Collapse

Collapse!
by
“Oddstruck”

Part 1: Feltwell, Norfolk

Just before 8:30am an 25th October, 1898, Bert Willingham, only 5 years old, left his uncle’s house on his daily task of fetching the milk from Mr Lambert’s farm, near St Nicholas Church, Feltwell, Norfolk. Abut the same time, several workmen employed by Bardell Bros of Kings Lynn to repair the tower, having breakfasted at their lodgings and washed it down with a pint or two at the nearby Chequers Inn, strolled over to the church to start the days’ work. The tower was shrouded in scaffolding as work to repair the ancient tower had been in progress for some days. They had almost reached the church when the landlord’s wife called them back for some reason. They stopped and started to return. Seconds later, with a noise that, it was later said, could be heard for miles, the tower split in two (along the lines of an old, previously repaired rack; see photo 1) and most of it fell into the churchyard. Young Bert, having collected the milk, was so frightened by the noise of what he thought was the church collapsing that he dropped the milk and ran home crying. On telling his story, he was given a good hiding for telling lies; the sound of the collapse had evidently not be heard at his home! Later, as the news spread, it was realised that he had been telling the truth and his uncle apologised, but the events of that morning made a lasting impression on him. The workmen, too, never forgot their narrow escape; had they not been called back, they would have been beneath the tower, with dreadful consequences.
The collapse of the tower was no surprise to Herbert J Green, a Norwich Architect and Diocesan surveyor. In a report early in 1898, he had recommended the removal of 4 of the bells as “The weight of all five bells was too much for a tower which had never been constructed to bear the strain of such a peal” He further advised that the upper portion of the tower (the octagonal belfry), be entirely rebuilt, at a cost of approximately £250. Some in the parish questioned the necessity of this and called in another architect, who recommended leaving the bells ‘in situ’ while the tower was repaired, not rebuilt. This was the plan that was adopted, with dire consequences.
Upon the collapse of the tower, Mr Green wrote to the press disclaiming all responsibility as his advice had been rejected. He could have been forgiven for saying, “ I told you so!” to all and sundry and illustrates the folly of accepting a cheaper alternative
Tower collapses are nothing new. From the Middle Ages onwards, they have been frequent occurrences, caused by primitive building methods, inadequate materials, insubstantial foundations or even all three, as builders strove for bigger, grander churches. Ely Cathedral’s Norman central tower collapsed in 1322, and was replaced with the magnificent Octagon. In most cases the tower was rebuilt and the builders usually learned by the mistakes of their forefathers and rebuilt stronger and better than before. East Anglia has been particularly prone to tower collapses; the lack of suitable stone for building was a primary cause. Feltwell has (or rather, had) a round tower built of flint, reputedly of Saxon origin, surmounted by a 15thC octagonal turret. It was and is still a mainly agricultural village on the edge of the fens, unusual (though not unique) in having two churches serve a fairly small community. However by the early 19th C the newer, larger St Mary’s had become the main place of worship. The benefices were consolidated in 1805 and although St Nicholas’s was ‘thoroughly’ repaired in 1834, use of the church declined and the last marriage was conducted in 1855. In 1862 the chancel and vestry were removed and in 1864 it was closed for services other than funerals. In 1898, as we have seen, the tower collapsed and was never rebuilt. The 20th century saw little improvement in the church’s fate. It re-opened in the 1920s and was used for services in winter; being smaller than St Mary’s it was easier to heat, but in 1973 the unequal struggle to maintain two churches was ended when St Nicholas’s was declared redundant. For a while its fate hung in the balance: demolition was a real possibility but was averted due to a campaign by a few dedicated villagers and it is now in the hands of the Redundant Churches Trust. Two services are held each year; one on the Patronal Festival in June, the other a candlelit Carol Service in December.
The Bells
So far no mention has been made of the bells. St Nicholas contained a ring of five bells, and unfortunately they fared no better than the tower and the rest of the church.
(No. 1) "Michael Darbie made me 1661".(No. 2) "John Draper made me 1621".(No. 3) "Virginis Egregie Vocor Campona Marie".
(N o. 4) "Etheldreda Bona Tibi Dantur Plurima Dona",
(No. 5) "John Draper made me 1614".

The three lightest bells were smashed when the tower fell. The shattered remains and the two surviving complete bells were stored for many years behind the organ until the fate of the tower was decided. For a time there was a Tower Restoration Fund (evidently it was not covered by insurance) but eventually rebuilding was ruled out and the remaining stump of the tower was sealed. It was not until 1967 that the three broken bells were sold for scrap and the tenor bell sold to a new church near Cardiff. The proceeds of the sale were used to pay for repairs to the belfry of St Mary’s. The medieval frame was removed and the three bells hung for chiming by Tayors. The 4th, the ‘Etheldreda Bell’, was presented to Ely Cathedral and still stands in the nave. (Saint Etheldreda founded the monastery at Ely.)
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The Ringers
Despite the lack of services at St Nicholas, the church had a band of ringers who practised regularly and who were devastated at the collapse of their tower. We know their names; William Beamis was Tower Captain: he and his son Walter were thatchers. The other members of the band were James Shearing, a wheelwright, James Arnold, Blacksmith, Jack Nicholls who was 19 at the time of the collapse, and Salisbury King Lambert, a farmer whose job it was to fetch the beer from the Chequers to the tower on ‘practice night’. We can only guess at how much ‘practising’ was actually done and the ringing abilities of the band. Given the lack of services at St Nicholas it is probable they rang (or chimed) the three bells at St Mary as well. The band had however paid for a set of 12 handbells. Tradition states that they used to practice on these during winter in the warmth of the pub rather than the cold belfry! The also used to tour the village at Christmas playing Christmas Carols. (These bells were in storage for many years but have now been restored and are in regular use).
William Beamis (1853-1933) had taken charge of the tower following the death of his uncle Daniel Spencer, who had taught him to ring, three years previously. William’s great-grandfather had been hung for his part in the Littleport Riots of 1816 and his grandfather jailed. On his release he moved to Feltwell and married a local girl. His grandson, as well as being a master thatcher, provided a Pony and Cart taxi service to nearby Mildenhall. On the day of the collapse father and son were re-thatching Pear Tree Farm House nearby. On hearing the crash they dashed up the ladders onto the roof, from where they could see the devastation. They hurried to the scene, where, it is told, William stood on the green and wept. Perhaps he realised that the chances of the bells being rung again were remote. Incidentally I can find no trace of either William or Walter in the 1901 on-line census. Some further investigation as to why is needed, when time permits.
William (and probably the other ringers too) continued to ring the bells of St Mary’s, ringing for the accessions of Edward VII and George V, the victories at Kimberley, Mafeking and Ladysmith and for the end of the Boer War and World War I. He retired after ringing in Feltwell for 32 years and died in 1933, aged 80. His son Walter, the last of the Feltwell bellringers, died in 1977, aged 93.He used to repeat the following rhyme:
When the 8 bells of Swaffham rang they were supposed to say:
“We are the best bells in the town”
To which the five bells of St Nicholas, Feltwell, replied:
“Who can beat we five?”
The two bells of Weeting would boast:
“We two, we two.”
To which the three bells of St Mary’s, Feltwell, retorted:
“That’s a lie, that’s a lie.
Now, all that remains at St Nicholas is the sealed stump of the tower. In the church, the old clappers are hung on the wall, along with the following poignant epitaph;
The Silent Tongues
Five of us used to speak to you
Two hundred years and more
We called you from your cottages
And from the old fen shire
With lofty tower one morn we fell
In Eighteen Ninety Eight
No more we’ll call you to your prayers
For silence is our fate
AJO - 1977

Part 2: Isleham, Cambs and Colne, Hunts

A few miles away across the Fen into Cambridgeshire and back in time 36 years to 1868, another tower, Isleham, had suffered a similar fate but with a far happier outcome. As at Feltwell, work was in progress to ensure its stability. The buttress had been taken away and the tower shored up with timber. The men working on it had doubts as to its safety, and one of them had seen a mullion fall, so they had retreated to The Griffin pub to talk about how to proceed. It is fortunate that they did, for around 5p.m. it fell. Mr G Robins, churchwarden, was driving back from Newmarket, and instead of seeing the tower, saw a cloud of dust rising up from where it had stood. Hurrying to the scene, he surveyed the ruins of the tower, on top of which, miraculously undamaged, lay the 5 bells. At over 18cwt, the ‘minor five’ were one of the heaviest rings in the Isle of Ely.
A new tower was speedily commissioned and built. Too quickly; the work had not time to settle, and drew away from the nave wall, so that the tower virtually stood without any support. The bells were re-hung and one of the ringers told the vicar that he could feel the tower swaying when they were rung. For fear of a second disaster, the bells were only chimed for nearly 30 years, until a new vicar, Revd H W Robinson, arrived at Isleham. In 1897 he asked the Archdeacon for advice, who advised bracing with iron girders. Instead, the following year, when some other restoration work was being undertaken, the ‘gaping cracks’ between the tower and old nave walls were filled with cement grouting. In his ‘History of Isleham Parish and St Andrew’s Church’, the vicar describes ‘bucket after bucket being poured into them from the inside until it oozed through the walls to the outside’. It does not sound very scientific but it seems to have worked. The oscillation ceased and the bells were rung again, as they are to this day. In 1968 they were re-hung on ball bearings by Arthur Fidler. Taylor’s cast a new treble bell, given by the Peyton family who had been Lords of the Manor for many generations. Two bells were found to be cracked and were welded by what the Ely Standard described as a ‘new process’ developed by the Welding Research Institute of Little Abingdon near Cambridge, surely one of the first such restorations undertaken by what was to become Soundweld? The welds, like the tower, have stood the test of time and they make an interesting if somewhat melancholy sounding minor six.
Isleham restored both bells and tower; Feltwell lost both. Travel twenty or so miles south-west, over another border into Huntingdonshire, to Colne, a small village on the edge of the Fens with a Medieval church with a small tower containing 4 bells:
1 & 4 John Draper made me 1607
2. Milles Graye made me 1654
3. Charles Newman made me 1700
Revd T.M.N. Owen visited the church in 1889, gathering information for his ‘Church Bells Of Huntingdonshire’ and recorded: “Bells all clappered and blocked up with twigs; tower said to be unsafe, probably so, from all appearance; a movement afoot for removing and rebuilding the church.” In 1892, three bells were taken down and placed in the church ‘for the relief of the tower’ It was to no effect; on Sunday April 19th 1896, one of the parishioners noticed a crack in the tower. It appeared to grow larger as the Curate and congregation looked on, and it was decided that a professional opinion should be obtained as soon as possible. However, before any action could be taken, at 8am on Friday 24th April, part of the tower fell away and went through the roof of the nave with a “resounding crash”. By 2:30 two thirds of the nave had collapsed, and by 6pm the rest of the nave had subsided, leaving only the chancel intact. Again, no one was injured. The treble was picked out unhurt among the ruins and the bells in the church were also undamaged.
Plans were soon made to rebuild the church. It was estimated it would cost £1000; when asked how they would find the money, the Rector said ‘by determination and putting out shoulders to the wheel.’ The ruins of the church inspired a local poet known only as “Wanderer” to write the following lines:
When tottering man falls low and strives to rise
He needs the church to point him to the skies
So when our age-long church falls crumbling to the ground
From man whom she has raised should a help to rise be found.
By January 1898 over £900 had been raised and work started in January of the following year. By August 1900 the work was complete and the new church was rededicated by the Bishop. The bells were rehung for chiming and this is how they are sounded today. Full-circle ringing would seem to be impossibility, but at least the bells survived to be re-housed in the rebuilt tower, and can still call the people of Colne to worship.

Acknowledgements and Sources

The inspiration for this article came while browsing through the excellent Ely DA website, which gives details of all towers which formerly had rings of bells as well as current rings. Seeing an entry for ‘Feltwell’ and knowing it had no bells I clicked on the entry and discovered what had happened to the tower. An Internet search revealed the excellent site on Feltwell past and present, which gave details of the history and collapse of the tower in several articles. I merely pulled them all together, so grateful thanks to the compilers of the site especially the late Mr. A. J. Orange, local historian who campaigned to save the church, and the Webmaster Mr Paul C. Garland. Other material came from a variety of books and websites listed below. Also thanks to Tony Ferridge for the photo of Isleham church.

http://www.ely.anglican.org/bells/index.html
http://www.feltwell.org/.
http://www.isleham-village.co.uk/
Church Bells of Huntingdonshire Revd T.M.N. Owen 1899
Fenland and Marshland Villages Anthony Day 1993
Church Bells of Cambridgeshire J. J. Raven 1881
Somersham parish: 2000 years in and around John Bell
the churches of Somersham, Pidley and Colne
Ely Standard, 1968



Photo Captions

1. St Nicholas Church Feltwell. 1862-1898. Dates pinpointed as thatched chancel demolished in 1862 and before the tower collapsed in 1898. There is a crack almost 3/4 of the way up the round tower (the crack had been pointed) which is the exact point of the "breakaway" when the tower collapsed.
2. The tower shortly after it collapsed at 8.30am, 25th October, 1898.
3. The church as it remained for some years after the collapse.
4. William Hammond Beamis, (7/11/1853-25/2/1933) circa 1896/7, in working clothes probably announcing someone's death.
5. St Nicholas Church as it is today.
6. The clappers from the bells of St Nicholas
7. The 4th (Etheldreda) bell from St Nicholas now in Ely Cathedral
8. Isleham Church pre 1862, from an old engraving.
9. The ruins shortly after the tower collapsed on 22nd July
10. The re-built tower as it is today.
11. Colne Church shortly after the collapse, before the rest of the nave fell.
12. All that was left was the Chancel
13. The new church at Colne.

The First Peal

The First Peal
By “Oddstruck”

I was delighted when I was appointed Vicar of St Edmund’s. It was my first incumbency; it was a delightful village in an attractive part of the country, but most importantly the church had a ring of six bells. I had previously been curate at a hideous red-brick Victorian Church in a not very attractive part of an industrial city, with only a single bell in a turret and my opportunities for ringing had been limited. I certainly intended to make the most of my new appointment. I had a good look around when I was interviewed. The church was set on the outskirts of the village, away from most of the houses; even the Vicarage was a few hundred yards away. The closest house was a small thatched cottage tucked away amongst some trees down a short lane on the way out of the village. The church was not exceptional architecturally but it was pleasant enough. I noticed the six bell ropes hanging in the ground floor ringing room and went for a closer look. There was obviously an active band; the room was well-kept with notices of meetings and activities and plenty of quarter peal cards and a few striking competition certificates. A framed print gave details of the bells; the five lightest bells had been cast towards the end of the 19th century and the tenor was mid-18th century by a local founder. Excellent. I looked forward to joining them. I did notice there were no peal boards though.
Back home, I checked the tower details on the internet. The Guild website was excellent and Dove confirmed details of the bells. Campanophile showed they had rung quite a few quarter peals in the last few years. Still no details of any peals though so I checked on the Felstead database. Amazingly, just one had been rung, nearly 100 years ago. But perhaps the local ringers did not ring peals. Intrigued by now, I checked some of the names from the quarter peals. I was wrong; nearly all of them had rung peals; a couple were quite prolific. I was baffled; why did such a strong band not ring peals in their own tower?
Still, there would be time to discover that after my Induction and I had plenty to occupy myself. I put it out of my mind; for the time being at least.
Almost before I knew it the night of my Induction had arrived. I had moved into the Vicarage a few days previously and had spent the time sorting out and unpacking. The bells started ringing about an hour before the service was due to start; obviously a quarter-peal. The bells were quickly raised and went straight into changes. From the start the ringing was good; confident, rhythmical and with very few mistakes. The bells themselves were a little disappointing. They seemed to have no tone to them and were dull and somewhat lifeless. But no matter; perhaps they sounded better inside and the ringers themselves were first class. I looked forward to joining them.
After the service was over I introduced myself to the Tower Captain, a distinguished-looking man aged about 60, I guessed. He had heard that I was a ringer and was delighted that I planned to ring with them as often as I could. I complimented them on the standard of their ringing and invited him to the Vicarage the following week to find out more about the band. And of course I also hoped to find out why there had been no peals for nearly 100 years.

“Come in. Excuse the mess. Have a drink.” Nick, my new Tower Captain, stood on the doorstep, clutching an old book. As we settled ourselves comfortably in the study, I could sense he was slightly wary. I had met most of the band at practice night a few evenings before and had enjoyed my first ring with them, but had been unable to resist mentioning peals. They had been evasive and had avoided giving me a real answer, which had made me determined to find out the reason tonight. By now I was convinced there was some mystery here and I was anxious to discover what it was. I handed over a generous whisky and for the next half hour we chatted amicably about ringing. After a second drink Nick seemed to have relaxed and I judged the time was right. I went straight to the point.
“Tell me,” I said, pouring another drink for us both. “Why have there been no peals at St Edmund’s for nearly 100 years?”
He was silent for a while, staring at his glass. Then he took another sip of whisky and finally looked directly at me.
“I was afraid you were going to ask that, but I suppose you have a right to know. It’s a long story, though, and you may find it hard to believe.”
“Try me. I’m a good listener and I’m used to incredible stories.”
And this is the story he told.
“As you have discovered, there has only been one peal on these bells. Since that peal, there have been many attempts but none have succeeded. The last one, twenty years ago now, ended in tragedy so we decided there would be no more attempts. As you have seen, the bells were recast and augmented to 6 in the late 19th century. A new band was formed and made good progress. They lacked a conductor though, but then, in the early years of last century, a well-known ringer moved into the village who had called quite a few peals. He arranged peals at nearby towers for the ringers to gain experience, and then arranged the first peal here with an all local band.
“They met one evening after work, raised the bells and tried a few rounds. While they were adjusting the ropes, someone came into the church.”
He paused and had another sip or two of whiskey.
“You know that thatched cottage down the lane just beyond the church?”
I nodded, though as yet I had no idea who lived there.
“A lady known locally as ‘Mad Meg’ lived there with her daughter. I don’t think she was mad; just one of these ‘wise women’ people tend to be wary of. Anyway, she appeared at the entrance to the ringing room.
‘Gentlemen, I would ask you to cease your ringing tonight.’ she said
The ringers all looked a t her in some amazement.
‘Madam, we are here to ring a peal, and that we intend to do,’ the tower captain told her.
‘My daughter is dying,’ she replied. ‘Ring your peal another night.’
“But the ringers were adamant that they were going to ring the peal and asked Meg to leave. She looked at them long and hard for a minute or so: a striking figure; tall, with long red hair and dark eyes. Then she said: ‘Then it will be the last peal you all will ring. And never will another peal be rung on these bells.’ Then she left.
“They rang the peal, of course. It was a good one; 7 Surprise Minor. But Meg’s daughter died shortly before the peal was completed. The ringers, though, quickly forgot about this but her parting words would soon come back to haunt them. Things started to go wrong for the band soon afterwards. There was a scandal involving one of the band and he was forced to move away from the village and never touched a bell rope again. Another ringer had a tragic accident on the farm where he worked and was thereafter unable to use his left arm. Several of the other ringers, including the conductor, attempted peals at other towers, but they were all unsuccessful for one reason or another. Then World War One broke out. One ringer was killed at the Somme and another was gassed; he was never fit after that. The oldest member of the band died in the ‘flu epidemic just after the war ended. That just left the conductor. Undaunted, he set about training a new band, including his young son. By the mid 1920s, they had reached the standard the conductor thought acceptable for a peal attempt. It was to be 7 Surprise Minor again. All went well for the first 6 extents, but at the start of the 7th, all hell broke out. Mistakes were made in increasing numbers and the bells became difficult to control. Eventually, about halfway through the 720, ‘Stand’ was called; a couple of bells were totally adrift which was unacceptable to the conductor. Nothing much was said, though; no mention was made of that first and only peal. The bells were lowered but as the ringers walked through the churchyard they noticed a figure at the end of the lane; a young girl; tall, with long red hair, watching in silent condemnation as they left the churchyard. Mad Meg had died the previous year, but her granddaughter, Young Meg, born on the night of the peal and the cause of her mother’s death, was now about 16 and living alone in her grandmother’s cottage. The conductor – well, I might as well say now that he was my grandfather, faltered for a second or two before recovering and saying that they would attempt the peal again. It took some years, though, before another attempt could be made. A couple of ringers left the area to find work and replacements had to be trained. Eventually another attempt was arranged; the conductor’s son, my father, was again in the band. This time the ringing was poor right from the start; the bells seemed to be very difficult to ring and the striking was awful. Just after the start of the 7th extent my grandfather, on the tenor, became increasingly erratic, turned deathly pale and called ‘Stand’ just before collapsing onto the pew behind him. My father took him straight to the doctor; I think he must have had a minor stroke for he was never the same again. And that was the last time he touched a bell-rope. As they left, one of the other ringers was heard to say ‘Mad Meg strikes again’ and that was when the ringers started to believe that there was some kind of curse on the bells. There were no more attempts before World War 2, but after the war my father and others tried again. Every peal was lost for a variety of reasons, no matter who was in the band; ropes broke, bobs were missed, previously reliable ringers could not keep right or the bells were just too hard to ring. They were never a problem on other occasions though. None of the peals got beyond the start of the 7th extent and I discovered later that this was the time that Meg’s daughter had died………
“The final attempt took place about 20 years ago. My father had rung a fair number of peals all over the country and even though he was just past his 70th birthday was still as good a tenor ringer as you could find and as fit as a fiddle. I was ringing the 5th and all went well until the start of the 7th extent. I saw my father open his mouth to call the change of method as the bells ran round at backstroke but no sound came out. His face turned blue and he pitched forward. I think he was dead before he hit the floor.”
Nick drained his glass and I quickly refilled it. After a while he was able to continue.
“That put an end to any more peal attempts, of course. We just could not risk it. We rang a peal in memory of my father at a neighbouring church and luckily the press never heard the story of Mad Meg and her curse upon the bells of St Edmunds. Young Meg’s daughter Margaret now lives at the cottage and we ring our peals elsewhere.
“Well, that’s the story. Of course it may all just be co-incidence. I don’t know what I believe myself, and you must make up your own mind. But no-one is willing to attempt a peal here again.
“It’s getting late – I must go. You can read the bellringers’ log book if you like – everything has been written down so you will see I am not making it up or exaggerating in any way.” He handed me the battered old book which had been on his lap throughout his story.
He finished the rest of his drink and made his slightly unsteady way to the door. In silence, I showed him out. I returned to the study, poured yet anther drink and read the logbook from beginning to end. It was late when I finished, and I sat for a while, thinking over what I had heard and read that evening. The logbook confirmed Nick’s story in every aspect and added more detail, especially the regret felt by Nick’s grandfather over his decision to ring the peal 100 years ago. After the death of his father Nick had written: “A young man’s thoughtless determination to achieve his aim; a woman’s intolerable grief; now I feel the same pain as she did and I wish I could right the wrong that was done all those years ago. But it is impossible and this situation will continue.”
Of course I could not believe in a ‘curse’ on the bells. A clergyman cannot accept such things. But the human mind is a strange thing and susceptible to such influences. I was determined to find a solution, and for the next few days it was always at the back of my mind. I kept hearing Meg’s words in my head; ‘Never shall another peal be rung on these bells’, and at last I thought I had the answer.
The next day I walked up past the church and down the lane to the cottage where Meg had lived and which was now occupied by her great-grand-daughter Margaret. The door was slightly open and I knocked gently upon it.
“Come in,” called a voice from within. I entered a small living room and saw Margaret sitting in a chair by the fire. She stood up as I entered and I could see that her hair was greying but had once been a fine dark red and her eyes were dark and penetrating.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. I wasn’t really surprised by her words. “I think I know why you are here.” She indicated a chair opposite her. I sat down and handed her the bellringers’ logbook. She read it through in silence, taking particular note of the regret felt by Nick and his grandfather. I waited until she had finished before I spoke.
“This situation must end, and I think I can see a way to do it. I want to know if you think it will work.” I put forward my idea to her and waited for her response.
“You are right,” she said, after hearing me out. “It is not right that it should continue. It will end, in a way, with my death, as my daughter will not live here. She has made her life away from this cottage and this village. So be it; nothing lasts for ever. But it is beyond my power – and that of any mortal – to remove this….”
Here she paused. The word ‘curse’ hung unspoken in the air. Eventually she continued: “this prohibition on peals being rung on these bells.” She looked directly at me and repeated emphatically: “On these bells. I think we are in agreement.”
I nodded as she handed the book back to me. It was all the answer I needed and I took my leave.
At ringing practice that night I handed the book back to Nick at and told him I thought I had the answer. He looked amazed but said nothing and I said no more. In the pub after ringing I put my proposal to the rest of the band.
“I notice the bells are still on plain bearings,” I said. “They are fine to ring now, but will need some work fairly soon. I think we should get some quotes for re-hanging them on ball bearings.” I looked quickly round at them all, trying to judge their reaction. Then I added: “And while we are at it I think we should have them recast as well.” I watched Nick’s face as he slowly realised what I meant. I decided I might as well get it all out into the open.
“Nearly 100 years ago a peal was rung on these bells with unfortunate consequences. With new bells we will be able to wipe the slate clean and start again.”
It has taken a while, but it has been done. Now we have replaced the frame and fittings and a completely new ring of eight bells has been cast. It was a lot of money for a village to find, but we received a large cheque in the early stages of the appeal from Margaret. The only words she said were: “I should like one of the new bells to be called ‘Margaret’.” I was happy to meet this request.
The bells were dedicated last night by the Bishop. Most of the village came to the service and the bells rang out for over an hour afterwards. I went to listen to them outside; they had lost their dull mournful tone and were bright and cheerful. As I listened I noticed a tall figure standing at the end of the lane. The last rays of the sun shone on her hair, restoring its colour to its former glory. Margaret had not come to the service and I had not expected her to, but she looked at me and raised her arm in salute before walking back to her cottage. Tomorrow we are ringing the first peal on the bells. I am absolutely certain we will be successful.