,” Arthur suggested. “Keith and I will sit it out.”

  “What? You can’t do that!”

  “Of course we can. Clearly Miss Speedwell needs our help. You wouldn’t begrudge her that?”

  William Carver looked as if he would indeed begrudge Violet any attention that would take the ringers away from the bells.

  Keith Bain looked from one to the other, then hurried out and disappeared down the stairs.

  “There’s your answer,” Arthur said.

  “You’re both fined,” William Carver declared.

  “For what?”

  “Lateness. You are not ready to ring when it’s time, so that’s tardiness. A shilling each in the jar. And another shilling each for revealing to an outsider the existence of the hidden key.”

  “I’ll pay,” Violet said, though after funding Christmas presents, she didn’t have four shillings to spare. “It’s my fault.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Arthur retorted.

  “William, it’s time,” Gerald called.

  William Carver strode over to one of the ropes. “Places, gentlemen. After the hour, we will have to ring a touch of Stedman Caters.” He glared at Arthur.

  Gerald began pulling the rope of the heaviest bell to mark midnight. As the deep, sonorous tone rang out, Violet imagined it being heard across the Outer Close and down the High Street to King Alfred’s statue, and the cheering and singing and kissing that would result. She did not wish she were there.

  After the twelfth stroke, Gerald stood his bell. Then, after glancing around the circle at the other ringers, William Carver declared, “Treble’s going,” then began pulling his rope. “She’s gone.” The descending scale began. After several minutes of rounds he called, “Go Stedman,” and the ringers were off. Violet and Arthur sat watching their smooth, coordinated movements. It was soothing to her, and she began to feel more normal.

  “Happy New Year,” she whispered.

  “And you.” He was quiet for a moment. “I do like your dress,” he murmured. “Very smart. I hope that is not an inappropriate thing to say.”

  “Thank you.” Violet ran her hands over her lap to smooth the scallop-patterned fabric. She didn’t know if he was just being kind, but his compliment made her turn red.

  A few minutes later Keith Bain returned. “No one about,” he announced, taking a seat next to Violet. “If he was there, he’s gone now.”

  If he was there … Was Keith Bain questioning her account? Violet wondered. And yet, now that she was here in the warmth and light of the ringing chamber, and in the calm and steady vitality of the band of men, she couldn’t quite understand how the corn man could have come anywhere near this world. Had she imagined him, walking and whistling and chasing? It did seem a coincidence that he would find her on New Year’s Eve, with so many others out, and so many pubs to be in.

  On the other hand, Winchester was the nearest large town to where he lived. Perhaps he had simply come to celebrate and seen her walking up the High Street as he was heading for the place everyone went at midnight. And he was whistling Al Bowlly because it was a popular song; everyone was whistling it. Or: had he come to Winchester deliberately to look for her, because he knew she came from there and there was more of a chance of seeing her out on this night than any other? The thought made her shudder.

  “Are you all right, Violet?” Arthur asked. He kept his voice low; William Carver was frowning at them.

  “I am now. I was just a bit rattled.”

  At that moment Arthur and Keith Bain turned their heads in unison towards the ringers. William Carver shouted, “Frank, dodge with the fifth!” Violet could not hear anything different, but from the responses of the men, something had gone wrong. They kept ringing, but there were glances and frowns at poor Frank, who was pulling without the easy confidence of the others. The bells were slightly out of time and, Violet supposed, a sacred sequence had gone wrong.

  “Again, Frank!” William Carver shouted. The man in the wrong was sweating now.

  Violet opened her mouth, but Arthur held up a hand and shook his head.

  Eventually things must have come right, for William Carver nodded and Frank visibly relaxed. Something had been broken, however: the magical method that kept the bells ringing smoothly had failed. The atmosphere had changed: rather than a careful team satisfied with their work, the ringers were pulling dutifully but no more, and the bells sounded perfunctory, even to Violet’s inexperienced ear. William Carver was not looking their way, but he did not have to: Violet knew the fault was theirs – hers, really. If she had not come up to the ringing chamber Arthur and Keith Bain would never have been dragged into her drama. She should have stayed at the pub with Gilda and the others, sat through “Tipperary” and the other War songs they were bound to sing – “Keep the Home Fires Burning”, “Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty” – and the ringers would have rung in the New Year without mishap. She wanted to bolt from the room, but suspected that would only make things worse.

  The ringers returned to rounds, then William Carver called “Stand,” and they halted their bells. There was a short silence. “That was not the performance I would expect of bellringers on a New Year’s Eve,” he said. “I am disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry, William,” Frank began. “I’m—”

  “It’s not your fault,” William Carver interrupted. “There were unfortunate distractions.” He turned to the three sitting along the wall, ignoring Violet as best he could given that she was seated between the two men. “Arthur and Keith, apart from the fines, you will not ring for the next month.”

  Keith Bain began to protest, but Arthur spoke over him. “I quite understand.” He stood and turned to Violet
and Keith Bain. “Shall we?”

  Violet stood too. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said to William Carver and the other ringers.

  “Miss Speedwell, I think this incident is proof to you, if you needed it,” William Carver replied, “that bellringing is an activity we do not take lightly. The concentration required to ring successfully is profound and fragile. Any disturbance can mean disaster. For that reason we keep the ringing chamber closed to most. Visitors are the exception, not the rule. I will not expect you to take advantage of us again.”

  “No, I – I won’t.” As she said it, Violet held back tears. She was being banned from the place she felt safest.

  “We will see you in February, then,” Arthur announced. “Happy New Year, gentlemen.” He led the way out and switched on a torch as they picked their way down the steep steps to the spiral staircase.

  “Fool,” Keith Bain muttered as they started down the spiral. “Pompous fool.”

  Arthur stopped and Violet almost ran into him. “No,” he said, making them stand still on the cold, damp stairs. “No, William is many things but he is no fool. He was right. We caused them to be distracted, and we should not have. Our banishment is a perfectly reasonable response.”

  “I’m sorry,” Violet muttered.

  “Don’t be. You had no choice. What might have happened if you had not come up? I am glad you did. So glad.”

  His last two words made her heart contract.

  At the bottom Arthur held up a hand. “You stay here while Keith and I look around. You’ll be quite safe behind the locked door.”

  “All right.” Violet did not feel all right; she felt wobbly. But she did not want to cause yet more problems.

  Arthur handed her the torch, then opened the door. Violet shut it firmly behind them. Then she waited in the cold, with the torch’s light illuminating little. It seemed a very long time before she heard Arthur’s voice again. “It’s all right, Violet. We’re back.”