oddstruck

This is my original idea for the story of 'the cursed bells', but I actually wrote it after the story which appears under the title of 'The Last Extent'. By the time I got around to writing it, the story had developed and changed and I wrote it in the first person, through the eyes of the vicar of the tower, with a far more positive ending. I had only a vague idea how the original story would end, but then the character of Meg and her descendants seemed to take over and the story grew and developed from there. I wrote the story under the working title of 'the Unpealable bells' but I was never happy with this title. When I eventually got round to editing the story I tried to think of a better one but it was my daughter who came up with The Last Extent. Then I decided to write the story as I had first imagined it, but I did borrow some ideas from the story I wrote first. It ended up as a bleak, fairly short story -less than 1000 words as opposed to over 3000. The longer version has been submitted to the Ringing World but has not yet been published. With a few small alterations both stories could be adapted so as to be understood by non ringers.

The Final Extent

By “Oddstruck”

The churchyard appeared gloomy and depressing, even on a summers’ day. Tall dense trees surrounded it, and the stone of the church had turned dark with age and pollution. It also had a neglected look about it; the grass was as high as the gravestones and one of the church windows had been broken and boarded up. The church clock had stopped and several of the louvers to the belfry were missing and pigeons were now nesting there. Through the gap in the louvers a broken bell wheel could be seen. Leading away from the churchyard was an overgrown lane, at the end of which stood a derelict cottage. There were no other houses nearby which added to the lonely appearance.
It had not always been thus. One hundred years earlier the trees were smaller and well maintained; the churchyard was well-kept and the stonework was untouched by pollution. The lane to the cottage was clear and the house itself was occupied. The church glowed golden in the evening sun as six bellringers arrived. Some had walked from the station a mile away; others came by bicycle from nearby villages. They were going to attempt a peal, the first to be rung on the bells. They quickly raised the bells and rang a few changes to get the feel of the bells. They stopped to adjust the ropes to the correct length and then lit the lamps, for it would be dark when they finished. As they caught hold of the ropes again a woman appeared in the doorway of the ringing room.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “I would ask you to cease your ringing tonight”
The ringers stared at her in some amazement; she had a wild, desperate look to her.
“Madam,” said their leader, “we are here to ring a peal, and that we intend to do.”
“My daughter is dying,” she replied. “Ring your peal another night.”
But they were young and heedless and were determined to ring that night, so refused her request and asked her to leave.
She looked at the all for a moment. “Then it will the last peal you all will ring.. And never shall another peal be rung on these bells.” Then she left.
The ringers looked at each other, shrugged, and caught hold of the ropes and began to ring. Nearly three hours later the bells came into rounds for the seventh and final time. The bells were rung down and the ringers congratulated themselves on a fine effort. But the woman’s daughter had died during the final moments of the peal.
However, ill fortune dogged the ringers from that moment onwards. All their peals were unsuccessful for various reasons. The one had an accident on the farm where he worked and was unable to ring again. Another was involved in a scandal and had to leave the area. The Great War broke out; two were killed and one was gassed. Only the conductor remained to reflect on the woman’s parting words.
Some years later another band of ringers arranged to ring a peal on the bells. They had heard the conductor’s story but did not believe the bells were cursed as he claimed. For nearly three hours the ringing was excellent; then, with only ten minutes to go, the bells became uncontrollable. Mistakes were made in increasing numbers; bells were in the wrong place and with only two courses to go the conductor reluctantly called ‘Stand’ as the ringing had deteriorated to an unacceptable standard. Subdued and disappointed, they made their way home, vowing to return and ring the peal another day. But they never did. Other bands tried and were also unsuccessful; ropes broke, bells slipped wheel or were such hard work that good ringing was impossible, and the legend of the cursed bells, which could not be pealed, grew with every failure. Curiously, most of the peals came to grief in the last ten minutes.
World War Two brought an end to attempts for quite a while. The bells were neglected for years; there had never been a local band to ring them and no visiting ringers wanted to risk ringing them, even for short periods. But ringers are a foolhardy lot; there are always some who like a challenge and are prepared to take risks. Eventually six more ringers came to the church, determined to overcome the ‘cursed’ bells. They spent some time in the belfry, replacing frayed ropes, oiling the dried-up bearings and tightening any loose nuts they found. The bells were rung up and appeared to ring well and easily. Confidently, they started the peal. For a while, all went well, but gradually the bells became more and more difficult to ring. The conductor, on the tenor bell, was having the hardest task but would not give up and exhorted the other five to keep going.
“Not much longer now,” he urged. “Only 240 changes to go!” But they were his last words as he suddenly pitched forward and fell dead onto the ringing room floor.
So now, nearly 50 years’ later, the bells are never rung. Neglected, they hang in a decaying frame, almost buried by the twigs brought in by nesting pigeons. Wheels have collapsed, the bearings have seized up and the ropes have rotted on the wheels. The congregation has vanished and the church soon will be declared redundant. Nobody cares about the bells, and so they remain, a monument to grief and obstinacy.

Piczo