THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 1

 THE CHIMING OF THE BELL    [Part 1 of 4]

By Richard Banks 

When the doorbell rang Sebastian was in a rowing boat somewhere between Maidenhead and Henley. He had been exploring the upper reaches of the Zambezi but having turned a bend in the river he was now on the Thames rowing side by side with Hopkins from Accounts. He had never liked Hopkins. Was it him responsible for the ringing? Yes, of course, it was. Typical of Hopkins never to be separated from his mobile. But worse was to come! The cad had no sooner pulled it from the inside pocket of his suit jacket when he used it to prod him spitefully, in the ribs. He was about to hit back when a voice that was not Hopkins’s demanded that he wake up. As he did so, the same voice asked him if he had heard, “that.” He was considering his reply when he realised that the voice belonged to Margo and that she was unlikely to be reassured by any explanation involving his former colleague. As if to clarify the situation Margo switched-on her bedside lamp and they both peered up at the ceiling, their eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden dazzle of light.

         “Well?” she said.

         “Well, what?” replied Sebastian. 

         “Aren’t you going to answer the door?”

         Sebastian stared peevishly at his alarm clock and considered who might be calling at 2.30 in the morning. A number of scenarios passed swiftly through his mind: it might be a gang of desperadoes ready to burst through the door the moment he opened it; or the police with dire warnings of a major incident requiring their evacuation of their house, or perhaps nothing more alarming than a practical joker who having rang their bell, and possibly several others in the street, was now beating a rapid retreat. Then, of course, there was Tamsin, their daughter, but she was backpacking in India and wasn’t due back for a month. 

         Margo was also thinking of Tamsin and had devised a scenario of her own in which she had been captured by bandits who were now at the front door with a ransom demand. “For gourds sake,” she shrieked, “get down there, and take your debit card with you.” 

         But Sebastian had now settled on an altogether more agreeable explanation in which a bird or squirrel had inadvertently brushed against the bell, a one in ten thousand chance, unlikely to be repeated. He had opened his mouth with the intention of communicating this hypothesis to Margo when the bell rang again and she responded by pushing him towards the edge of their king-size double bed.

         “Quick now!” she urged, fearing that the kidnappers might interpret the delayed opening of their door as meaning they were not at home and therefore unavailable for hostage negotiation. 

         Sebastian staggered out of bed and flung on his dressing gown only to find, when halfway down the stairs, that the cord that should have fastened the garment about his waist had escaped from the loops that kept it in place. He had envisaged opening the door with one hand while leaving the other one free to defend himself, if necessary, with the brass figurine of Saint Vera that stood on the hallway table next to the telephone. But to do this now would inevitably cause his dressing gown to flap open revealing the words, ‘Sexy Seb’ on the vivid red pyjamas that Margo had brought him for Christmas. It was a dilemma that Sebastian attempted to resolve by thrusting Saint Vera head first into the waistband of his pyjamas while clutching the dressing gown to his chest and, with his free hand, swinging open the door with a boldness that he hoped would be disconcerting to those outside. 

         He peered out into the darkness at the gloomy outline of the bushes that bordered all three sides of his front garden but whoever it was who had rang the bell was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the perpetrator might be hiding nearby. If this was a joke he, or they, would surely be wanting the satisfaction of seeing him on the doorstep in his night attire. If so, they now had the unexpected bonus of seeing him cry-out in anguish as St Vera breaking free from his pyjamas, slid down his left trouser leg to administer divine retribution on his big toe. As Margo was later to say, the cry of anguish that escaped his lips was perfectly understandable given the trying circumstances, but to shout out that dreadful word, the very worse of words, that was surely heard by everyone in Greenacre Mews, was a blot on their good name that might never be expunged. Had she witnessed the spectacle of Sebastian hopping up and down on one foot, in danger of exposing more than the words on his pyjama jacket she would have had further grounds for complaint, but having not ventured from their bedroom she was never to be aware of this further transgression. 

         On hearing the door slam shut and Sebastian muttering angrily to himself she deemed it safe to venture down the stairs and take command. This was clearly a matter for the Police but on dialling 999 she found them surprisingly reluctant to dispatch a police car. This they explained was something they did only when someone had been murdered or when they had certain knowledge that a robbery was in progress and likely to continue so for at least fifteen minutes, which was the Force’s average response time. If that should ever be the case they would be delighted to send one of their two patrol cars, subject to their availability within the County, but until then she was best advised to phone 101, their call centre, which had all sorts of useful advice including the latest locks which, he felt sure, would deter all but the most persistent of housebreakers. Indeed they recommended that she make the call now, without delay, as daytime calls normally had a waiting time of two to three hours.

         “But that’s not good enough,” protested Margo, “I demand to speak to your superior officer.” The emergency service voice repressed a yawn before imparting the information that Commissioner Parker was not available for comment but that his views on various topics of concern could be found on his countywide blog, ‘Don’t Blame Me’. Margo did not know what a blog was, but surmising that it was unlikely to be of any practical assistance, registered her dissatisfaction by replacing the receiver with a sharp rap that she hoped would be unpleasant to whoever it was she had been speaking to. 

         She had no sooner done so when the doorbell rang again. Sebastian, ready for action now that he had fastened his dressing gown, executed an upward motion reminiscent of a high-dunking basketball player before snatching up St Vera and charging towards the door. On pulling it open with a violence that caused their sunflowers print to come crashing down from the wall he peered out again at the same deserted scene. Convinced that the perpetrators had taken refuge in the bushes he rushed at the nearest one determining that St Vera should deliver a blow every bit as painful as the one she had inflicted on himself. Having flushed out nothing more than a protesting sparrow he moved on to the next bush and then the next until halfway along the front border he sunk to his knees exhausted by his vigorous, but unavailing, onslaught. 

         Fearing that he was now vulnerable to counterattack Margo rushed out pulling him upright and pushing him back into the house. On slamming the door shut they now took turns in peering through a gap in their front room curtains. After an hour in which they saw a prowling cat and several foxes, they retreated into their kitchen diner where they drank strong brew tea and listened to news bulletins on Radio 4 in case the bell ringing was part of a widespread outbreak of civil disorder. On finding this was not the case, or that it had escaped the attention of Radio 4, they finally took courage with the return of daylight. 

(to be continued)

By Richard Banks