The Bell

CHAPTER 19

“WELL, and what happened then?” said James Tayper Pace.

It was the next morning, and James and Michael were in the greenhouse picking tomatoes. The good weather was breaking, and although the sun still shone, a strong wind, which had arisen towards dawn, was sweeping across the kitchen garden. The tall lines of runner-beans swayed dangerously and Patchway went about his work with one hand clutching his hat. Inside the greenhouse however all was quiet and the warm soil-scented air and the firm red bunches of fruit made an almost tropical peace. Today all routines were altered because of the arrival of the bell, which was due to be delivered some time during the morning. The Bishop was to make his appearance during the afternoon, and after the baptism service would partake of tea with the community, a meal which, in the form of a stand-up buffet, was being planned on a grand scale by Margaret Strafford. He would then stay the night and officiate at the more elaborate rites on the following morning.

“Nothing happened,” said Michael. “After I met Paul I went with him to the Lodge. Toby wasn’t there. We came away again and I went back to bed and Paul wandered off to do some more searching. When I saw him this morning he said that he went back to his room about three-quarters of an hour later and found Dora there. She said it was such a hot night she’d been for a walk round the lake.”

James laughed his gruff booming laugh and lined another box with newspaper. “I’m afraid”, he said, “that Mrs Greenfield is what is popularly called a bitch. I’m sorry to say so, but one must call things by their names. Only endless trouble comes from not doing so.”

“You say you didn’t hear any noise in the night?”said Michael.

“Not a sound. But I’m so dead tired these days I sleep like the proverbial log. The last trump wouldn’t wake me. They’d have to send a special messenger!”

Michael was silent. Nimbly he fingered the glowing tomatoes, warm with the sun and firm with ripeness. The boxes were filling fast.

James went on, “One oughtn’t to laugh, of course. I can’t believe anything serious happened last night. Paul is a dreadful alarmist and a chronically jealous man. All the same, we ought to keep an eye on things; and I think it’s regrettable that they’ve gone as far as they have.”

“Yes,” said Michael.

“I’m sure Toby and Dora have done nothing but run around together like a couple of youngsters,” said James. “Dora is just about his mental age anyway. But with a woman like that you can’t be sure that there wouldn’t be some gesture, some word that might upset him. After all, he’s not like my young East-enders. He’s been a very sheltered child. A boy’s first intimations of sex are so important, don’t you think? And tampering with the young’s a serious matter.”

“Quite,” said Michael.

“It’s a pity”, said James, “that we seem to have made so little impression on Mrs G. I wish she’d have a talk with Mother Clare. I’m sure it’d straighten her out a bit. That girl’s just a great emotional mess at present. I feel we’ve let Paul down rather.”

“Possibly,” said Michael.

“And you know, we’re fully responsible for the boy,”said James. “He came here, after all, as a sort of retreat, a preparation for Oxford. Of course there’s nothing seriously amiss in his rampaging around with Dora in a companionable way – but I think someone ought to put in a word.”

“Who to?” said Michael.

“To Dora, I’d say,” said James. “Appealing to Dora’s better nature may turn out to be a difficult operation. I fear that girl is a blunt instrument at the best of times – and also resembles the jeune homme de Dijon qui n”avait aucune religion! But even if she doesn’t care about her husband’s blood pressure she ought to show some respect for the boy. She should see that point. Suppose you gave her a little kindly admonition, Michael?”

“Not me,” said Michael.

“Well, how about Margaret?” said James. “Margaret is such a motherly soul and Dora seems to like her – and maybe that sort of advice would come better from a woman. Why, here is Margaret!”

Michael looked up sharply. Margaret Strafford could be seen running along the concrete path towards them her full skirt flapping in the wind. Michael interpreted her portentous haste immediately and his heart sank.

Margaret threw open the door, letting in a great blast of chill air. “Michael,” she cried, delighted with her commission, “the Abbess wants to see you at once!”

“I say, you are in luck!” said James. Their two bright amiable faces looked at him enviously.

Michael washed his hands at the tap in the corner of the greenhouse and dried them on his handkerchief. “Sorry to leave you with the job,” he said to James. “Excuse me if I dash.”

He set off at a run down the path which led along behind the house to the lake. It was customary to run when summoned by the Abbess. As he turned to the left towards the causeway the full blast of the wind caught him. It was almost blowing a gale. Then he saw, looking across the other reach of the lake, that an enormous lorry had just emerged from the trees of the avenue and was proceeding at a slow pace along the open part of the drive. It must be the bell. He should have been interested, excited, pleased. He noted its arrival coldly and forgot it at once. He turned onto the causeway. He felt certain that the Abbess must know all about Toby. It was irrational to think this. How could she possibly have found out? Yet it was astonishing what she knew. Breathlessly, as he reached the wooden section in the centre of the causeway, he slowed down. His footsteps echoed hollow upon the wood. He had not expected this summons. He felt as if he were about to undergo some sort of spiritual violence. He felt closed, secretive, unresponsive, almost irritated.

At the corner of the parlour building Sister Ursula was waiting. She always acted watchdog to audiences with the Abbess. Her large commanding face beamed approval at Michael from some way off. She saw the summons as a sign of special grace. After all, interviews with the Abbess were coveted by all and granted only to a few.

“In the first parlour,” she said to Michael, as he passed her mumbling a salutation.

Michael burst into the narrow corridor and paused a moment to get his breath before opening the first door. The gauze panel was drawn across on his side in front of the grille and there was silence beyond. It was usual for the person summoned to arrive first. Michael pulled back the panel on his side to reveal the grille and the second gauze panel on the far side which screened the opposite parlour inside the enclosure. Then he straightened his shirt collar – he was wearing no tie – buttoned up his shirt, smoothed down his hair, and made a strenuous effort to become calm. He stood, he could not bring himself to sit down, looking at the blank face of the inner panel.

After a minute or two during which he could feel the uncomfortable violence of his heart he heard a movement and saw a dim shadow upon the gauze. Then the panel was pulled open and he saw the tall figure of the Abbess opposite to him, and behind her another little room exactly similar to his. He genuflected in the accustomed way and waited for her to sit down. Slightly smiling she sat, and motioned him to be seated too. Michael pulled his chair well up to the grille and sat down on the edge of it sideways so that their two heads were close together.

“Well, my dear son, I’m glad to see you,” said the Abbess in the brisk voice with which she always opened an audience.“I hope I haven’t chosen the most dreadfully inconvenient time? You must be so busy today.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” said Michael, “it’s a good time for me.” He smiled at her through the bars. His irritation, at least, was gone, overwhelmed by the profound affection which, mingled with respect and awe, he felt for the Abbess. Her bright, gentle, authoritative, exceedingly intelligent face, its long dry wrinkles as if marked with a fine tool, the ivory light from her wimple reflected upon it, reminiscent of some Dutch painting, reminded him of his mother, so long ago dead.

“I’m in a dreadful rush myself,” said the Abbess. “I just felt I wanted to see you. It’s been ages now, hasn’t it? And there are one or two little business details. I won’t keep you long.”

Michael felt relieved by this exordium. He had been afraid of being in some way hauled over the coals: and this was not the moment at which he wanted an intimate talk with the Abbess. In his present state he felt that any pressure from her would tip him over into a morass of profitless self-accusation. Taking courage from her business-like tone he said, “I think everything’s in train for tonight and tomorrow. Margaret Strafford has been doing marvels.”

“Bless her!” said the Abbess. “We’re all so excited, we can hardly wait for tomorrow morning. I believe the Bishop is arriving this afternoon? I hope I shall catch a glimpse of him before he goes. He’s such a busy man. So good of him to give us his time.”

“I hope he won’t think we’re a lot of ineffectual muddlers,” said Michael. “I’m afraid the procession tomorrow may be a bit wild and impromptu. There’s plenty of goodwill, but not much spit and polish!”

“So much the better!” said the Abbess. “When I was a girl I often saw religious processions in Italy and they were usually quite chaotic, even the grand ones. But it seemed to make them all the more spontaneous and alive. I’m sure the Bishop doesn’t want a drill display. No, I’ve no doubt tomorrow will be splendid. What I really wanted to ask you about was the financial question.”

“We’ve drafted the appeal,” said Michael, “and we’ve made a list of possible Friends of Imber. I’d be very grateful if you’d cast your eye over both documents. I thought, subject to your views, we’d send the appeal out about a fortnight from now. We can cyclostyle it ourselves at the Court.”

“That’s right,” said the Abbess. “I think, for a cause of this kind, not a printed appeal. After all, it’s something quite domestic, isn’t it? There are times when money calls to money, but this isn’t one of them. We’re only writing to our friends. I’d like to see what you’ve done, if you’d send it in today by Sister Ursula. We can probably add some names to the list. I wonder what sort of publicity our bell will get? That might help in some quarters, mightn’t it? I see no harm in the world being reminded, very occasionally, that we exist!”

Michael smiled. “I thought of that too,” he said.“That’s why I don’t want the appeal delayed. We won’t have any journalists present of course. Not that any have shown signs of wanting to turn up. But I’ve prepared a hand-out for the local press, and a shorter one for the national press. I talked the wording over with Mother Clare. And I’ve asked Peter to take some photographs which we might send along as well.”

“Well done,” said the Abbess. “I just can’t think how you find the time to do all the things you do do. I hope you aren’t overworking. You look rather pale.”

“I’m in excellent health,” said Michael. “There’ll be a let-up in a week or two anyway. I’m sure the others are working far harder than I am. James and Margaret simply never stop.”

“I’m worried about your young friend at the Lodge,”said the Abbess.

Michael breathed in deeply. That was it after all. He could feel a hot blush spreading up into his face. He kept his eyes away from the Abbess, fixing them on one of the bars beyond her head. “Yes?” he said.

“I know it’s very difficult,” said the Abbess, “and of course I know very little about it, but I feel he’s not exactly getting what he came to Imber to get.”

“You may be right,” said Michael tonelessly, waiting for the direct attack.

“I expect it’s largely his own fault,” said the Abbess, “but he is dreadfully out of things, isn’t he? And will be more so when Catherine is in with us “

Michael realized with a shock of relief that the Abbess was speaking of Nick, not of Toby. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were sharp. “I know,” he said. “It’s been very much on my mind. I ought to have done more about it. I’ll see to it that something is done. I’ll put someone, perhaps James, quite seriously on his tail. We’ll move him up to the house and just make him join in somehow. But as you say, it’s not easy. He doesn’t want to work. I’m afraid he’s only putting in a little time here. He’ll soon be off to London.”

“He’s a mauvais sujet to be sure,” said the Abbess, “and that’s all the more reason for us to take trouble. But a man like that does not come to a place like this for fun. Of course he came to be near Catherine. But the fact that he wants to be near her now, and the fact that he wants to stay in the community and not in the village, are at least suggestive. We cannot be certain that there is not some genuine grain of hope for better things. And if I may say so, the person who ought to be, as you express it, on his tail, is not James, but you.”

Michael sustained her gaze which was quizzical rather than accusing. “I find him difficult to deal with,” he said.“But I’ll think carefully about it.” He felt an increased determination not to be frank with the Abbess.

The Abbess studied his face. “I confess to you”, she said, “that I feel worried and I’m not quite sure why. I feel worried about him and I feel worried about you. I wonder if there’s anything you’d like to tell me?”

Michael held on to his chair. From behind her the spiritual force of the place seemed to blow upon him like a gale. It was ironical, he reflected, that when he had wanted to tell the Abbess all about it she had not let him and now when she wanted to know he would not tell her. The fact was, he wanted her advice but not her absolution; and he could not ask the one without seeming to ask the other. Not that the Abbess would be tolerant. But he shied away almost with disgust from the idea of revealing to her his pitiable state of confusion. The story of Nick she almost certainly knew already in outline; what she wanted was to understand his present state of mind, and that would inevitably involve the story of Toby. If he began to tell the whole tale he knew that he could not tell it, now, without an absurd degree of emotion and without indulging in that particular brand of self-pity which he had been used to mistake for penitence. Silence was cleaner, better, in such a case. Looking down he saw, laid along the ledge of the grille, quite near to him like a deliberate temptation, infinitely wrinkled and pale, her hand, which had been covered with the tears of better men than himself. If he were to reach out to that hand he was lost. He averted his eyes and said, “I don’t think so.”

The Abbess went on looking at him for a little while, while he, feeling shrivelled and small and dry, looked at the corner of the room behind her. She said, “You are most constantly in our prayers. And your friend too. I know how much you grieve over those who are under your care: those you try to help and fail, those you cannot help. Have faith in God and remember that He will in His own way and in His own time complete what we so poorly attempt. Often we do not achieve for others the good that we intend; but we achieve something, something that goes on from our effort. Good is an overflow. Where we generously and sincerely intend it, we are engaged in a work of creation which may be mysterious even to ourselves – and because it is mysterious we may be afraid of it. But this should not make us draw back. God can always show us, if we will, a higher and a better way; and we can only learn to love by loving. Remember that all our failures are ultimately failures in love. Imperfect love must not be condemned and rejected, but made perfect. The way is always forward, never back.”

Michael, facing her now, nodded slightly. He could not trust himself to utter any words after this speech. She turned her hand over, opening the palm towards him. He took it, feeling her cool dry grip.

“Well, I’ve kept you too long, dear child,” said the Abbess. “I’d like to see you again in a little while, when this hurly-burly’s done. Try not to overwork, won’t you?”

Michael bent over her hand. Closing his eyes he kissed it and pressed it to his cheek. Then he raised a calm face to her. He felt obscurely that by his silence he had won a spiritual victory. He felt that he merited her approval. They both rose, and as Michael bowed to her again she closed the gauze panel and was gone.

He stood a while in the silent room looking at the bars of the grille and at the blank shut door of the panel behind them. Then he closed the panel on his side. How well she knew his heart. But her exhortations seemed to him a marvel rather than a practical inspiration. He was too tarnished an instrument to do the work that needed doing. Love. He shook his head. Perhaps only those who had given up the world had the right to use that word.