The Bell

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘Oh, to hell with all that,’ said Dora. ‘The point is Paul’s here. Can’t you get it into your head? For Christ’s sake go away before he sees you.’

  ‘I’m fed up with hearing about Paul,’ said Noel. ‘Paul treats you disgustingly and you never really cared for him anyway. I think a little plain dealing with Paul wouldn’t be a bad idea. I’m not sure that I won’t give Paul a piece of my mind.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ moaned Dora, distracted. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. You’ve only seen him at parties. The Bishop will arrive any moment and then everyone will come and Paul will make a scene and I couldn’t bear it!’

  ‘You’re a dreadful girl,’ said Noel. ‘You placate Paul until you can’t stand it any longer and then you run away and then you get frightened and then you start placating him again. You must either knuckle under completely or else fight him. Quite apart from anything else, your present policy isn’t fair to Paul. You won’t really know whether you want to stay with him until you’ve fought him openly on equal terms, and not just by running away. And my guess is that once you start to fight you’ll know you can’t stay with Paul. And this is where I begin to get interested. You’re unreliable and untidy and ignorant and totally exasperating but somehow I’d like to see you around the place again.’

  ‘Gosh, you aren’t falling in love with me?’ cried Dora, horrified.

  ‘I don’t use that terminology,’ said Noel, ‘so let’s just say that I miss you. It’s not out of sight out of mind any more, my girl.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ said Dora. ‘Look, Noel, I just haven’t time for this just now. I’m terribly sorry, I do appreciate it and all that, and I know you’re serious and I will explain, but the fact is I’ve got a plan on just now, nothing to do with Paul, and if things blow up over you it’ll spoil it all - so do be an angel and go away. I will tell you all about it, only it’s so teribly complicated. Do go, Noel, before something happens.’

  ‘Sorry Dora,’ said Noel. ‘Just this once uncle Noel is going to do what he wants and not what you want. Where shall I put my car? I suppose I’d better leave the way clear for the Bish’s Rolls Royce.’

  ‘Now you’re bullying me!’ said Dora, almost in tears.

  ‘Well, really,’ said Noel. ‘You call it bullying when I carry out my plan instead of yours. I almost sympathize with Paul. I think I’ll drive into this yard, it looks a suitable place.’ He got into the car, switched the engine on, and began to crawl round and through the open doors of the stable yard.

  Dora watched him, despairing. She knew from his manner that he was quite determined to stay. It was no use pleading any further. This being so she must take some other steps to avoid an explosion. As it was, Paul would certainly be wanting to quarrel with her all night. But her immediate concern was to prevent a scene of open violence. Her own rites were after all to be the climax of the ceremony, and although a certain amount of chaos and failure in the preliminaries would not displease her she didn’t want the thing to break down too badly; and in any case quite simply she feared the hideousness of Paul’s anger exposed to the public view. She turned back along the gravel. There was the bell and there was Mrs Mark still tacking down ribbons, only two or three of which still streamed like banners. Dora’s mind, attuned by brief practice to the exigencies of generalship, functioned. It was no good spending more time disputing with Noel. What time remained must be spent otherwise. How?

  Dora’s first instinct was to rush straight to Paul and tell him herself before he found out in some other way. Perhaps she could break it to him gently, calm him down, explain. She began to run along the terrace, passing Mrs Mark who looked at her inquiringly and started to say something. But before she got to the steps she was vividly picturing the scene and had changed her mind. As soon as Paul knew that Noel was here he would be deaf to any further commentary from her. Incoherent with rage and jealousy he would charge straight past her. She could never control him. Who could? She ran back again, once more passing Mrs Mark, who once more looked at her inquiringly and started to say something, and began to ascend the steps to the balcony. Noel, who had emerged from the stable yard, came across and began to pursue her up the steps, calling, ‘Dora, can we fix somewhere to meet later on?’ Dora paid no attention, rushed in through the hall and out into the corridor. She had decided to go and see Michael. It was just possible that Michael might make Paul see that, for the sake of the brotherhood, no public scene must be made on this day of all days.

  Dora had never visited Michael’s office, but she knew roughly where it was. When she found the door she knocked and bounded in without further ceremony. Her entry was so rapid that she had time to witness a little of the previous scene before its participants realized it had come to an end. Michael was sitting in a chair, leaning well forward, his elbows on his knees, his two hands extended. Toby was sitting on the floor just in front of him, one leg curled under, the other crooked up at the knee. One hand clasped his raised leg while the other was in process of making some gesture in Michael’s direction. As Dora entered they both scrambled hastily to their feet.

  ‘Oh hello, Toby,’ said Dora, ‘that’s where you are, is it. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Michael, but something awful has happened. ’

  Michael looked appalled. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Someone I used to know has turned up, a journalist, to write about the bell. But when Paul finds out he’s here he’ll tear the place up. You must go and tell him not to.’ This seemed to state the case.

  Michael looked relieved. Then he looked at Toby. Toby mumbled something about ‘Better be off now.’ Dora began to say something to him but he went off without looking at her. Michael made to follow him, got as far as the door, and then came back looking confused and distracted. Dora was firm. Generalship was beginning to come to her. She said to Michael, ‘Do you understand? ’

  ‘Yes, no,’ said Michael. ‘This man, this reporter is here now and you think Paul will make a jealous scene? Can’t you persuade him to go?’

  ‘He won’t go,’ said Dora, ‘and it’s no use your telling him to. What I want you to do is to prevent Paul from exploding. I’m going to tell Paul about it straight away.’ She turned and set off again at a run. She could hear Michael’s footsteps following her. They clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and out through the hall.

  On the terrace, Noel was talking to Mrs Mark. They stopped to stare at the spectacle of Michael and Dora.

  Noel said, ‘Everyone seems to be in a terrible hurry today.’

  Mrs Mark said, ‘Oh Michael, don’t go away, the Bishop will be here any moment!’

  Michael who was down on the grass by now, ran back to reassure Mrs Mark. Dora kept on in the direction of the causeway. By the time she had reached the middle of the causeway and was almost out of breath she saw Paul emerge from the end door of the parlours. She started to wave to him frantically. As she neared the end of the causeway she saw a dark Rolls Royce coming slowly down the avenue from the Lodge gates.

  Dora rushed up to Paul, who had quickened his pace when he saw her waving. She could see his frown from a long way off. ‘Noel is here!’ she cried.

  ‘Who?’ said Paul.

  ‘Noel Spens,’ said Dora. ‘You know.’

  Paul was tense and cool. ‘You say’, he said, ‘that Noel Spens is here. You yell this at me as if it were good news. He came to see you?’

  ‘He came to report the bell business,’ said Dora. ‘Paul darling, don’t get into a rage!’

  ‘He came to see you,’ said Paul. ‘You invited him?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t invite him!’ shouted Dora. ‘Do you think I’m mad? He just came to interview people for his paper.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to interview him,’ said Paul. ‘I’m going to give him an interview he won’t forget!’ He began to walk quickly across the causeway.

  Dora followed, still talking and trying to hold onto his arm. The causeway was not quite wide enough for two people to walk si
de by side when disputing. The bishop’s car could now be seen in the distance crossing the bridges at the far end of the lake. Paul began to run.

  At the end of the causeway Dora, who had been outdistanced, made a spurt and caught him up. As she did so she could see Michael running towards them down the grass slope from the house. Dora seized hold of Paul’s hand violently and tried to pull him back, crying, ‘Paul, it’s not my fault, I didn’t want him to come! Don’t spoil everything for the others by being furious now!’

  Paul turned on her. He detached her hand from his with the other hand, and said to her quietly but baring his teeth, ‘There are moments when I hate you!’ Then he gave her a push which sent her flying back into the long grass.

  Paul went on running. Michael converged on him, his arms spread out like someone who wants to prevent an animal from charging out of a field. Dora got up from where she had fallen in the grass, found her shoe which had come off, and began to run too in the direction to the terrace. The Bishop’s car was just approaching the house. She passed Michael and Paul who had now met and came to a standstill. They both seemed to be talking at once. Dora did not think they needed her assistance.

  The Rolls Royce came onto the terrace with the dignified condescension of a very large car moving slowly. It stopped at the foot of the steps, quite near to the bell. Mrs Mark, who had after all been left to hold the fort alone, rushed forward. James appeared a moment later on the balcony and began to hurry down the steps, falling over his feet. Noel lounged out of the refectory, eating a bun. Dora arrived panting and had to double up immediately because of an agonizing stitch.

  The Bishop, who had apparently been driving himself, got slowly out of the car with the affable leisureliness of the great personage who knows that whenever and wherever he arrives he is immediately the centre of the scene. He was a big portly man with frizzy hair and rimless glasses, dressed in a plain black cassock and purple stock. His large fleshy face turned slowly, glowing with friendliness. He pulled a stick out of the car on which he leaned lightly while shaking hands with Mrs Mark, James, and Noel, and then with Dora, whom he was anxious not to exclude although she was hovering uncertainly in the background. Dora decided he took her for one of the maids.

  ‘Well, here I am!’ said the Bishop. ‘I hope I’m not late? My charming chauffeur has abandoned me-a lady, I hasten to say, and also my secretary. The exigencies of motherhood called her to a higher task. She has three children to look after, that is not counting myself! So at much wear and tear to my own nerves and those of my fellow motorists I have driven myself to Imber!’

  ‘We’re so glad you’ve managed to come, sir,’ said James, beaming. ‘We know how busy you are. It means a lot to us to have you at our little ceremony.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s all most exciting,’ said the Bishop. ‘And is this exhibit A?’ He pointed with his stick to the white ribbony mound of the bell.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Mark, blushing with excitement. ‘We just thought we’d deck it up a little.’

  ‘Very pretty too,’ said the Bishop. ‘You are Mrs Strafford I believe? And you are Mr Meade?’ he said to James. ‘I’ve heard so much about you from the Abbess, bless her.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said James. ‘I’m James Tayper Pace.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Bishop. ‘You are the man who is so sorely missed in Stepney! I was there only a few weeks ago at the opening of a new youth centre, and your name was often taken in vain. Or rather, not in vain. What an absurd expression that is, to be sure! Your name was mentioned, most fruitfully I’ve no doubt, and with positively devout enthusiasm!’

  It was James’s turn to blush. He said, ‘We ought to have introduced ourselves. I’m afraid we make you a very poor reception committee, sir. This is indeed Mrs Strafford. This is Mrs Greenfield. Michael Meade is just coming across the grass with Dr Greenfield. And I’m afraid I don’t know this gentleman.’

  ‘Noel Spens, from the office of the Daily Record,’ said Noel. ‘I’m afraid I’m what they call a reporter.’

  ‘Why, splendid!’ said the Bishop. ‘I hoped some gentlemen of the press might be present. Did you say the Daily Record? You must excuse me, I’m such a deaf old codger now, practically incommunicado on this side. May I ask if you were put on my track by my old crony Holroyd? I believe he now edits your distinguished rag.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Noel. ‘Mr Holroyd got wind of this picturesque ceremony and sent me along. He sends you his greetings, sir.’

  ‘An excellent fellow,’ said the Bishop, ‘in the best traditions of British journalism. I have always thought the Church was foolish to shun publicity. What we need is more publicity, of the right kind, of course. Perhaps I may say of this kind. What’s that? No, I won’t eat anything now, thank you. I’ll just have the good old English cup of tea, if I may. Since my trip to America I value it more than ever. Then we might proceed perhaps to our little service, if the clans have mustered? And have the feasting afterwards. I see a board or two groaning with goodies in there.’

  Michael and Paul had stopped again, just below the steps to the terrace, still talking. They began to walk back towards the causeway. Mrs Mark watched them with a look of despair, Dora with one of appalled apprehension. The Bishop was given a cup of tea. Noel chatted to him affably about members of the Athenaeum known to both of them. James stood beside them, smiling and rather shy. Father Bob Joyce, bearing with undignified haste what later turned out to be a stoup of holy water, placed it upon the table, and fussed round the bell, waving to the great man with the distant familiarity of one of the elect determined to let lesser men have their chance to be presented. Mrs Mark made little dashes into the refectory, keeping one eye on Michael, and keeping up an agitated discussion with Father Bob. Peter Topglass arrived with his camera, and joined the conversation with the Bishop, with whom it appeared he was already acquainted. Dora stood gloomily picking at one of the white ribbons on the bell. Her nervous plucking undid the tacking threads and the ribbon streamed out in the wind, which had not abated. Toby emerged, looking sulky, from the stable yard and was seized by Mrs Mark and introduced. James asked Mrs Mark for a cup of tea and was told in a whisper that they had better not start using the cups now as there were only just enough to go round once and no time to wash them up after the service. Patchway appeared and started complaining to James about the depredations of the pigeons until called to order by Mrs Mark and told to remove his hat. Catherine came down the steps from the house. She was wearing one of her London dresses and seemed to have taken some trouble with her appearance. A neat tight bun was fixed high at the back of her head and the curly locks which usually straggled over her brow had been cut short. Her face now seemed abnormally long and pale, and her smile, when she was presented to the Bishop, though sweet, was brief. She stepped quickly back and leaned against the balustrade, seeming to fall into a reverie, forgetting where she was.

  ‘Well, dear friends,’ said the Bishop, ‘perhaps we could begin our little baptism ceremony. I gather you approved of my suggestions about the order of the service. I’m glad you didn’t think I was being too archaic and popish! I think we might end with psalm a hundred and fifty, by the way. And I propose to leave out the Collect. I must say, I don’t trust this sky not to pepper us with hailstones at any moment - so let us proceed at once. As my unfortunate congregation will have to kneel I suggest we descend from the gravel to the grass. I’m afraid my leech has prohibited genuflexion for me TFO, as we used to say in the army. Might I ask which of you are going to act as sponsors, or shall I say god-parents, to the bell?’

  ‘That will be Michael and Catherine,’ said Mrs Mark. ‘Please excuse me one moment and I’ll fetch Michael.’ She ran down the steps from the terrace.

  Michael and Paul, still deep in conversation, were now walking back again from the causeway. Dora watched them anxiously. She avoided looking at Noel who was trying to catch her eye. They all descended the steps and stood about on the slope that led down to the ferry.
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  Mrs Mark was coming back with Michael and Paul. Dora disposed herself on the other side of the group from where Noel was standing. Michael was brought forward and could be heard apologizing to the Bishop. Catherine was ushered to the front. Mrs Mark was hastily attaching two very long extra ribbons to the bell. Then she hurried down and stood near Dora. Paul came up to Dora, looked her savagely in the eyes, his face screwed up to a point of suppressed fury, and then stood beside her, staring straight in front of him. The company disposed itself in two straggling rows with Michael and Catherine standing alone in front like a bridal pair. The Bishop mounted to the terrace. He took in one hand the two long ribbons which led to the bell. In the other he held an object, unfamiliar to Dora, which he dipped into the stoup of holy water. At a signal from Father Bob, the voices of James, Catherine, and the Straffords joined in the chant. Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo et mundabor. Lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor. The Bishop began to cast the holy water onto the bell, making long dark streaks upon its white dress.

  Dora observed with horror that Noel had come across and had somehow got himself next to her on her other side. She dared not look at Paul. She gazed glassily ahead, aware of the bell high above them on the terrace, its tent-like canopy audibly flapping. The sun came and went on the grass like a signal flash, and the wind tore at the Bishop’s cassock, revealing a pair of smart black trousers beneath. The chant was ended, and the Bishop leaned forward to address Michael and Catherine. He said, ‘What name do you desire to put upon this bell?’