THE CHIMING OF THE BELL 2

 THE CHIMING OF THE BELL  [Part 2 of 4]

By Richard Banks

Reasoning that the bell may merely have malfunctioned Sebastian departed at 8am to his near neighbour, Mr Watts, the owner of a firm of electricians, who was only too happy to dispatch his best workman, Bert, to conduct a full MOT of the bell from the point of pressing to the box of chimes over the under stairs cupboard. His employer’s confidence in him was fully justified when within minutes he located the fault. On enquiring of Sebastian how long he had had the bell and receiving the answer, “five years,” Bert sighed wearily, stating that it was a sad reflection on the makers of modern bells that their products seldom gave good service beyond four years. Indeed, at worse, they sometimes overheated causing fires. In his opinion, the only safe and sensible thing to do was to fit an entirely new bell, a Bexo Elite, that they not only had in stock but could fit that very afternoon.

         The offer gratefully accepted, Bert returned as promised and after twice sampling the delights of Margo’s premium blend tea departed in the early evening with a cheque for £400. The Elite was indeed a wonderful bell with a choice of one hundred ring tones and an illuminated bell press that although limited to a choice of fifteen colours could be programmed to flash on and off, like the lights on a Christmas tree. Deciding on a non-flashing pink they further decided, at Margo’s insistence, that the ring tone should be the Alleluia Chorus in honour of St Vera, their rock and protector, who had now restored to them the gift of undisturbed slumber.

         While Sebastian was grateful for St Vera’s help in the threshing of the bushes he had not forgotten the unkind blow she had inflicted on his toe. Nevertheless, if Margo wanted the Alleluia Chorus it was all the same to him, as long as he didn’t have to listen to it in the early hours of the morning. Convinced that this would not be the case he climbed the stairs that evening to their bedroom where Margo was already sleeping. Placing head on pillow he had no sooner closed his eyes than he too was asleep and resuming his journey up the Thames.

         On a tranquil summer’s evening the becalmed river was reflecting the moon and stars above. The world was a wonderful place, and he was about to burst into song with Louis Armstrong when either Louis’s mobile or Hopkins’s began to play another tune that, although in keeping with the general mood of celebration, contained worrying echoes of the waking world. To make matters worse the boat he was in hit a mermaid who was now shaking him vigorously by the arm. “Wake up,” it was saying and, as he opened his eyes, the mermaid, who was the spitting image of that new girl at the Bank, turned into Margo. The transition although not pleasing, was as nothing to his horror at the sound of many voices alleluia-ing.

         “Do something!” screamed Margo.

         Sebastian tumbled out of bed and tried to decide what he should be doing about what. Was the new bell also malfunctioning or, as first thought, were they under siege from malevolent bell ringers? Or could it be that he was still dreaming and that St Vera was now exacting her revenge for the indignities of the previous night. If so she was certainly giving it a good go but as his head cleared and the bell rang again it was the threat of intruders that caused him to charge over to the window and peer down onto his driveway. As before there was nothing to be seen and, after descending the stairs to assess the situation at ground level, he returned to bed.

         “Is everything all right?” asked Margo, more in hope than expectation.

         “It is now,” said Sebastian, “I’ve turned the damn thing off.”

         After a fretful night’s sleep, Sebastian departed again to the home of Mr Watts to complain that the new bell was no better than the last one. He was about to turn the corner out of the Mews when he almost collided with Mr Watts who declared that he was on his way to see Sebastian. It had happened to him, he spluttered, who could believe it, but seeing was believing and what he had seen he never thought possible on the law abiding streets of their dear town.

         “What’s happened?” asked Sebastian, struggling to keep pace with the rush of untoward events.

          Mr Watts attempted to reply but was assailed by a sudden breathlessness, apparently brought on by the events he was unable to describe, Sebastian insisted that he return home with himself for a restorative mug of strong brew tea. Having downed two mugs and three cream cakes Mr Watts found himself sufficiently recovered to tell all. His doorbell had also been rung. It was midnight and he had just finished his accounts for the week when the sound of Cliff Richard singing ‘Congratulations’ discordantly coincided with the striking of his hallway clock. Being only a short distance from the door he quickly opened it to find four burly figures, dressed head to foot in black and brandishing pick-axe handles. On issuing threats, in language that he would rather not repeat, they then seized his cash box, making their get-away in a car, even blacker than themselves. There was a bang that was surely a gunshot and Mr Watts had slammed shut his door which he dared not open again until this morning, when he had set out to warn Sebastian that they were both under siege from a dangerous gang of malignant bell ringers. As to their wider remit he had no certain knowledge, but could only speculate that it involved the total overthrow of law and order. He had, of course, phoned the Police who promised to send someone ’round the following week, but clearly, this might be too little too late. If they were to remain safe in their own homes they had no choice but to fend for themselves and, if necessary, take the fight to those who oppressed them.

         “What do you have in mind?” asked Sebastian, who was beginning to acquire some of Mr Watts’s former breathlessness.

         Mr Watts, who was now recovered to the point of cheerfulness, wasted no further time in announcing  ‘Operation Makesafe’ involving the fitting of burglar alarms and closed circuit television. Fortunately, he had exactly the right equipment in stock and, putting all other work aside, would install it in both their homes no later than the following evening.

          “But will that stop them breaking-in?” 

         Conceding that they were only a deterrent Mr Watts thanked Sebastian for drawing attention to the need for additional measures. As he was no doubt about to suggest they would also be needing electronically operated grills for all ground floor doors and windows. These were more difficult to procure - present waiting times being three months or more - but because of his many contacts in the trade he could guarantee their delivery and fitting within a week.

         “But how much is all this going to cost?” said Sebastian struggling to take in the new reality of life in the outer suburbs.

         Mr Watts assured him that it would not be as expensive as perhaps he feared. As Sebastian was a valued customer and dear friend he would, of course, do the work at cost price. Sebastian should view his very reasonable charge as an investment that in an increasingly lawless age would enhance the value of his house by 50%, if not more. Anyway, to be discussing cost was almost an irrelevance when what was at stake were the lives and well-being of older householders like Sebastian and Margo who would surely be robbed and murdered by those who, once in, could be expected to show no mercy.

         Margo who had left their front room to make further tea returned at the mention of her name and, on Mr Watts repeating his dystopian vision for suburban life, she implored her husband to act without delay and give Mr Watts the down payment he would be needing to commence operations. Interpreting this as a command he dare not disobey, and, further advised by Mr Watts that, “sixty thousand would do it for now,” Sebastian abandoned all belief in a rational world and inserted his debit card into Mr Watts’s machine.

 

(To be continued)

Copyright Richard Banks