Change ringing

Wed Dec 2

Having serious concerns re: Mrs Henderson and the cakes. Am convinced she is doing it on purpose. More on this later, have to pick up the girls from school.

In the car, Carol asks me if the girls like her, since their mother leaving and all. I say yes, she has a spirit of generosity and exuberance and they are happy that I am happy. She looks doubtful.

Thurs Dec 3

Definitely on purpose re: the cakes. I believe Mrs Henderson is trying to increase her influence over the bell-ringers. This Thursday’s practice is a strawberry-and-cream Victoria sponge, with little pieces of fresh mint in the icing. Feel the blood rush to my face when I see it. Other bell-ringers say my cheesecake is v good: no comments about whether set properly or not. Much anxiety previously. Mrs Henderson not making eye contact the whole time.

We practise change ringing. The bell-ringers see me as capable and knowledgeable, they look up to me quietly. Mrs Henderson not receptive to criticism as always. I am comforted by the weight at the end of the rope, invisible high in the tower, by the predetermined order of chimes.

Sat Dec 5

When I close up the church I notice one of the bell’s frames is developing rust. A serious problem re: the bell being able to do its full 360º rotation. This time of year always v stressful re: getting ready for Christmas morning bell-ringing. Whole parish listening, so I am keen to create the proper cascade effect. Weather has been terrible, floods in some places: politicians in wellies on the news. The moss on the church roof is getting thick too.

Mon Dec 7

This year = even more stressful, re: Carol and introducing her properly to the parish. Not a trivial moment: they were v keen on Janice. But Carol has a generous heart, and a spirit of exuberance, as I am always telling her. The girls seem to be adjusting, though they do not tell me as much as they used to.

Wed Dec 9

Closing the church, just counting the money and locking up when I notice a bundle of clothes in the porch. Probably Gladys down the road leaving donations again, I think: have warned her before re: putting donations in the donations chest so they aren’t damp when sent to Barnardo’s — who are v understanding, to be fair.

It is not a bundle of clothes — or at least it is, but inside the bundle there is a person. It is a woman, maybe in her 50s. I say hello, excuse me, are you okay? There is a definite smell of homelessness. She blinks awake, mumbles something. Says I heard the bells, or something like that.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but you can’t sleep here.” She doesn’t argue, just lifts herself up and slouches off into the dark, down the road to the village hall and the post office. The dip there has begun to turn into a little lake. She is mumbling. I lock up the church. Bell-ringing tomorrow, have to make another cake. This = last thing I need.

Thurs Dec 10

Rice crispie squares: what was I thinking? Mrs Henderson makes cheesecake. Lime and elderflower. It is perfectly set, drizzled with lime syrup and grated peel. I feel sick to my stomach. Janice was good at baking, and I’m not. Carol isn’t either. This is the way Mrs Henderson needles me. Something in her life must have hurt her v badly: I feel sorry for her, I tell Carol.

We practise change ringing some more, but we are a long way from the proper sound of the rich cascade, the rising and falling scales.

At the end of the night we all leave the hall together and I see that the old homeless woman has come back, and is sleeping in the porch again. I feel v embarrassed re: this being a sign of my bad management. Can just see Mrs Henderson using this as an excuse to take my position re: closing up at night.

“Come on,” I say to the woman while Mrs Henderson and the others are standing in the warm light of the doorway. “I told you, you can’t sleep here.” I hear harrumphing behind me. It is Mrs Henderson.

“John,” she says, “this is a church. Let her sleep. You want to sleep here, don’t you?”

Porch lady mumbles something about the bells.

“You see?” says Mrs Henderson. “I can even bring her some tins of food in the morning.”

I am speechless. She has cornered me re: it being a church. I am unable to say anything, and the group sweeps out into the night as I lock up. The porch lady has already begun to snore.

Fri Dec 11

The point of change ringing is not to play hymns or tunes, I tell Carol while the girls make themselves spaghetti, still in uniform. Change ringing bells are hung in special frames that allow the bell to swing through an arc of 360º degrees. There is a mechanical ingenuity to it all. Bell-ringing is harder than Sudoku, I say, and fends off Alzheimer’s. Carol nods. She has a spirit of kindness, as I am always telling her.

Sat Dec 12

The woman is in the porch again. By the open tins of tuna and beans around, I see Mrs Henderson has carried out her threat re: bringing her food. I feel desperate helplessness, and leave the woman to sleep. Can’t risk losing hold on the community right before the big event re: the introduction of Carol.

Sun Dec 13

People step over the sleeping woman on the way into morning service. I give hushed apologies to everyone I speak to. Mrs Henderson has the instincts of a panther re: where to tear at her prey. She raises the issue of the porch woman during the service, asks everyone to pray for her. I can taste copper, think I might be having a heart attack.

Thurs Dec 17

christmas close now. I didn’t even make a cake this week. “Oh that’s a shame,” Mrs Henderson said, glowing from head to toe. “I so enjoyed your rice crispie squares.” She is revelling in victory.

“Here pet,” she says to the old woman in the porch on the way out. “Why don’t you come sleep inside?”

She can’t sleep inside, I say. We have to lock the door.

“Lock the door?” she says. “John, this is a church. And who around here is going to steal from a church?”

I am trapped once again re: can’t suggest that anyone in the parish might be that sort. I feel the blood fill my face like a balloon. Mrs Henderson = the most formidable opponent I have ever encountered.

I lie awake at night thinking about the bells. Our cascade is just not coming together. Mrs Henderson = always off-beat, method is out of line. Due to the stress recently re: Carol, the bells and the woman in the porch, I am distracted and make mistakes too. People notice.

One practice left, on Christmas Eve.

Sun Dec 20

“We’ve discussed it,” Mrs Henderson tells me at the morning service. “We think you should leave the church door unlocked whenever it’s cold. For the lady.” She mouths the word ‘lady’ as though a dirty word.

But it’s December, I say. It’s always cold.

But they have discussed it. This is a coup. I am apoplectic re: this disaster.

Mon Dec 21

“Are you okay,” Carol asks me after work, when the girls are watching TV.

I think I am getting a stomach ulcer, I tell her.

Wed Dec 23

I come into the church to find the woman’s clothes hung up on the electric fires, the smell of damp. I am overjoyed re: this being a fire hazard, which = a matter for the rector, or even the council. I bring this up over the phone to several bell-ringers, but they hmm and ahh. It just feels like the whole refugee thing, Mrs Davies says. It feels terrible to be in there in the warm eating cake, while she’s outside.

Mrs Henderson has got to her already, it is clear.

Thurs Dec 24

“Maybe we should put up some Syrians in our house,” Carol tells me with one eye on the news. I look at the girls playing with their iPads on the sofa, imagine what Janice would say. My stomach feels full of broken glass.

I think I am going to stop the bell-ringing, I say. Heart not in it anymore. Stomach killing.

Later I send round an email.

Fri Dec 25

Change ringing bells are rung from the ‘mouth up’ position, I tell Carol as we’re filing into the church in the morning. My nerves re: her introduction are making me talk too much. Mrs Henderson is there greeting people. Don’t know when this was discussed. She has a large hat with flair and a cream jacket with a rosette. The trees are dripping and bright with rain.

When the rope is pulled, I continue telling Carol, the bell falls, then rises again to the ‘mouth up’ position. When the bell reaches that point, the ringer can pull it at the same interval as previously, and allow the bell to rest there momentarily — or they can pull it a touch before the point of balance. This is the essence of change ringing. The girls are looking to either side.

inside the church, when I am introducing the Davieses to Carol I see that the porch woman is sitting in the pews, with a circle of empty seats around her. She is shivering, and blowing into fingerless gloves.

Before the service starts, I leave Carol milling and go into the belfry. I breathe the smell of the ropes up there and the ancient varnish on the floorboards, the dust in the air and the damp. When I go back down and take my seat between Carol and the girls, Mrs Henderson comes to shake my hand. Her palm is cool and a little damp.

“I just wanted to say,” she says, “I met Carol earlier.” The two women make smiling eye contact. “What a treat she is,” Mrs Henderson says. “Such a generous spirit.”

Then she hurries off to get the bell-ringers ready. I sit in the pews and watch the rector step up to the altar, feel a rush of blood to my ears. High up in the steeple, the bell rings just once, and I breathe out.

(Paul MM Cooper’s first novel, River of Ink, published by Bloomsbury India, will be available in bookstores next month)

COMMENT NOW