5.2.16

28 - Tintinnabulation

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.
So a former vicar of Upper Grumpsfield, named Mordred by his mother, a fervent fan of historical myths, was actually quite exceptional in his desire to remove all the cobwebs from St Peter’s parish church. Since he was quite a technical buff, this included replacing the dying species of bell-ringers with complicated wiring all the way up the bell-tower leading to loudspeakers, which conveyed a recording of the church bells to anyone within earshot.
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.