A Single Thread Page 15

  “I’ll be fine,” Violet replied, conscious of Keith Bain behind her. She had imagined being alone with Arthur and the bells for a few minutes before the other ringers arrived. Now she felt awkward, and wondered if Keith Bain had come along as a kind of chaperone or – worse – a potential suitor. She couldn’t bear matchmaking. In Southampton friends had tried over the years, and it had never worked. There was normally a reason why the man was still single: overbearing, or humourless, or self-absorbed, or with a disinclination to wash. And she had a perverse reaction to being told she would like someone. When she was a child, if her mother said she would like a particular dress or toy or pudding, Violet almost willed herself to hate it.

  They arrived at the top of the spiral stairs, and she was pleased not to be out of breath. Arthur opened a door, and unexpectedly they stepped outside and onto a parapet. To their left was the Cathedral roof, with the squat tower beyond. But they turned naturally to the right and took in the view over the southern part of Winchester. Below them was the Inner Close and Church House where the broderers met; Violet could see straight into the room at the end where she sometimes worked – empty now on a Sunday. There was the big cupboard she had been told to sort on her first day, and the windowsill where she had laid out the hanks of blue wool. Beyond the Inner Close lay Winchester College, where boys in suits walked between buildings; then houses, the water meadows by the Itchen, and in the distance, St Catherine’s Hill.

  “People do like a horizon,” Arthur commented. “I could look at this view all day. But we must get on.” He opened a door to their left and led them back inside.

  Violet held back a gasp. On the left, a bank of clear narrow windows lit the area directly around them, but to the right was a long cavernous space, traversed by a narrow walkway with handrails on each side, extending far ahead into the dark. After a moment, she realised it was the length of the Cathedral nave, from the window at her back to the tower over the transepts, where the bells were. All along were huge wooden beams that lined and followed the shape of the Cathedral roof. It was like being in the attic of a house, where you could see the wood skeleton holding the whole structure together. But it was the biggest attic imaginable – the size of a football pitch. Violet stood on the edge of it and stared, then sniffed, taking in the smell of many tons of heated wood, for it was warm up here.

  “Oak,” Arthur said. “Much of it almost a thousand years old, taken from one of William the Conqueror’s nearby forests. Apparently the bishop in charge of constructing the Cathedral asked the King if they could take wood from his forest. William said they could use three days’ worth of cutting. The bishop then gathered as many men as possible, and they cut down the whole forest apart from one oak! The King was not pleased.”

  “Poor wee William lost his wood,” Keith Bain remarked, and Violet snorted. Arthur frowned; he seemed irritated by their frivolity.

  “Have a look here.” He nodded at one of the windows. “Graffiti.” Carved into the stone mullions were names and numbers, a shield, a skull and crossbones. 1871. Barratt. Packer. 1790. Feb 17. All rough yet stylised.

  “Gosh, even in a cathedral,” she said.

  “People like to make their mark. You’ll see graffiti everywhere. Down in the presbytery there’s even a bellringer. Next time you’re there, look out for ‘Harey Coppar’.”

  “There’s a bit in the ringing chamber as well,” Keith Bain added. “I’ll show you.”

  “Old graffiti, of course. William would have our guts for garters if we did such a thing now.”

  “William?”

  “William Carver. Tower Captain. He’s been ringing here for thirty-nine years – a year longer than me. You’ll meet him today.”

  Arthur has rung here for as long as I have been alive, Violet thought. It was rare that someone made her feel young. Yet Arthur Knight did not seem old to her.

  “Best to keep out of Carver’s way,” Keith Bain said. “He’s a stickler, that one. Charges ringers a fine for being late. I wonder what he’ll think of a woman in the chamber!”

  Arthur grimaced at these words and turned away. Violet wondered if he was regretting Keith Bain’s ebullient company. He led them along the wooden walkway, shining his torch at Violet’s feet. Below them were huge cement-covered humps that dipped down into valleys, like a giant egg carton, following the vaulted Cathedral ceiling they were walking above. As they stepped, the wood creaked under their feet. It was quiet here in the Cathedral’s attic, without the hubbub of the visitors and worshippers. Violet felt as if she were inside an enormous whale, its ribs the wooden beams.

  Eventually they reached another door. Arthur turned and nodded at Violet’s camel-coloured cloche. “There is an ancient rule in ringing chambers: no hats worn – or spurs!” He removed his trilby, and Violet and Keith Bain followed suit, Violet smoothing down her hair. Then they left the dark cavern behind and stepped into the ringing chamber. It was a large, square room about forty feet across, the stone walls made up of Romanesque arches and columns. Swooping down and up again from a dozen holes in the high ceiling were ropes, the ends looped around two grappling hooks up high, filling the space above their heads like large rope chandeliers, decorated with woolly sections striped red, white and blue, similar to those that Violet had seen at Nether Wallop.

  “The striped bit is called the sally,” Arthur said as she studied them. “I named my daughter after it.”

  There was a case full of books and magazines about bellringing, a notice board, and a line of chairs along one wall. Keith Bain showed her an old carving on one of the walls of a bellringer wearing a waistcoat. On other walls hung wood plaques painted with gold lettering, mostly listing names of bellringers and what they rang. Violet studied them: Ringers at Coronation of King Edward VII, 9th August 1902. On the Feast of St Stephen, December 26th 1903, Kent Treble Bob Royal, 5,040 changes was rung on these bells in 3 hours & 35 minutes. On Saturday 8th September 1923, in 3 hours & 55 minutes, was rung upon the bells in this tower, a peal of Stedman Cinques, 5,019 changes. It was like reading mediaeval English – familiar, yet not.

  “Those commemorate peals rung here,” Arthur explained.

  Violet stared. “A peal takes three hours and fifty-five minutes to ring?”

  “Sometimes, depending upon the weight and number of bells. A peal always takes over three hours, and goes through over five thousand changes.”

  “Without stopping?”

  “Without stopping. No time for a break, a cup of tea, any of that.”

  “My word. Why do you do it?”

  “It is my greatest joy. I’ve rung thirty-seven of them over the years.”

  “What exactly is a peal?”

  Arthur pointed above them. “There are twelve bells up there. Each time they all ring one after the other is a round, or a change. You remember from Nether Wallop? Now, you know one round that is familiar – the descending scale. Imagine that you are ringing eight bells and you ring that scale. Next you switch the order of two of the bells – say the first and second bells – so that change is slightly different from the last one. Then you switch two more, or two pairs at the same time. Each time it sounds slightly different. Do you know how many variations there are with eight bells?”

  Violet shook her head.

  “Think back to your maths,” Keith Bain put in.

  “That was long ago.”

  The men looked disappointed, so she tried harder.

  “Factorials,” Keith Bain hinted. “How would you find out how many combinations there are of three numbers?”

  A memory floated up to Violet of sitting in a dusty classroom with rows of other girls, scratchy in her school uniform, gazing out of the window and not seeming to pay attention to the teacher’s explanation that buzzed in the background like a fly. “3 x 2 x 1. Six combinations.”

  “That’s right. So with eight?”

  “8 x 7 x 6 x 5, and down to 1.”

  “What is the answer?”

  Violet sm
iled. “Must I?”

  “Good for your brain.”

  “40,320,” Arthur answered.

  “I expect you know how many combinations there are with twelve bells?”

  “479,001,600,” Keith Bain announced, triumphant.

  “Which means we shall be here for some time.”

  Arthur chuckled. “Not this afternoon. We only ring peals on special occasions. Peals are a sequence of changes, each one a different set pattern, depending on the number of bells. Each has a name. Stedman Cinques, for instance, was a pattern created in the seventeenth century by a man called Fabian Stedman; ‘Cinques’ means it was rung on eleven bells plus the tenor.”

  Violet was concentrating hard, but could follow little of what he said. Arthur smiled at her confusion. “Don’t worry – I have a few years’ more experience. It takes a long time to understand bellringing. Now, would you like to see the bells? It’s a bit of a climb, mind. Very steep and narrow. Do you think you can manage?”

  “Of course.”

  “Keith, will you bring down the spiders and pull off the chimes?” As Keith Bain began lowering the grappling hooks where the ropes were looped, Arthur showed her to another door across the chamber, where stairs led down. “That’s the other entrance, from outside the south transept. The tradesman’s entrance, we call it. But we’re going up.” He led the way up a set of stairs so narrow it was almost like climbing a ladder. Violet was thankful for a rope hanging down the righthand side, which she clutched onto and used to more or less haul herself up.

  The bell chamber had no niceties to make it comfortable – no lighting or chairs or carpet. It was a space for bells, not people, and was lit only by rays of sunlight slicing through the wooden shutters, which had been left slightly open in the Romanesque windows. She could just make out massive wood frames holding bells that stood upside down, their mouths open skywards like those of chicks wanting to be fed. But they were enormous chicks, more like bulls or elephants, made of dusty grey metal, silent and waiting.

  “My word,” was all she could say. Something about the bells’ presence left her speechless.

  Arthur seemed to understand. “I have seen these bells for going on forty years, and I never grow tired of the sight of them.”

  They began walking around the ring of bells. Violet waved at the largest. “This must weigh …” She couldn’t guess.

  “Thirty-five hundred-weight. Getting on for two tons. One of the largest tenors in England. Imagine getting it up here. Astonishing to think how they must have lifted heavy bells in mediaeval times. I saw them bring up two trebles when they augmented the ring back in 1921, but they had machines and chains and the bells were lighter than this. It’s a rare sight to see the bells hoisted up through the Cathedral. Mind you,” he added, “you may do so one of these days. The Tower Captain wants to convince Dean Selwyn to recast the bells.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re out of tune – something of an embarrassment for a cathedral as grand as this. Of course, it’s costly and the Dean won’t be happy about that. He’s not fond of bells, says they make a dreadful racket. Makes us keep most of the shutters closed.” Arthur pointed to them. “Those control how much sound leaves the tower.” He paused, gazing out over the bells. “It’s not just the noise, I expect. He’s jealous of us.”

  “Jealous? Why?”

  “It’s a little world up here – one he doesn’t have so much control over as he does below.”

  Violet thought of the broderers and their cosy relationship with the Dean. It was a women’s world, softer and more accommodating, looking to create outward beauty and comfort. It was very different from the bells, out of sight in the tower, making a curious sound that vanished as soon as it was created.

  They made their way back, Violet shifting sideways down the steep stairs. Several other men had arrived in the ringing chamber, most a similar age to Arthur. They had removed their jackets and were wearing waistcoats, their sleeves rolled up. They stared openly at Violet. Arthur brought her over to a solid man with intent dark eyes, tidy grey hair and a beard carefully cut to follow his jaw. “William, this is Miss Speedwell – she’s interested in the bells and has come to watch. I telephoned you yesterday about her visiting. Miss Speedwell, this is Mr Carver, the Tower Captain.”

  William Carver gave her a measured nod. “Miss Speedwell, do be sure to sit quietly. We don’t encourage talking during the service touch, so if you have any questions, ask them now.” He looked at her expectantly. Over his shoulder, Keith Bain was grinning.

  “I have no questions. But thank you for allowing me to be here.” Violet slunk over to the chairs lining the edge, feeling like a dog that has been scolded for lying on a forbidden bed. She sat and watched as each man went to stand by one of the twelve dangling ropes. William Carver switched a couple of them, and put Keith Bain on a box. One rope remained unmanned. William Carver frowned, switched two more men, then they bowed their heads as he recited: “Almighty God, who has called us to fulfil the office of bellringers of this Cathedral, grant us to be united and faithful in Thy service, that our ringing may be dedicated to Thy glory and the benefit of Thy people through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  As he finished, another man slipped in from the walkway. William Carver glanced at his watch. “A shilling in the jar, Gerald, then take the seventh. I don’t need to remind you of how important timeliness is for a service touch. We are expected to begin ringing at two thirty – not two thirty and thirty seconds, as it is now. By being tardy you are letting down not only the Cathedral, and the city’s residents, but us as well.”

  Though he was well past sixty, the latecomer looked as sheepish as a boy of six. He hurried over to a jar on a filing cabinet in the corner and dropped in a coin, then stepped up to his rope.

  William Carver moved to his own rope. “All right, lads, we’ll make a start. Rounds and then Grandsire Cinques.” He nodded at another man, who called out, “Look to. Treble’s going,” and as he began to pull, “She’s gone.” Each bell started to ring in its turn.

  There was much more space in this ringing chamber than there had been at Nether Wallop. Here, twelve men were ranged in a wide circle. For a few minutes they rang rounds, with four extra top notes, in the smooth, curious up-and-down movement, all at different times in the circle, following one another. Keith Bain was ringing the lowest, heaviest bell – the tenor, she remembered Arthur calling it. Standing on a box gave him more space and more leverage on his rope for the weight of the bell; he pulled easily, while clearly putting muscle into it. Violet tried to imagine his movement affecting the enormous bell she had just seen up in the belfry. It seemed impossible that pulling on a thin rope down here could make such a beast ring.

  Although there was a ceiling between them and the bells, it was still loud, and the tower was shaking slightly. Violet felt as if she were being buffeted about by the wind. She loved it.

  “Go Grandsire,” William Carver called out, and the order of the bells changed, then changed again, and again, until she was lost in the pattern of bells weaving their way up and down and through one another. All she could make out was that Keith Bain rang the tenor at the end of each change; if she watched him it was like following the beat of a bass drum keeping time.

  William Carver shouted something and they changed their way back to the descending scale, then stopped after he called, “Stand.” He swapped ringers and had Keith Bain and some others sat out while they rang Stedman Triples. Keith Bain dropped to the chair next to her. He was sweating.

  “Does it tire you?” she asked. “Ringing?”

  “Och, it’s not so bad.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “It’s just the tenor here gives you a bit of a fight ’cause it’s so heavy. It’s got a mind of its own, and me with just a rope to control it. Old Carver puts me on it most of the time, or leaves me out, till he can trust me.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When he’s in his grave!” Keith Bain answered i
n a stage whisper, making her laugh. William Carver looked at them, his neutral gaze somehow as powerful as a glare. Violet stopped. Arthur too was watching them, his expression hard to read. Was he pleased she was getting on with Keith Bain, or annoyed that his ringing protégé had managed to catch her attention? She dropped her eyes to her feet, embarrassed, and did not look up again until the ringers were safely away into their changes.

  It appeared there was no room to think of anything apart from the ropes – your own and others’ – and the rhythm of the pulling. It was mesmerising, watching the men watch each other. Some looked around quite clearly, turning their heads from one ringer to another. Others did not move at all but stared into the middle distance; yet with their peripheral vision they were aware of their neighbours.

  Keith Bain was watching her watch them. “It’s called ropesight,” he whispered. “Being aware of what the others are doing, who’s pulling when and how you fit in.”

  Violet watched the movement, and listened to the bells, and after a while the two wove together and for a moment it became all one thing, the men pulling and the bells ringing in and out of each other. It was like watching a dance, and listening to it too. Then the bells lost their form back into randomness, which shortly turned into the descending scale. For that brief moment, though, it had made sense to her, and she understood what the draw of bellringing was. Then William Carver called, “Stand,” and they went silent.

  I want to do that, she thought.

  Keith Bain jumped up and went back to the tenor. This time Arthur had a break and sat down beside her. “Do women ever ring?” she asked.

  “A few. The White sisters in Basingstoke rang. Alice White was the first woman to ring a full peal in the country.”

  “When was there last a woman in this tower?”

  There was a pause, then: “That would be my wife, on the 22nd of January 1919.”

  The date was so specific that Violet knew there was a tale to go with it. She waited. Arthur would explain in his own time.