A red-haired girl of fifteen, dressed in black, had come in, bearing a large sheaf of pheasant-eye narcissi. She was tall and thin and rather gawky, though with promise of becoming some day a striking-looking woman.
“Are these any use to you, Mrs. Venables? Johnson’s trying to get the arums along, but the wind’s so terrific, he’s afraid they’ll be broken all to bits in the barrow. I think he’ll have to pack them into the car, and drive them down in state.”
“My dear Hilary, how kind of you! Yes, indeed — I can do with all the white flowers I can get. These are beautiful, and what a delicious scent! Dear things! I thought of having some of our plants stood along there in front of Abbot Thomas, with some tall vases among them. And the same on the other side under old Gaudy. But I am not”—here she became very much determined—“I am not going to tie bunches of greenery on to the font and the pulpit this year. They can have that at Christmas and Harvest Festival, if they like, but at Easter it’s unsuitable and absurd, and now that old Miss Mallow’s gone, poor dear, there’s no need to go on with it.”
“I hate Harvest Festivals. It’s a shame to hide up all this lovely carving with spiky bits of corn and vegetable marrows and things.”
“So it is, but the village people like it, you know. Harvest Festival is their festival, Theodore always says. I suppose it’s wrong that it should mean so much more to them than the Church seasons, but it’s natural. It was much worse when we came here — before you were born or thought of, you know. They actually used to drive spikes into the pillars to hold up wreaths of evergreens. Quite wicked. Just thoughtlessness, of course. And at Christmas they had horrible texts all across the screens and along that abominable old gallery — done in cotton-wool on red flannel. Disgusting, dirty old things. We found a great bundle of them in the vestry when we came here, full of moths and mice. The Rector put his foot down about that.”
“And I suppose half the people went over to the Chapel.”
“No, dear — only two families, and one of them has come back since — the Wallaces, you know, because they had some sort of dispute with the Minister about their Good Friday beanfeast. Something to do with the tea-urns, but I forget what. Mrs. Wallace is a funny woman; she takes offence rather easily, but so far — touch wood”—(Mrs. Venables performed this ancient pagan rite placidly on the oak of the screen)—“so far, I’ve managed to work in quite smoothly with her over the Women’s Institute. I wonder if you’d just step back a little way and tell me if these two sides match.”
“You want a few more daffs on the decani side, Mrs. Venables.”
“Here? Thank you, dear. Is that better? Well, I think it will have to do. Oo-oh! my poor old bones! Yes, it’ll pass in a crowd with a push, as they say. Oh, here’s Hinkins with the aspidistras. People may say what they like about aspidistras, but they do go on all the year round and make a background. That’s right, Hinkins. Six in front of this tomb and six the other side — and have you brought those big pickle-jars? They’ll do splendidly for the narcissi, and the aspidistras will hide the jars and we can put some ivy in front of the pots. Hinkins, you might fill up my watering-can. How is your father to-day, Hilary? Better, I hope.”
“I’m afraid he isn’t any better, Mrs. Venables. Doctor Baines is very much afraid he won’t get over it. Poor old Dad!”
“Oh, my dear! I’m terribly sorry. This has been a dreadful time for you. I’m afraid the shock of your dear mother’s death coming so suddenly was too much for him.”
The girl nodded.
“We’ll hope and pray it isn’t as bad as the doctor thinks. Dr. Baines always takes a pessimistic view of everything. I expect that’s why he’s only a country practitioner, because I think he’s really very clever; but patients do like a doctor to be cheerful. Why don’t you get a second opinion?”
“We’re going to. There’s a man called Hordell coming down on Tuesday. Dr. Baines tried to get him to-day, but he’s away for Easter.”
“Doctors oughtn’t to go away,” said Mrs. Venables, rather uncharitably. The Rector never took holidays at the greater festivals, and scarcely ever at any other time, and she could not quite see that there was any necessity for the rest of the world to do so.
Hilary Thorpe laughed rather ruefully.
“I feel a little like that myself. But he’s supposed to be the very best man there is, and we’re hoping that a couple of days won’t make all that difference.”
“Good gracious, no, I hope not,” said the Rector’s wife. “Is that Johnson with the arums? Oh, no, it’s Jack Godfrey. I expect he’s going up to grease the bells.”
“Is he? I’d like to watch him. May I go up to the belfry, Mrs. Venables?”
“I’m sure you may, my dear. But do be careful. I never think those great high ladders are really safe.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of them. I love looking at the bells.”
Hilary hastened down the church and caught Jack Godfrey up just as he emerged from the winding stair into the ringing chamber.
“I’ve come to watch you do the bells, Mr. Godfrey. Shall I be in your way?”
“Why no. Miss Hilary, I’d be very pleased for you to come. You better go first up them ladders, same as I can help you if you was to slip.”
“I shan’t slip,” said Hilary, scornfully. She climbed briskly up the thick and ancient rungs, to emerge into the chamber which formed the second story of the tower. It was empty, except for the case which housed the chiming mechanism of the church clock, and the eight bell-ropes rising through the sallie-holes in the floor to vanish through the ceiling in the same way. Jack Godfrey followed her up soberly, carrying his grease and cleaning-rags.
“Be a bit careful of the floor. Miss Hilary,” he urged, “it’s none so good in places.”
Hilary nodded. She loved this bare, sun-drenched room, whose four tall walls were four tall windows. It was like a palace of glass lifted high into the air. The shadows of the splendid tracery of the south window lay scrawled on the floor like a pattern of wrought iron on a gate of brass. Looking down through the dusty panes, she could see the green fen spread out mile upon mile.
“I’d like to go up to the top of the tower, Mr. Godfrey.”
“All right. Miss Hilary; I’ll take you up, if so be as there’s time when I’ve done with the bells.”
The trap-door that led to the bell-chamber was shut; a chain ran down from it, vanishing into a sort of wooden case upon the wall. Godfrey produced a key from his bunch and unlocked this case, disclosing the counterpoise. He pulled it down and the trap swung open.
“Why is that kept locked, Mr. Godfrey?”
“Well, Miss Hilary, now and again it has happened as the ringers has left the belfry door open, and Rector says it ain’t safe. You see, that Potty Peake might come a-traipsing round, or some of they mischeevious lads might come up here and get larking about with the bells. Or they might go up the tower and fall off and hurt theirselves. So Rector said to fix a lock the way they couldn’t get the trapdoor open.”
“I see.” Hilary grinned a little. “Hurt theirselves” was a moderate way of expressing the probable result of a hundred-and-twenty-foot fall. She led the way up the second ladder.
By contrast with the brilliance below, the bell-chamber was sombre and almost menacing. The main lights of its eight great windows were darkened throughout their height; only through the slender panelled tracery above the slanting louvres the sunlight dripped rare and chill, striping the heavy beams of the bell-cage with bars and splashes of pallid gold, and making a curious fantastic patterning on the spokes and rims of the wheels. The bells, with mute black mouths gaping downwards, brooded in their ancient places.
Mr. Godfrey, eyeing them with the cheerful familiarity born of long use, fetched a light ladder that stood against the wall, set it up carefully against one of the crossbeams, and prepared to mount.
“Let me go up first, or I shan’t see what you’re doing.”
Mr. Godfrey paused and scratche
d his head. The proposal did not seem quite safe to him. He voiced an objection.
“I shall be quite all right; I can sit on the beam. I don’t mind heights one bit. I’m very good at gym.”
Sir Henry’s daughter was accustomed to have her own way, and got it — with the stipulation that she should hold on very tightly by the timber of the cage and not let go or “morris about.” The promise being given, she was assisted to her lofty perch. Mr. Godfrey, whistling a lively air between his teeth, arranged his materials methodically about him and proceeded with his task, greasing the gudgeons and trunnions, administering a spot of oil to the pulley-axle, testing the movement of the slider between the blocks and examining the rope for signs of friction where it passed over wheel and pulley.
“I’ve never seen Tailor Paul as close as this before. She’s a big bell, isn’t she?”
“Pretty fair,” said Jack Godfrey, approvingly, giving the bell a friendly pat on her bronze shoulder. A shaft of sunshine touched the soundbow, lighting up a few letters of the inscription, which ran, as Hilary very well knew:
NINE + TAYLERS + MAKE + A + MANNE + IN + CHRIST + IS + DETH + ATT + END + IN + ADAM+ YET + BEGANNE + 1614
“She’ve done her bit in her time, have old Tailor Paul — many a good ring have we had out of her, not to say a sight of funerals and passing-bells. And we rung her with Gaude for them there Zeppelin raids, to give the alarm like. Rector was saying the other day as she did soon ought ter be quarter-turned, but I don’t know. Reckon she’ll go a bit longer yet. She rings out true enough to my thinking.”
“You have to ring the passing-bell for everyone that dies in the parish, don’t you, whoever they are?”
“Yes, dissenter and church alike. That was laid down by old Sir Martin Thorpe, your great-great-grandfather, when he left the money for the bell-fund. ‘Every Christian soul’ was the words in his will. Why, we even had to ring for that woman as lived up the Long Drove, as was a Roman Catholic. Old Hezekiah was rare put out.” Mr. Godfrey chuckled reminiscently. “‘What, ring old Tailor Paul for a Roman?’ he says, ‘you wouldn’t call the like o’ them Christians, would you. Rector?’ he says. ‘Why, Hezekiah,’ says Rector, ‘we was all Romans in this country once; this church was built by Romans,’ he says. But Hezekiah, he wouldn’t see it. He never had much education, you see. Well, now, Miss Hilary, that’ll do for Tailor Paul, I’m thinking, so if you’ll give me your hand I’ll be helping you down.”
Gaude, Sabaoth, John, Jericho, Jubilee and Dimity each in her turn was visited and anointed. When, however, it came to the turn of Batty Thomas, Mr. Godfrey displayed a sudden and unexpected obstinacy.
“I’m not taking you up to Batty Thomas, Miss Hilary. She’s an unlucky bell. What I mean, she’s a bell that has her fancies and I wouldn’t like for to risk it.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Godfrey found it difficult to express himself more plainly.
“She’s my own bell,” he said; “I’ve rung her close on fifteen year now and I’ve looked after her for ten, ever since Hezekiah got too old for these here ladders. Her and me knows one another and she’ve no quarrel with me nor I with her. But she’s queer-tempered. They do say as how old Batty down below, what had her put up here, was a queer sort of man and his bell’s took after him. When they turned out the monks and that — a great many years ago, that’d be — they do say as Batty Thomas tolled a whole night through on her own like, without a hand laid to the rope. And when Cromwell sent his men to break up the images an’ that, there was a soldier come up here into the belfry, I don’t know for what, maybe to damage the bells, but anyhow, up he come; and some of the others, not knowing he was here, began to haul on the ropes, and it seems as how the bells must have been left mouth up. Careless ringers they must have been in those days, but anyhow, that’s how ’twas. And just as this soldier was leaning over to look at the bells, like. Batty Thomas came swinging down and killed him dead. That’s history, that is, and Rector says as how Batty Thomas saved the church, because the soldiers took fright and ran away, thinking it was a judgment, though to my thinking, it was just carelessness, leaving the bell that fashion. Still, there it was. And then, there was a poor lad in old Rector’s time learning to ring, and he tried to raise Batty Thomas and got hisself hanged in the rope. A terrible thing that was, and there again, I say it was carelessness and the lad didn’t ought to have been let practise all alone, and it’s a thing Mr. Venables never will allow. But you see, Miss Hilary, Batty Thomas has killed two men, and while it’s quite understandable as there was carelessness both times or it wouldn’t have happened — well! I wouldn’t like to take any risks, like I said.”
And with this as his last word on the subject, Mr. Godfrey mounted aloft to grease the gudgeons of Batty Thomas unassisted. Hilary Thorpe, dissatisfied but recognising an immovable obstacle when she met one, wandered vaguely about the belfry, scuffing up the dust of ages with her square-toed, regulation-pattern school shoes and peering at the names which bygone rustics had scrawled upon the plastered walls. Suddenly, in a remote corner, something gleamed white in a bar of sunlight. Idly she picked it up. It was a sheet of paper, flimsy and poor in quality and ruled in small, faint squares. It reminded her of the letters she occasionally received from a departed French governess and, when she examined it, she saw that it was covered with writing in the very same purple ink that she associated with “Mad’m’selle,” but the hand was English — very neat, and yet somehow not the hand of a well-educated person. It had been folded in four and its under side was smeared with fine dust from the floor on which it had lain, but it was otherwise fairly clean.
“Mr. Godfrey!”
Hilary’s voice was so sharp and excited that Jack Godfrey was quite startled. He very nearly fell off the ladder, adding thereby one more to Batty Thomas’ tale of victims.
“Yes, Miss Hilary?”
“I’ve found such a funny thing here. Do come and look at it.”
“In one moment, Miss Hilary.”
He finished his task and descended. Hilary was standing in a splash of sunshine that touched the brazen mouth of Tailor Paul and fell all about her like Danae’s shower. She was holding the paper where the light could catch it.
“I found this on the floor. Do listen to it. It’s absolutely loony. Do you think Potty Peake could have written it?”
Mr. Godfrey shook his head.
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure, Miss Hilary. He’s queer, is Potty, and he did use to come up here one time, before Rector locked up the trap-door chain. But that don’t look to me like his writing.”
“Well, I don’t think anybody but a lunatic could have written it. Do read it. It’s so funny.” Hilary giggled, being of an age to be embarrassed by lunacy.
Mr. Godfrey set down his belongings with deliberation, scratched his head and perused the document aloud, following the lines with a somewhat grimy forefinger.
“I thought to see the fairies in the fields, but I saw only the evil elephants with their black backs. Woe! how that sight awed me! The elves danced all around and about while I heard voices calling clearly. Ah! how I tried to see — throw off the ugly cloud — but no blind eye of a mortal was permitted to spy them. So then came minstrels, having gold trumpets, harps and drums. These played very loudly beside me, breaking that spell. So the dream vanished, whereat I thanked Heaven. I shed many tears before the thin moon rose up, frail and faint as a sickle of straw. Now though the Enchanter gnash his teeth vainly, yet shall he return as the Spring returns. Oh, wretched man! Hell gapes, Erebus now lies open. The mouths of Death wait on thy end.”
“There, now,” said Mr. Godfrey, astonished. “That’s a funny one, that is. Potty it is, but, if you follow me, it ain’t Potty neither. Potty ain’t no scholar. This here, now, about Ereebus — what do you take that to mean?”
“It’s a kind of an old name for hell,” said Hilary.
“Oh, that’s what it is, is it? Chap that wrote this seems to have got that the
re place on his mind, like. Fairies, too, and elephants. Well, I don’t know. Looks like a bit of a joke, don’t it now? Perhaps—” (his eye brightened with an idea) “perhaps somebody’s been copying out something out of a book. Yes, I wouldn’t wonder if that’s what that is. One of them old-fashioned books. But it’s a funny thing how it got up here. I’d show it to Rector, Miss Hilary, that’s what I’d do. He knows a lot of books, and maybe he’d know where it come from.”
“That’s a good idea. I will. But it’s awfully mysterious, isn’t it? Quite creepy. Can we go up the tower now, Mr. Godfrey?”
Mr. Godfrey was quite willing, and together they climbed the last long ladder, stretching high over the bells and leading them out by way of a little shelter like a dog-kennel on to the leaded roof of the tower. Leaning against the wind was like leaning against a wall. Hilary pulled off her hat and let her thick bobbed hair blow out behind her, so that she looked like one of the floating singing angels in the church below. Mr. Godfrey had no eyes for this resemblance; he thought Miss Hilary’s angular face and straight hair rather unattractive, if the truth were known. He contented himself with advising her to hold tight by the iron stays of the weathercock. Hilary paid no attention to him, but advanced to the parapet, leaning over between the pierced battlements to stare out southward over the Fen. Far away beneath her lay the churchyard, and, while she looked, a little figure, quaintly foreshortened, crawled beetle-like from the porch and went jogging down the path. Mrs. Venables, going home to lunch. Hilary watched her struggle with the wind at the gate, cross the road and enter the Rectory garden. Then she turned and moved to the east side of the tower, and looked out along the ridged roofs of the nave and chancel. A brown spot in the green churchyard caught her eye and her heart seemed to turn over in her body. Here, at the north-east angle of the church, her mother lay buried, her grave not yet turfed over; and now it looked as though, before long, the earth would have to be opened up again to let the husband join his wife. “Oh, God!” said Hilary, desperately, “don’t let Dad die — You can’t — You simply can’t.”
The Nine Tailors lpw-11 Page 7