Vicars in most country parishes are not renowned for innovation.
In fact, a vicar trying to break with the past and move on into a bright future
is the exception rather than the rule.
Mordred Mortimer might have been burdened with an
unnecessarily esoteric name, but not with a guilty conscience when he made the
recording secretly at a bell-ringing rehearsal and did not tell anyone until it
had been edited and tested, which of course gave the game away, since
bell-ringers no longer had to turn up to practise at peculiar times, such as
before breakfast on a Saturday morning.
There was a storm of protest, but M.M., as he preferred to
be called, explained at length that bell-ringing was dying out, at least in
Upper Grumpsfield; lamentably, there seemed to be no desire on the part of the
younger generation to learn the craft.
In time people got used to the new arrangement and the
protests died down. However, before he could abolish the church choir, coffee
mornings, any flowers apart from artificial ones (he suffered from allergies)
and other traditional customs, M.M. was promoted to an administrative job
elsewhere that involved rationalizing anything he spotted that could save the
church money, time and energy, or preferably all three.
Mr Parsnip eventually took over the parish after a short
interim period when there was the regular vicar was a nice old guy recalled
from retirement, but unfortunately went to higher grounds after only a few
months in charge of St Peter’s. The new vicar had been wasting away in a
clerical function when opportunity knocked and he was gratified that his talent
for the pulpit would at last be recognized.
This new permanent vicar of St Peter’s, vicar by trade but evangelist
by nature, was sure that he was poor substitute for Mordred Mortimer, who had
hoisted himself so successfully into his new job through shrewd self-marketing.
His successor had not lived long enough to make much of an impression. All the
other candidates had been rejected by the congregation, who drove their point
by staying away and writing angry letters to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the
Prime Minister, and the head of the BBC. M.M. was a bit of a trial sometimes,
but there would never be another Marilyn, many said. Most could not even
remember the name of the elderly gentleman who presided after M. M., a
situation that was definitely favourable for Mr Parsnip. The new vicar had once
spent a few weeks evangelizing on Tunisian beaches, financed by an evangelical
society supporting volunteers for such an adventure. He saw his new job as
having missionary quality, but in the end he left things just as M.M. had left
them, in the hope that he would not antagonize anyone.
So the recording of the bells continued to be played until
one bright Sunday morning, it conked out. The antiquated tape simply scraped to
a halt and parishioners were left wondering whether the morning service had
been cancelled. The incident was not only inconvenient, but seriously
embarrassing for Mr Parsnip, who hated disorder despite the fact that he was a
specialist at creating it. His lunch gave him indigestion, Edith chastised him
for not having noticed that the tape had already been out of sync for some time
and Dorothy Price, who was at supposedly responsible for the music at St Peter’s
and had hated the recording, rang him up and told him to do something about it
immediately.
Dorothy had moved back to Upper Grumpsfield long after the
tape recording had been installed and it had often occurred to her that it was
a poor substitute for the real thing. Now she wished she had complained to the
aged vicar. Mr Parsnip wished she had, too, for then maybe – just maybe – he
would have given it some thought before he was forced to. With Easter looming
up, he could not leave St Peter’s completely bell-less for a day longer than
necessary. It was not that Mr Parsnip had a good idea all of his own accord,
but that a good idea forced itself on him, this being a common occurrence in Mr
Parsnip’s life.
His argument, compiled on his swivelling chair while he
sharpened all his pencils in an action he found comforting in times of stress,
went roughly on the lines of: If Delilah can introduce that karaoke thingamajig
to the village I can revive one of our old traditions.
He was really pleased with that bit of reasoning. It was a
good cover for his acute embarrassment about the ghastly noises broadcast by the
tape recording the morning it finally ground to a halt.
Switching the bells off in the bell tower was actually the vicar’s
job via a connection under the pulpit. They had been switched on earlier by the
organist. Mr Morgan had not reported anything amiss.
On that fateful Sunday morning everything went wrong. He overslept,
and Edith did not get him moving in time to shake hands with all the parishioners.
He was in a panic because he had not quite finished composing his sermon, so he
would be forced to improvise the end. The church was still cold because no one
had put the heating on, so Gareth Morgan shivered as he produced the massive
orchestral chords that submerged the bells.
The moment when the bells gave up the ghost was only really noticed
by anyone outside within hearing distance since the organ was doing a
magnificent job of drowning them out, and by Dorothy, who happened to be standing
near the main door. Frederick Parsnip had pressed the button and nothing had
happened. He pressed it again and there was a horrible screeching as the tape
got faster and higher. Gareth Morgan stopped his organ-playing to wait for Mr
Parsnip to switch off the recording, but he heard the awful screeching and
realization spread across his face. Eventually, an uneasy silence filled the
church and its surroundings.
It was not that Mr Morgan cared who knew the bells were a
fraud. His organ-playing was normally superimposed on the noise they made. But
due to the lack of forewarning, people who relied on the bells to chivvy them
out of their Sunday morning lethargy were still trickling into church long
after Mr Parsnip had made the week’s announcements, which forced him to repeat
them all at the end of the service. The people who were already in church had
exclaimed in horror before the noise of the tape ground to a high-pitched end
actually applauded when it did.
Afterwards Mr Parsnip could have kicked himself for not
making a clean breast of it. Of course, the congregation knew it was a
recording, but as long as it functioning it was acceptable. The vicar’s sermon
had been all about music being the food of love and included a rather inappropriate
sonnet by the great bard. But after all, Shakespeare had opened Twelfth Night
with that very argument. The line continued by saying ‘play on’ and that had
provoked a roar of laughter from those who had heard the cacophony the bell
recording had produced that morning, and that was, of course, everybody..
The vicar was in shock. Edith told him later that he should
have paid more attention to detail, but he didn’t ask her what she meant. He
thought she was scolding him for telling everyone he was himself unmusical and
wished he could sing instead of referring to biblical texts and Shakespeare.
The vicar circumvented a serious discussion on the topic of
bells with Edith, who invariably pointed out that any scheme he invented would
not work, was too expensive, too complicated, too everything, in short bound to
flop. He had heard her vetos often enough on other occasions.
Now he would do what he always did when faced with a
conundrum: he would consult Dorothy the following day. She would at least put
on a show of sympathy, however exasperated she felt.
After his confrontation with the police car a few months
earlier, which had knocked all the stuffing out of his rusty old bike, Mr
Parsnip had been presented with a new one by his sister Beatrice for Christmas,
accompanied by the hope that a velocipede nearer the ground would make falling
off it less painful. It did not creak and it was not a racing bicycle with a
high crossbar, but a unisex mountain bike you could collapse to put in the boot
of a car if you had one. Mounting it without the cross-bar was a good sight
less inconvenient and riding it was bliss because the solid tyres acted as
shock absorbers.
Mr Parsnip was not an athletic person, but riding the new
bike was quite exhilarating and he vowed to take a turn on it every single day.
He even felt a surge of affection for Beatrice every time he saw it. Telling
Edith that he would go for a short ride to clear his head, he donned his
bicycle clips and set off in the direction opposite to where Dorothy lived,
just in case Edith was watching. She hated it when he told Dorothy Price things
first and she was sure he was going to talk things over with her that afternoon.
Fortunately she had a plan of her own, which entailed slipping out of the vicarage
into the church, where Mr Morgan was already practising a rowdy Handel piece. She
was glad that Frederick had removed himself.
Dorothy had not been expecting anyone. She really needed to
go shopping and was just watering the plants on the parlour window-sill when Mr
Parsnip rode up. Since the bicycle was new, it could not be left propped up
against the front hedge. Mr Parsnip wheeled it round the back of the cottage,
balanced it against the kitchen wall and knocked on the back door.
Dorothy did not waste words. He would keep her talking all
afternoon unless she was adamant about going out.
“What do you want, Frederick? Shouldn’t you be somewhere
else?”
“Should I? Where?”
“Anywhere. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“It’s urgent, Dorothy. I need your advice.”
“Ask Edith.”
Mr Parsnip ignored that suggestion.
“Fact is, Dorothy, we need some bell-ringers.”
“I thought as much. Can’t you get the recording mended?”
“Irreparable. Worn out.”
“Well, get another.”
“Can I come in first?”
Up to that moment the conversation had been through the
kitchen window.
“I’m going out now, Frederick.”
“Just for five minutes.”
“Oh, very well.”
Mr Parsnip sat down at the kitchen table. He could have done
with a cup of tea, but didn’t like to ask.
“So what do you want me to do, Frederick? Climb the tower
and ring the bells myself?”
“Of course not. But I do want to revive real bell-ringing.”
“You’ll have to revive the bell-ringers first, Frederick.
They were all ancient fifteen years ago. My father’s generation. Mostly gone to
better pastures before I came back here.”
“What about that old fellow Jeremiah, I think his name was?”
“I don’t think you’ll get him to ring any more bells. He
must be well over 90 and he was as deaf as a post 30 years ago.”
“We’ll ask him. He can always say no.”
“We, Frederick?”
Dorothy was now quite sure that the vicar really was serious
about the bell-ringers. Roping her in to help was always high on his list of
priorities whenever he thought of something new to do.
“But the bell tower is so dilapidated, Frederick. I don’t
suppose it’s even safe anymore.”
“Of course it’s safe. We can clean it up and start using
it.”
That ‘we’ again.
“Don’t include me, Frederick. I’ve got Associated Board
exams coming up for several pupils. I’m really pushed for time.”
“But you do think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Mr Parsnip now had a very dry throat.
“Any chance of a cup of tea, Dorothy?”
“Not now. No time.”
Mr Parsnip knew that look on Dorothy’s face. It was the same
look as when Edith asked how Albert was getting on in his piano lessons. Something
between a frown and a pout.
“Well, I’d better be off then, but don’t forget to think
about the idea, will you?”
“Yes, Frederick, I’ll give it some thought.”
“And I’ll call a meeting for next Sunday. Usual time. We can
inspect the bell-tower together.”
“Get that recording going, Frederick. Even if your plan
works, it’s going to take months to get organized.”
But Mr Parsnip was already pushing his bike round the corner
of the cottage and didn’t hear her last words. He was asking himself where he
could find bell-ringers. He would visit old Jeremiah and get him to train some
young volunteers. The bells would be up and running, or rather ringing, in no
time at all!
Despite the nature of the conundrum, Mr Parsnip was glad he
had not said anything to Edith. He never told Edith first. In fact, he never
really told her anything he thought she could do without knowing. She
invariably found out by eavesdropping on the phone conversations he made in the
run-up to the inevitable meetings that accompanied his little schemes, however
hare-brained they were. She would be urged to bake something nice for a change
and would have to pretend to be pleased when all his committee members turned
up at 4 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, which was when the committee meetings
always took place now the Sunday evensong was only held once a month.
The round of phone calls that evening confirmed Edith’s
suspicion. Since she had been listening in, she could not ask why Laura Finch
was being invited. Mr Parsnip was taking care not to spill the beans to anyone,
so Edith did not find out what the meeting was for even by eavesdropping. She
would like to have known, but Mr Parsnip volunteered no information. To be
honest, he could not remember exactly why Laura Finch was on his mind. He would
have to phone Dorothy and check. He hoped he hadn’t made Laura any wild
promises.
Speculation all the following week gave Edith hypertension.
By Thursday she was on the verge of a migraine. By Friday she had one. Surely
she wasn’t going to be asked to approve of yet another awful event? Was Dorothy
Price mixed up in it? Mr Morgan, for whom Edith had an enduring soft spot, had
been invited. She would do her best to avoid eye contact with him, having
installed self-disciplinary measures such as saying hello when she went to
listen to him practising the organ instead of hiding behind a column.
Saying she was there seemed to put a damper on Edith’s
emotions, but it didn’t put a damper on Mr Morgan, who was flattered that she
came to listen to him officially and now asked her what she would like him to
play. Edith, who had never had enough singing voice to grace the church choir,
would warble something resembling a tune. Mr Morgan invariably recognized it and
turned into heavenly symphonies – at least that’s what Edith thought they were.
There was something quite prickling about Edith’s encounters with Mr Morgan.
Mr Parsnip spent the run up to the bell-tower meeting
getting organized. He found time to visit Jeremiah, but unfortunately the old
man was not only extremely old and frail, but, as Dorothy had told him, also
extremely deaf, so apart from showing the new bell-ringers how to pull the
ropes, assuming he could stand up for long enough, he would hardly be an asset
for the new project. Mr Parsnip hoped it wasn’t the bells that had robbed him
of his hearing.
Despite her migraine, Edith persisted in her efforts to
discover what was going on behind her back. She even sneaked into the study,
otherwise referred to as the ‘holy of holies’ and adorned a notice on the door
saying KEEP OUT that was aimed at the boys, but also included Edith. She would look
through her husband’s to-think and to-do lists while he was out on one of his
constitutional mountain-bike rides.
Edith found a list for the next meeting, but was none the
wiser. All it said was: Ask Laura if she knows of anyone, get electrician for
wiring and don’t take no for an answer. She had an inkling that the broken-down
tape recording was at the bottom of it all, but she could not ask about it
directly for fear of her rummaging being revealed. Rummaging and eavesdropping
were serious, if not deadly sins. She also discovered fragments of a new
sermon. It was all about silence being golden and had nothing to do with
Easter. So the bells, or rather, lack of bells must be at the bottom of it all.
The Sunday meeting, eagerly awaited by all except Dorothy
Price, who knew for certain what it was in aid of and would have preferred to
read a book or play the piano, finally arrived. Edith had received her baking
orders and made more than ample provision. Mr Morgan could be relied on to show
his appreciation by eating everything down to the last crumb and Laura Finch,
on a mission of her own, would praise the sponge cake and eat about as many
scones with jam and clotted cream as Mr Morgan.
As for Dorothy, that lady never seemed to notice what she
was eating when Laura Finch was in the room. The hatchet had been buried on
several occasions, but ever since Laura’s murky past had come to light, Dorothy
hadn’t been able to get over the duplicity, or was it that she could have
kicked herself for not guessing? After all, entertainers on cruise ships had
quite a stressful time what with performing every night and keeping passengers
amused during the day and there’s no knowing what else they got up to.
Much to her own astonishment, Edith had not been a bit
surprised about Laura’s lovechild and she quite understood the necessity for
concealing anything that would cause a scandal in a small community. There was
nothing people liked better than throwing stones. And Laura’s strategy had
worked, after all. In the end Lower Grumpsfield might lack most amenities, but
it was more tolerant of foibles than Upper Grumpsfield. It was providence that
had taken Laura Finch to Lower Grumpsfield, if you discount the fact that the
family home had been there. If her past had been illuminated there, everyone would
have been discrete about it. That would not have been the case in Upper
Grumpsfield, where narrow-mindedness still sometimes reared its ugly head and
whose perpetrators also included a number, if not most of St Peter’s
congregation. Dorothy was basically offended because she felt she should have
been trusted to keep Laura’s secret. But then, Laura Finch had not originally
intended to tell the truth about Jason ever, until events culminated in her
having to. It served her right that Dorothy had given her the cold shoulder
after that revelation. If Dorothy had been lucky enough to have a son, she
would have told the world. Laura Finch was not only a bad mother; she was also
an ungrateful one.
As usual, in the run-up to the meeting, Mr Parsnip took
forty winks in his swivelling chair to aid his digestion after Sunday lunch.
The five boys were dispatched to a school mate’s house to watch videos because
it was raining hard and football was not an option. Edith hurriedly finished
the chores and changed out of her flowery baking overall into something less
floury. Laura Finch would be dressed to the nines and Dorothy would be in some
kind of Sunday best outfit. Clare and Karl would not be at the meeting, which
meant that Mr Morgan, who now clad himself in the blue denims his mum despised
and used even more aftershave than usual if on a mission that included the gentler
sex, would devote himself to giving Edith enraptured looks. Mr Morgan’s torch
for Clare was no longer burning with flames of passion, so her absence was
immaterial to his well-being. Clare’s obvious attachment to Karl and her knack
of making Mr Morgan feel foolish had weakened his intent long before he learnt
that she was pregnant. Edith was still accessible, he surmised, though she
wasn’t available either, strictly speaking.
Edith showed Mr Morgan into the living-room and offered him
a very long, very sweet sherry in a tumbler before knocking on the study door
and reminding Mr Parsnip that he had guests to attend to.
Mr Morgan did not mind having to attend yet another meeting on a Sunday purely because it was his
best opportunity to be near Edith. Gareth had brought Edith flowers. He must
have been to Middlethumpton to get them, Edith mused. No matter that they were
somewhat bedraggled. It was the thought that counted. A little romance in one’s
life was not to be spurned, no matter how it was instigated.
Today Mr Morgan had consented to a small detour and given
Laura Finch a lift in his vintage Morris Minor, so she was already seated at
the dining table when Dorothy Price arrived on foot under a large funereal
umbrella that would have kept the rain off her had the downpour not been coming
down sideways in a high wind. No matter, her old Burberry mac was given a good
shaking and a pair of slippers was produced so that her sodden shoes could dry
out on the Aga.
Sloppy slippers are not conducive to an authoritative
presence, especially when they are several sizes too large, so Dorothy felt
vulnerable. She hoped there would be no arguments. She might not be able to contradict
Laura as well in carpet slippers.
“We are gathered here today...” was the vicar’s opening
gambit, followed as usual by “Get on with it!” from Dorothy.
Mr Parsnip proceeded to describe, in laborious detail, the
events leading up to the meeting, starting with Mordred Mortimer’s installation
of the loudspeakers and ending abruptly with an exasperated snort from Laura,
who would have been snoozing on her sofa had she not had a mission of her own
to accomplish.
“Get that Round Table fellow to mend it then,” was her
suggestion. “He installed it, after all.”
“Round table?” Mr Morgan asked, mystified. Arthurian myths
were something Mr Morgan had not yet come across, so he was not familiar with
the stories about English kings.
Dorothy knew that getting the equipment repaired was out of
the question given that Frederick was hell-bent on restoring live bells to the
village church.
“Ah, dear lady, but the meeting is to get that ball
rolling.”
Laura was persistent.
“Which ball?”
“The bell-ringers.”
“Which bell-ringers?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
Edith felt bound to chip in. So that was what it was all
about. On the quiet she was quite relieved that it wasn’t anything really
dramatic, but she realised that Laura Finch was playing her cat and mouse game
again and leading up to something favourable for her. She was sure that Frederick
would not recognize it for what it was and would try to divert any opportunism
on Laura’s part.
“What Mr Parsnip means to say is that he would like to
reinstall live bell-ringers,” she said.
How very perspicacious Edith could be at times, the vicar
decided. Maybe he should have taken her into his confidence after all.
“Thank you, Edith. You put that very well.”
Edith purred. Praise was something she did not experience
very often.
“Let’s take a vote on it and move on,” was Laura’s reaction.
“All the pros, hands up.”
Laura was used to taking the initiative. Chorus directors
invariably had to, but it annoyed Edith intensely. Why didn’t Mr Parsnip manage
to keep control of his meetings?
“I want to hear more about it first,” said Mr Morgan through
a mouthful of scone. The refreshments, notably the cakes, were out of bounds
till after the meeting, but since they were already waiting on the sideboard,
Gareth Morgan had helped himself to a piece of everything and was swilling it
all down with his sherry.
“And so you shall, Mr Morgan. So you shall.”
Edith felt the atmosphere cooling rapidly.
“Shall I make some tea?”
“Yes, that would be nice,” said Dorothy, who had not said
anything up to now. She was cogitating over what Laura had meant by ‘move on’.
“Later, Edith.”
Turning to Laura Finch, the vicar gave her another approving
nod.
“So you agree that we should get live bell-ringers, do you
Laura?” he said.
“Not a bad idea,” said Laura, grudgingly, looking as coy as
she could manage..
Dorothy thought Frederick was ingratiating himself again
“In fact,” Laura added, warming to the idea, “I know someone
who knows someone who rings bells.”
Dorothy Price clenched her fists under the table. How
annoying. Laura would take centre stage, save the day and polish her own
reputation into the bargain. Dorothy’s over-indulgence in late-night black and
white movies, particularly those featuring the exploits of cops and robbers,
had made her rather sensitive to impending evil, though she never got nervous
enough to switch the TV off and go to bed, however late it was. But you could not
switch Laura off once she got going. Dorothy did not like it when Frederick beamed
magnanimously in Laura’s direction, and Laura’s animated participation boded no
good.
Mr Parsnip’s looked from one lady to the other and back
again. Asking Laura to meetings was problematical with Dorothy being so
negative about her, but Laura always seemed to turn up trumps, and that was
reason enough to put up with the ladies’ feuding. .Anyway, Dorothy was
unusually quiet, which must be a good sign, or so he thought.
“Do explain, dear lady,” gushed the vicar.
“One of my ladies in the chorus has a brother, I think she
refers to him as Gordon. He rings bells in a church the other side of
Middlethumpton. I’m sure he’d help to get it all going. In fact, I expect he’ll
lend you some ringers until you get your own.”
If Mr Parsnip’s smile had had the power to bring the sun
out, it would have done so. In one fell swoop all his problems had been solved.
What a woman!
“And now we can take that vote, can’t we?” Laura concluded.
“Of course, dear lady. Hands up all in favour of Laura’s wonderful
suggestion!”
Dorothy’s hand went up reluctantly and only after a stern
look from the vicar.
“Now we can have that tea, Edith.”
“Just one more thing, Vicar,” said Laura.
Laura sounded triumphant, which of course she was. She would
soon have a clean slate in Upper Grumpsfield. Her duplicity regarding her son
would be forgiven and Jason might even be persuaded to sing there again.
Dorothy held her breath. Her sixth sense had not let her
down.
“You remember we talked about my choir putting on a little
concert in the church hall?”
So that was it.
“Did we? I suppose we did, if you say so, dear Mrs Finch.”
“Call me Laura.”
“I’m Frederick,” said the vicar, who was invariably confused
about first names and when to use them.
“Well, Frederick, how about a Spring Serenade?”
“That sounds lovely, doesn’t it everybody?”
Silence greeted that question as everyone remembered the
Finch Nightingales who might have deserved the name Finch Geese. The vicar
interpreted the silent protest as silent assent.
“I’m so glad you all agree,” said Laura. ”I’ll phone you with
our possible dates, shall I vicar?”
Mr Parsnip nodded. What a woman, he was thinking.
Dorothy could not think of anything she could say or do to
prevent the new-found intimacy between the two protagonists. The Spring
Serenade appeared to be a fait accompli. Her afternoon was spoilt. Was there
nothing Laura would not stoop to?
Laura made no attempt to disguise her triumph. She would
consult Jason and choose a date when he could take part. But even if he had no time, she was determined
to put on that concert.
Dorothy refused to be drawn into any kind of discussion on
the topic. She had no intention of offering assistance or support and she
thought, or maybe hoped, that Frederick would regret letting himself in for it.
Leaving the rest of the group helping themselves to the
refreshments, Dorothy said she needed to use the lavatory, collected her coat
from the vestibule, rescued her shoes from the Aga and let herself out through
the kitchen door. Since it was no longer raining, she forgot her umbrella. She
marched home in a bad temper and vowed to put a lot more space between herself
and goings-on in aid of the church in future. There were more important things
to be done with one’s life. Her friendship with Frederick had taken a knocking,
though he didn’t know that yet.
Laura Finch continued to plug her chorus plans until long
after tea was over, bombarding Mr Parsnip with her ideas for the concert, with
special emphasis on being able to rehearse at the church hall several times
before the big night. Mr Parsnip found himself acquiescing to everything. His
magnanimity did not escape Edith, who had soon realised that everything Laura
did was only done to further her own cause, the aim being rehabilitation in the
eyes of all and sundry, while Frederick was merely furthering his own salvation.
Edith disliked them both.
Mr Morgan noticed that Dorothy had gone off in a huff, but
he didn’t care what she thought. She had scowled all afternoon and said absolutely
nothing constructive. She was a silly old bag. Laura Finch was a useful source
of extra income. Playing for her concert would be both enjoyable and profitable.
He might even find one or two new organ aspirants to supplement his salary even
more if he organized a flying saying who he was. The church did not pay well,
and any little extra was more than welcome. He was prepared to cherish Laura.
***
By the time Dorothy arrived at her cottage her anger had
subsided into seething disgruntlement. In London it had been easy to get away
from annoyances. In a village it was virtually impossible. People noticed if
you behaved inconsistently. Conformity was the name of the game. Well, time
would tell how conform she would be in future. Frederick had not yet
encountered this aspect of Dorothy’s character, but he was about to.
Since Dorothy was in charge of music outside of the church
services and the choir, which were Mr Morgan’s domain, people would think she
supported Laura’s endeavours unless otherwise instructed. They had probably
forgotten how awful the Finch choir had sounded at the choral competition a
year or so ago. Dorothy did not think that the ladies would have improved,
though actually, the only way to judge would be to go and listen to them, if
she could contrive to do so without giving the impression that she was on their
side.
And then there was the problem of the bell-ringers. If Laura
Finch really could help to set it all up, then she should be allowed to, since the
vicar would go on and on about it until it happened. But that would leave him
deep in Laura’s debt, which wasn’t at all to Dorothy’s liking.
It was a pretty kettle of fish.
If Dorothy Price had known just how triumphant Laura Finch
was after the meeting, she would have been even more livid.
Of course, Laura had mentioned her chorus to the vicar
several times previously in the hope that she could achieve a level of
brainwashing that would ensure that he would agree to her Spring Serenade. She
had indulged in a form of brain-washing and found Mr Parnsip to be susceptible
to ideas other people thought were good.
Dorothy knew that if you suggested something to the vicar
often enough he would eventually believe it was his own idea. Edith Parsnip
often used the technique, but with a guilty conscience. Laura Finch used it all
the time on any likely victim and without any scruples and she, Dorothy, had
been known to resort to the method when faced with an intransigent and stubborn
Mr Parsnip.
Dorothy was disgusted that at the meeting about the
bell-ringers, Mr Parsnip had been softened up enough to consent to Laura
Finch’s plan as if it were a long-standing tradition for the Finch Nightingales
from Lower Grumpsfield to hold Spring Serenades in St Peter’s church hall.
Short of emigrating or something equally drastic, Dorothy
would be unable to avoid frequent encounters with Laura in the preparations for
what she anticipated would be a disastrous event. There were even times when
she wished her friend Frederick Parsnip would go back on his word, but he never
did, as a matter of principle.
There was only one plausible solution to her quandary. She
would pay her relatives in Wales a visit. That would not look as if she was
running away and she was in need of a change of air.
***
Laura Finch’s problem was that she had not yet mentioned her
plans for the chorus to the ladies themselves. As luck would have it, Gareth
Morgan had managed to persuade one of the less desirable sopranos to go out for
a drink with him that very Sunday evening after the meeting, and of course he
told her about the impending concert.
Overnight, the garrulous lady phoned all the others with the
news, which resulted in Laura being bombarded with phone calls all day Monday
and all day Tuesday. It wasn’t that the Finch Nightingales were against a
Spring Serenade, but they were unanimously allergic to their music director’s
way of deciding things over their heads. Mr Morgan was, of course, unaware of
the havoc he had caused. He had sworn the soprano to secrecy.
The Finch Nightingales usually rehearsed in the conservatory
behind Laura’s house. The conservatory was at least as roomy as the house
because the previous occupant, a distant relation of Laura’s and one ahead in
the inheritance line, had once lived in South Africa and was determined to
recreate his subtropical garden somewhere, despite the fact that the British
climate is not a friendly place for heat-loving plants. The conservatory was
adjoined to the back of the house and made entirely of glass. The keeper of the
subtropical garden had spent a fortune keeping it warm enough all winter and
nearly all summer. It was a subversive lawyer who had helped Laura to oust the
subtropical gardener (because he was apparently illegitimate and therefore not
entitled to inherit the house) and install the last of the legitimate Finches
in the family property.
For financial reasons, the conservatory was not heated
except for a crackling oil heater in the centre of the room for when ice had
formed on the glass roof. On the few really sweltering British days everyone
found it much too hot to sing in and for the rest of the year it was much too
cold even without the stalactites.
On days when arctic weather had taken over, the singers
gathered around the old heater and left coats, hats, scarves and gloves on. Laura,
wearing a rather ancient mink coat acquired from an admirer during her cruising
or was it the other career, exhorted them to jump up and down to get the
circulation going. Laura did not tell the ladies that the oil heater exuded
rather poisonous gases. The rehearsals were too short for the gas to do any
harm, she decided. But it did stink.
Poor Gareth Morgan had to suffer the cold without being able
to join the others round the oil heater or jumping up and down, since he had to
perch on a rickety piano stool wearing all his outdoor clothes and his mother’s
hand-knitted gloves with the finger-tips unknitted, and thump out whatever
accompaniment Laura decided was appropriate, which included playing one of
Grieg’s Humoresques for the jumping exercise.
How the ladies ever managed to rehearse anything to
performance level is a mystery, but then, people’s ideas differ about what is
fit to be performed. Laura was not nearly as critical of her own chorus as she
was of every other one within a radius of fifty miles.
In the days before the arrival of Mr Morgan in Upper
Grumpsfield, Dorothy had allowed herself to be coaxed into playing for one of
those rehearsals. It had been a nightmare experience, quite apart from the
cold, and that was actually why she had taken upon herself to advertise for a
new organist in suitable music journals without prior consultation with the vicar,
who thought they were getting along fine with Dorothy playing for the hymns.
The only applicant was Mr Morgan, whom Dorothy immediately invited to come and
look at the organ. The rest is history.
***
Mr Parsnip hadn’t really noticed that Dorothy had left the meeting
without telling him, so engrossed was he in what Laura had to offer quite apart
from her offer of help with the bell-ringing scheme.
Although Edith was not fond of Dorothy Price’s way of
getting involved, she had been even less charmed by Laura’s conduct at the
meeting, dreading the now inevitable invasion of the her Nightingales, some of
whom thought they were upper class and talked down to everyone, especially the humble
wife of a mere vicar.
Mr Parsnip was shocked when he realized that he had more or
less snubbed Dorothy in favour of cow-towing to Laura for purely selfish
reasons and resolved to make amends the very next day.
Straight after breakfast, which as usual had been a rowdy
affair with the five boys squabbling over the boiled eggs, or rather the only
one brown one that had ended up smashed to smithereens on the stone floor, the
toast (bags I get the least burnt piece) and the marmalade (can we have
strawberry instead?) and with the bonus of cocoa spilt all over the table cloth
because everyone wanted his first, Mr Parsnip retrieved his mountain bike, gave
it a quick spit and polish and set off for Dorothy’s cottage. He wasn’t
singing. He usually sang one or other of his favourite hymns gustily as he
bowled along, but today he was too bothered by the anticipated dressing-down he
would shortly be getting.
So imagine his surprise when he was greeted with a big smile
and a “Come in and have a cup of tea” instead.
“Well, I...”
Mr Parsnip was quite unprepared for the magnanimous reception
and therefore speechless.
“You did me a big favour, Frederick.”
“Did I?”
“Up to yesterday I thought I was in competition with Laura
Finch. But now I realise that she’s not a rival after all, but only someone who
is fighting to redeem her reputation.”
“That’s a very severe judgement, Dorothy.”
“But considered, Frederick. Redemption is a serious matter.”
“Indeed it is. I’m glad you’ve decided to go along with my
decision.”
“What decision, Frederick? I’m not certain that you decided
anything.”
“You know what I mean, Dorothy.”
“I do and I’m not exactly thrilled, but I understand the
situation and I’d be the last one to spoil a serious attempt by Laura Finch to
rehabilitate herself.”
Lacking Edith’s astuteness in recognizing Dorothy’s tactics,
Mr Parsnip was impressed by Dorothy’s goodness and entirely missed the thread
of the argument. He just nodded wisely and looked longingly at the fresh batch
loaf cooling off on the table. The look did not escape Dorothy. Frederick
Parsnip was her greatest fan as far as her baking was concerned.
“You’ll get indigestion if you eat it straight out of the
oven, Frederick.”
“I’ll risk it, Dorothy. Not too much butter, please.”
Half an hour and half a loaf later, the vicar took effusive
leave of Dorothy, hoping to see her soon and avoiding any further mention of
Laura Finch. His stomach had been dilated by the gases given off by the fresh
bread, so he didn’t feel too good. He would retire to his study and sleep it
off, he decided.
“That’s settled him,” Dorothy told Mimi, who was prowling
along the worktop in the direction of the butter dish. Dorothy uttered those
words in such a stern voice that the little cat thought it was a rebuke and
turned tail.
Dorothy dialled her niece Victoria’s number. It would be useful
to know if they were likely to be away during the next few weeks. She would say
she was longing to see them all (which was true) and would visit as soon as she
could get herself organized, which meant coordinating her trip with Laura
Finch’s concert.
“Come any time you like, Aunt Dorothy. We’ll be at home
until August, and then we’re going to Scotland for a fortnight. Would you like
to come with us?”
Dorothy thought she might. Talking to Victoria had saved the
day. Victoria had been surprised that Aunt Dorothy was only planning a trip and
not leaving next day, as was her usual custom. She’s up to something, she
decided.
