The Bell Tower

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘It’s all looking good, Mrs West. Make a nice flat for you. And that rear stairway means it’d be completely self-contained, so you could rent those upper floors if you ever wanted to live anywhere else.’

  ‘So I could.’ Nell had not thought of this aspect.

  ‘Make a good office suite,’ he said. ‘Good central location – you could charge a nice rent for it. How about we put a main door by those stairs with a five-lever lock, just in case. Make it separate and more secure. Speaking of which, were there any more signs of that intruder you had the other night?’

  ‘Thankfully, no.’

  ‘You sometimes get prowlers when a place is being renovated,’ said Jack. ‘People looking to see if any valuable equipment’s been left around. Matter of fact, we thought we heard someone wandering around late yesterday afternoon after that wall came down. We’d been in the attics chipping off the old plaster. Shocking condition, that plaster, but the fabric underneath is sound. But Darren swore he’d heard footsteps up there, didn’t you, Darren? No one around, though, but we’ll keep a weather eye out.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Nell.

  ‘Mind, one look at Darren this morning, and any self-respecting burglar would take to his heels and run. On the beer last night,’ said Jack, grinning; at which Darren, slightly red of eye and pasty of complexion, was understood to mumble something about a beer contest and to add, a touch resentfully, that you had to keep up.

  Nell provided Darren with a couple of paracetamol, then drove Beth to school, during which they discussed the forthcoming journey to Rede Abbas and the transportation of Beth’s birthday cake, which had been ordered from her favourite patisserie in the High, and was to be discreetly smuggled into the Ramblers’ Hostel for the midnight feast.

  ‘But you’re not to tell anyone,’ said Beth, anxiously. ‘On account of we don’t think it’s allowed.’

  Nell promised to maintain absolutely secrecy, and returned to Quire Court to find lights blazing from the portable generator, and Jack Hurst plastering a wall. His second-in-command was threading electricity cables behind a section of trunking, and the hapless Darren was handing round bacon and sausage baps on the grounds that everyone knew you had to mop up a hangover with substantial food.

  ‘When he’s finished scoffing that,’ said Jack, ‘I’ve told him to clear out the rest of the stuff in Mr Purbles’s storeroom. Chock-full of papers that is.’

  ‘Ask him to carry everything out to my house, would you?’ said Nell. ‘I promised Godfrey I’d leave all that stuff for the recycling collection on Saturday. There’s a couple of cardboard boxes somewhere. Darren can tip everything into those.’

  With thin morning sunlight filtering in, the rooms appeared innocuous and ordinary, and if anything scrabbled or sang or burned oil lamps today, Nell could not hear or see it. She went up to the attics. Beth loved the idea of a bedroom with a sloping ceiling, and of having a tiny sitting-room-cum-study of her very own. The bedroom would be large enough to take twin beds so that she could have a friend to stay sometimes. In a few years there would presumably be boyfriends who would stay overnight, as well; Nell tried to think how she would cope with this, then wondered if they would still be living here by that time.

  The sunlight came politely into the attics, filtering through the small windows, which had the same lead crisscross strips as the lower floors, lying in diamond-shaped patterns across the floor. Dust motes danced in and out of the light, and Nell’s spirits rose. She walked round, thinking Beth could have a deep, squashy armchair in this corner, a TV in the other, and a desk beneath the window overlooking the garden.

  The window overlooking the garden.

  As Jack had said, they had stripped a good deal of the old plaster away, and beneath the window it had fallen away in large sections, revealing the original bare stones. The sunlight slanted across this part of the wall, and written across the old stonework – written so deeply that in places the letters were slightly indented – was a name and a date. Theodora. October 1850. Intrigued, Nell bent down to see it more clearly.

  Under the name and the date, written in what was obviously the same hand, were more words. They were faded, but they were perfectly legible: If anyone finds this, please pray for me, for it will mean the dead bell has sounded and I have suffered Thaisa’s fate …

  Nell sat back on her heels. The writing was old enough for the words not to matter any longer, and Theodora and Thaisa, whoever they had been, were long-since dead. Even so, she found herself shivering slightly, and when she put out a finger to trace the words, she felt as if she was touching cold, dead flesh. This was absurd, of course. Any fate that had overtaken Theodora and Thaisa was long ago. At least a hundred and fifty years. She repeated this several times.

  The rest of the day was spent in sorting out the remaining details for the trip to Rede Abbas, but several layers down, Nell kept seeing the scribbled message on the old attic wall.

  Theodora, thought Nell. Who were you? What were you doing at Quire Court and what was the dead bell that might sound? Above all of that, what was ‘Thaisa’s fate’ that frightened you so much?

  THREE

  From: Olive Orchard, Organizing Committee, St Benedict’s Revels

  To: Daniel Goodbody, Local Historian and Revels Chair

  Daniel –

  Well, rehearsals for the concert are going smoothly, and the Morality Play sequence is shaping up to be nicely robust, but in perfectly good taste.

  Gerald is very busy setting up a display of the archived documents he’s unearthed. He’s found some interesting stuff – old photos and lithographs, and a few odds and ends of documents from St Benedict’s Monastery. He’s currently disinterring those glass-topped cabinets we had for the centenary. Fortunately, only a couple are actually broken.

  Annoyingly, though, Gourmet Snacks can no longer supply the food, having been declared bankrupt last week, so we shall have to use Street Food Inc instead. Gerald is inclined to be suspicious of them and thinks they are too cheap and you get what you pay for. On the other hand, he says he always thought Gourmet Snacks were the wrong choice – Tudor monks were unlikely to have celebrated the Revels with langoustine pâté or passion-fruit panna cotta. Personally, I would prefer pâté and panna cotta to Street Food’s burgers and kebabs, but life is full of compromises. Gerald also points out that the monks traditionally had roast meats and mead at the Revels, and he thought we had agreed to follow that theme as closely as possible, although he does agree that burgers and kebabs might be regarded as a modern-day equivalent.

  I have asked The Fox & Goose about outside lighting and the car parking, and will report.

  Looking forward to having our drink together before much longer.

  Olive Orchard (Hon. Sec.)

  From: Daniel Goodbody

  To: Gerald Orchard, Librarian

  Dear Gerald

  I was sorry not to have seen you earlier today, but I was very impressed by the library’s display for the Revels – you have certainly disinterred some exciting-looking material. I’m intending to take a closer look when I’m less busy with the Revels arrangements.

  I’m also grateful to you for agreeing to keep the library open until seven each evening during the four days.

  Kind regards,

  Daniel

  From: The Fox & Goose

  To: Olive Orchard, Organizing Committee, St Benedict’s Revels

  Dear Mrs Orchard

  No, we will not allow the lighting for the Dusklight Concert to be linked to our electricity supply, since we do not trust temporary electricity meters.

  We will loan out our car-parking signs for use in Musselwhite’s Meadow, which we feel is entirely in keeping with the meadow’s history. It was once common land and has been a stopping place for gypsies for many centuries, so we feel it very suitable that travellers coming for the Revels should be allowed to park there. We propose making a charge of £10 a day for this. What fee the committee levies to individu
al motorists is, of course, its own affair.

  We cannot undertake to staff Musselwhite’s ourselves, on account of having quite sufficient to do, with all the folk who will be staying here for the Revels, most of whom will be wanting decent wholesome meals rather than convenience food from street stalls. The Fox & Goose has always provided good plain cooking to its customers, and would have done so for the entire festival, if asked. Roast meats would have been simple to prepare and serve, and we have a very good selection of local ciders which would have replicated the monks’ mead.

  Kind regards,

  p.p. Fox & Goose.

  From: Daniel Goodbody, Local Historian and Revels Chair

  To: Gerald Orchard, Librarian

  Dear Gerald

  Herewith a catalogue index number to a volume of the Victoria County History, which refers to ‘Thaisa’s Song’ and might assist your search. It’s one of the VCH’s earliest editions – a 1900 volume in fact – and according to the entry the song is an old Welsh ballad, probably dating to the thirteenth or even the twelfth century. It first appeared in Dorset around 1530, although how it got from Wales to Dorset no one seems to know, and who sung it in 1530 is anybody’s guess. The entry says that over the centuries the original words and meanings became corrupted (their word, not mine!), to say nothing of losing a fair amount in the translating.

  It’s to be hoped that if you do find the music, the lyrics will be in English, because I shouldn’t think the choral society would be able to sing or even pronounce the original Welsh, and I don’t suppose the current library budget allows for the purchase of twenty Welsh dictionaries.

  Daniel

  Organising Committee, St Benedict’s Revels,

  Council Offices

  Rede Abbas

  Dear Miss Eynon

  Thank you for your latest letter about our Revels Dusklight Concert and the current search for ‘Thaisa’s Song’. I am so sorry the possibility of including that piece causes you concern, but I promise you that if we do find it, it will be sung with as much accuracy as possible, and will, we think, form a very pleasing tribute to the history of Rede Abbas.

  Perhaps I could call on you at your home to set your mind at rest on any particular anxieties you may have? If you could let me know when that would be convenient, I will be very happy to do so.

  Kind regards,

  Daniel Goodbody

  Chairman, St Benedict’s Revels

  Cliff House

  Rede Abbas

  Dear Mr Goodbody

  I am afraid it is not convenient for you to visit me and will not be so at any time in the future.

  ‘Thaisa’s Song’ has a sad and troubling background, and should be left in the dark silence in which it has dwelled for several centuries. There are parts of the past everywhere that have been sealed off, and in Rede Abbas’s case it would be better if they remained sealed.

  I am surprised that you, with your knowledge of the past and your years of studying history, do not appear to understand or even acknowledge the power that can sometimes lie hidden within ancient music.

  Sincerely,

  Maeve Eynon

  Email from: Olive Orchard, Organizing Committee, St Benedict’s Revels

  To: Daniel Goodbody, Local Historian and Revels Chair

  Daniel –

  Gerald was very pleased to have that VCH reference you sent – he will thank you himself when he isn’t so busy. He’s just made another intrepid expedition into the library cellars in case he’s missed anything that might be lurking down there. He says if you stand very still in that cellar and concentrate, you can sometimes glimpse the past and you can certainly smell its aura. Personally, I’ve only ever smelt mildew or Jeyes’ Fluid if the cleaners have been in, but when I said so, Gerald replied in an injured tone that it was a sad day when history and romance were quenched and smothered by disinfectant.

  He still hasn’t found ‘Thaisa’s Song’, but he’s continuing to search.

  I’m sending the programme proofs for you to approve. Can you believe that the printers have called the Saturday night concert ‘Dust Light’! Wretched computer spell-check.

  If you care to bring the marked proofs back, any night would be fine, or I could call at your house for them. Gerald usually has his supper at The Swan on Fridays when the library stays open until seven, so Fridays are always particularly convenient for me.

  Olive

  Daniel Goodbody’s letter, suggesting he visit her, had generated such nervous fear in Maeve Eynon that she had gone all round Cliff House bolting the doors and checking the locks to make sure no one could get in without her knowing. In the downstairs rooms she closed the shutters as well. She did this every night and every morning anyway, but it would not hurt to make sure at midday.

  The shutters, when closed, made the rooms very dark, but once they were in place, she felt able to make a cup of tea, which she drank while writing her reply to Daniel Goodbody’s letter. He could not be allowed to visit the house, of course. No one could, not ever. In all the years Maeve had lived here, there had never been what other people called guests. Once or twice workmen had had to be allowed in to deal with the plumbing, which was old and clanky, or to mend a bit of guttering if it fell off, but Maeve always stayed with them and made sure they did not go into the other parts of the house.

  It was unlikely that her letters to Daniel Goodbody and his precious festival committee would do any good. Daniel Goodbody, for all his pretence at knowledge, and for all the books he had written about local history, would not understand how the past could be dangerous; and that stupid Olive Orchard, who had somehow got herself appointed as festival secretary, would only laugh. Maeve did not like Olive Orchard and she did not trust her. Also, it was very unbecoming for a woman of Olive’s age and size to simper and flutter over Mr Goodbody as Olive did, and behave as if she did not have a husband. Still, Olive Orchard’s husband was only silly, wittering Gerald from the library, whom Maeve could not believe would rate very highly as a husband on any scale.

  When she had heard about the search for ‘Thaisa’s Song’, she had thought for a long time before writing to ask that the idea be dropped. She did not like drawing attention to herself – Aunt Eifa had never done so, and Maeve, who had only been ten when her parents died and she came to live at Cliff House, had grown up imbibing Aunt Eifa’s rules and precepts. It occasionally surprised her when she realized it was forty years since she had come to this house – and that it had been forty years since she’d first heard ‘Thaisa’s Song’.

  Her parents had died within a couple of weeks of one another, which was why Maeve had been brought to live with her mother’s cousin, who was called Eifa Eynon. It had been dark and raining when she’d been brought to the house, and she had stared up at it, and hated it. It seemed to her to be so much a part of the dark rainy night and of her own misery that she had wanted to run away from it. But there wasn’t anywhere she could run to; so she had to go into the house and meet her mother’s cousin, who said she was to call her Aunt Eifa.

  The house was bleak and uncomfortable and everywhere smelled damp because of being so near to the sea. Aunt Eifa herself was thin and severe and her clothes smelled of stale bread. Maeve hoped she would not find her own clothes smelling of stale bread if she lived here.

  Aunt Eifa said Maeve would take her own family’s name from now; she would be Maeve Eynon, which was what her mother had been before her marriage. It was a good name and came from an old family, and Maeve should be proud to use it. Maeve was too miserable and too bewildered to care what she was called, so she nodded and agreed.

  She would have liked to have something that had belonged to her parents during those first weeks at Cliff House, but their house and all the furniture had been sold, and there did not seem to be anything. Aunt Eifa said there would be some money from the house sale which Maeve would have when she was eighteen, but Maeve would rather have had something now – something her mother and father had owned and tha
t would feel like a link to them. She did not think there could be anything, but several weeks later a couple of boxes were brought to Cliff House. Aunt Eifa took them up to the spare bedroom and said Maeve could look at them when she wanted. She did not know what was in there, just a few personal possessions, she thought. Some pieces of jewellery maybe, and odd papers and photos. She was not much of a one for photographs herself – the past, once gone, should stay gone – but Maeve might like to look through the boxes, or even make up a scrapbook or a photograph album of her parents.

  The spare bedroom, which was never used because no one ever came to stay, was quiet when Maeve eventually went into it. It felt somehow removed from the rest of the house. Dust motes danced in the thin autumn sunlight, and the oak-framed swing mirror over the old dressing table had a mist across it. Most of the mirrors in Cliff House had that mist because of the damp, so that when you looked in them, you thought it might not be your own face looking back, but strange, ghost-creatures, who had crept up from the sea and got into the house.

  The spare room was neat and bleak, and the window looked out towards an old graveyard. The graves were all very old, and most of the headstones were lopsided, because the ground had slipped underneath so that they leaned against one another as if they might be drunk. Maeve hated seeing these lopsided stones, because it made her wonder if the dead people could sleep peacefully underneath.

  The boxes were pushed against the wall, and as Maeve sat on the floor to investigate, the feeling that this room was shut off from the rest of the world was strongly with her. A hard lump of sadness came up in her throat, but she was not going to give way to crying because it would not bring her parents back, and crying always gave her a blocked-up nose and a snuffly headache. So she swallowed very hard several times, and the lump of misery eventually dissolved sufficiently for her to open the box.

  It contained a jumble of things, most of which did not look very interesting apart from a large envelope containing photos. Might they be old family photos? Neither of her parents had seemed to have any family, except for Aunt Eifa, who had been her mother’s aunt or second cousin or something. There had not been anyone else. Maeve had sometimes wished she had cousins and aunts and uncles like people at school, but her mother had often said that families were nothing but trouble and they were better without them.