The Bell (23 page)

As he trod water, quietly inhaling, he heard across the Abbey grounds the hand bell ringing the Angelus. That meant that he ought to go almost at once if he didn't want to have to run all the way back. He determined to dive just once more and try to dig the thing out. He dived, and found it at once this time, and began to shovel away the ooze from all round it, holding onto the massive rim with one hand. The upper half of it seemed to emerge quite easily from the mud. The rim to which he had attached himself was the widest part, and now he could feel more of the arc he reckoned it must be several feet across. It appeared to be circular, the lower part of the circle being still submerged. Within the rim it seemed to be hollow, becoming narrower. It occurred to Toby that it might possibly be a large bell. By this time he was breathless again and had to let go.

He swam in to the ramp and rested for a moment. The investigation had been quite strenuous. He reached a dripping hand up to his clothes and fished his wrist watch out of his trousers pockets. Heavens, it
was
late! He scrambled quickly out of the water, dried himself summarily, and began to dress. It had been a splendid expedition; he would certainly come back again soon. It would be fun to explore that thing down in the water, though it probably wasn't really anything very exciting. Meanwhile, he resolved he would say nothing to the others about this delightful place but keep it privately for himself.

CHAPTER 11

IT WAS JAMES TAYPER PACE who suggested to Michael that he should take Toby with him in the Land-Rover. Michael was going in to Swindon to buy the mechanical cultivator. Though several days had elapsed since the Meeting, and Michael was longing for his toy, he had not had time to make the journey. Now it was Wednesday, and he was determined to go, come what might, in the late afternoon. The shop would be shut by the time he arrived, but he had made his arrangements by telephone and the shop people, with whom he had already done a lot of business, said he might pick the thing up any time before seven.

‘Why not take young Toby with you?' said James. They were leaving the estate office together. ‘It'll just mean his knocking off half an hour early. Let him see a bit of the countryside. He's been working like a black.'

This would not have occurred to Michael; but it seemed a splendid idea, and when he was nearly ready to go he went to look for Toby in the kitchen garden.

He found him, with Patchway, hoeing the brussels sprouts.

‘Don't be so careful wi' 'em,' Patchway was saying. ‘Knock 'em around! Does them good.'

Toby straightened up to greet Michael. The boy was well bronzed now and oily with sweat. Patchway, stripped to the waist, was still wearing his redoubtable trilby.

‘I was wondering if Toby would care to come with me into Swindon, just for the ride,' said Michael to Patchway, ‘if you can spare him.'

Patchway grunted and looked at Toby, who said, ‘I'd love to, if that's all right!'

‘Pigeons haven't troubled us so far, have they?' said Michael to Patchway.

‘Why should they?' said Patchway. ‘Little buggers have plenty else to eat. But you watch 'em when the cold weather starts!'

Toby ran off to change and Michael stood around for a while with Patchway. Patchway had the enviable countryman's capacity, which is shared only by great actors, of standing by and saying nothing, and yet existing, large, present, and at ease.

This silent communion ended, Michael went to fetch the Land-Rover from the stable yard, and drove it round to the front of the house. The fifteen-hundredweight lorry would have been better for the trip, as the cultivator would have a tight squeeze in the Land-Rover, but the lorry was still laid up with an undiagnosed complaint and Nick Fawley, though asked twice, had not yet condescended to look at it. This was the sort of muddle which lack of time, lack of staff, brought about. Michael knew he ought either to see that Nick fixed it, or else get the village garage man on the job. But he kept putting the problem off; and meanwhile the Land-Rover, perilously overloaded, had to take the vegetables in to Pendelcote.

Michael felt good-humoured and excited. He had great hopes of the cultivator; it would save a great deal of hard work, and it was so light that it could be used by the women: well, by Margaret anyway, since Catherine would soon be gone, and by any other women who turned up in the community. Michael's heart sank a little at the thought of the arrival of more women, but he reflected that he had got perfectly used to the two that were there. The enlarging of the community was from every point of view essential, and the shyness one felt at the breaking of an existing group was after all soon got over. With more staff and more machinery the place would take shape as a sound economic unit, and the present hand-to-mouth arrangements, which were nerve-rending although they had a certain Robinson Crusoe charm, would come to an end. Michael was pleased too at the thought of a trip to Swindon. It was weeks since he had been any farther afield than Cirencester; and he felt a childish pleasure at the thought of visiting the big town. And it was delightful to have Toby with him; the more so since he had not proposed it himself.

The drive, during which Michael answered Toby's questions about the countryside, took a little over an hour. Once they stopped briefly to look at a village church. Arrived at Swindon, they went straight to the shop, and found the cultivator packed up ready in the yard. With the shopman's help, Toby and Michael heaved the wonderful thing into the back of the Land-Rover and made it fast with ropes so that it should not shift about on the journey. Michael looked upon it with love. Its great toy-like yellow rubber-covered wheels jutted out below, and its square shiny red body had burst the packing paper at each corner. The sensitive divided handle thrust its gazelle-like horns toward the front of the van, reaching to the roof between the driver and the passenger. Safely stowed, Michael admired it. He was sorry to see that Toby, whose present ambition was to drive the tractor, seemed to share Patchway's view that the cultivator was rather a sissy object.

‘Now, what about something to eat?' said Michael. By their early start they had missed high tea. Sandwiches in a pub seemed to be the solution; and Michael recalled a nice-looking country pub he had seen a little way outside Swindon on the road home.

By the time they arrived there it was about half past seven. The pub turned out to be rather grander than Michael had thought, but they went into the saloon bar, which had kept its old panelling of much-rubbed blackened oak and its tall wooden settles, together with a certain amount of modern red leather, coy Victorian hunting prints, and curtains printed with pint mugs and cocktail glasses. The bottles glittered gaily behind the bar, against which leaned a number of cheerful red-faced men in tweeds of whom it would have been difficult to say whether they were farmers or business men.

Michael installed Toby, to the latter's amusement, in a big cosy settle near the window from which they could see the inn yard and keep an eye on the Land-Rover with its precious cargo.

‘It's practically illegal, my bringing you in here!' said Michael. ‘You are eighteen, aren't you? Only just? Well, that's good enough. Now, what'll you drink? Something soft perhaps?'

‘Oh, no!' said Toby, shocked. ‘I'd like to drink whatever the local drink is here. What do you think it is?'

‘Well,' said Michael, ‘I suppose it's West Country cider. I see they have it on draught. It's rather strong. Would you like to try? All right. You stay here. I'll get the drinks and the sandwiches.'

The sandwiches were good: fresh white bread with lean crumbling roast beef. Pickles and mustard and potato crisps came too. The cider was golden, rough yet not sour to the taste, and very powerful. Michael took a large gulp of the familiar stuff; he had known it since childhood. It was heartening and full of memories, all of them good ones.

‘This isn't the West Country here, is it?' said Toby. ‘I always thought Swindon was rather near London. But perhaps I'm mixing it up with Slough!'

‘It's the beginning of the West,' said Michael. ‘At least I always imagine so. The cider is the sign of it. I come from this part of the country myself. Where did you grow up, Toby?'

‘In London,' said Toby. ‘I wish I hadn't. I wish at least I'd been away to boarding-school.'

They talked for a while about Toby's childhood. Michael began to feel so happy he could have shouted aloud. It was a long time since he had sat in a bar; and to sit in this one, talking to this boy, drinking this cider, seemed an activity so perfect that it left while it lasted no cranny for any other desire. Vaguely, Michael reflected that this was an unusual condition; he knew that it was one which he did not especially miss or yearn for: yet, in a little while, he was, even in his enjoyment of it, conscious too of things missed, things sacrificed, in his life. At one moment, somehow connected with this, he had a vision, which had at one time haunted him but which he rarely had now, of the Long Room at Imber, carpeted, filled, furnished, its walls embellished with gilt mirrors and the glow of old pictures, the grand piano back again in its corner, the cheerful tray of drinks upon the side table. But even this did not diminish his enjoyment: to know clearly what you surrender, what you gain, and to have no regrets; to revisit without envy the scenes of a surrendered joy, and to taste it ephemerally once more, with a delight undimmed by the knowledge that it is momentary, that is happiness, that surely is freedom.

‘What do you want to do after you leave College?' said Michael.

‘I don't know,' said Toby. ‘I'll be some sort of engineer, I suppose. But I don't know quite what I want to do. I don't think I want to go abroad. Really, you know,' he said, ‘I'd like to do something like what you do.'

Michael laughed. ‘But I don't do anything, dear boy,' he said. ‘I'm a universal amateur.'

‘You do,' said Toby. ‘I mean you've made something marvellous at Imber. I'd like to be able to do that. I mean, I couldn't ever
make
it like you have, but I'd like to be part of a thing like that. Something so sort of pure and out of the modern world.'

Michael laughed at him again, and they disputed for a while about being out of the world. Without showing it, Michael was immensely touched and a little rueful about the boy's evident admiration for him. Toby saw him as a spiritual leader. While knowing how distorted this picture was, yet Michael could not help catching, from the transfigured image of himself in the boy's imagination, an invigorating sense of possibility. He was not done for yet, not by any means. He looked sideways at Toby. Toby had put on a clean shirt and a jacket but no tie, for his trip to town. He had left the jacket in the van. The shirt, still stiff from the laundry, was unbuttoned and the collar stood up rigidly under his chin while a narrow cleft in the whiteness revealed the darkness of his chest. Michael remarked again the straightness of his short nose, the length of his eyelashes, and his shy wild expression, tentative, gentle, untouched. He had none of that look of cunning, that rather nervous smartness, that is often seen in boys of his age. As Michael looked he felt hope for him, and with it the joy that comes from feeling, without consideration of oneself, hope for another.

‘I can't finish this, I'm afraid,' said Toby. ‘It's nice, but it's too strong for me. No, nothing else, thank you. Would you like it?' He poured the remains of his pint of cider into Michael's almost empty pint pot. Michael tossed it off and got himself another pint. He saw that there was chocolate displayed on the counter, and got some for Toby. Returning to their corner he noticed with some surprise that it was quite dark outside.

‘We must be off soon,' he said, and began to swallow his drink quickly while Toby ate his chocolate. How rapidly the time had passed! In a moment or two they rose to go.

As they came out into the yard Michael felt an extreme heaviness in his limbs. It was foolish of him to have had that second pint; he was so unused to the stuff now, it had made him feel quite tipsy. But he knew he would be all right once he got into the van; the driving would sober him up. They packed in and Michael turned up the lights and set off on the homeward road, the cultivator bumping comfortably behind him, one soft rubber handle just touching his head.

The road looked different at night, the grass verges a brilliant green, the grey-golden walls of tall-windowed houses looming up quickly and vanishing, the trees bunched and mysterious above the range of the headlights. Every now and then a cat was to be seen running in front of the car or deep in the undergrowth, its eyes glowing brightly as it faced the beam of light.

‘You're a scientist,' said Michael. ‘Why don't human beings' eyes glow like that?'

‘Are you sure they don't?' said Toby.

‘Well, do they?' said Michael. ‘I've never seen anyone's eyes glow.'

‘It may be that human beings always turn their eyes away,' said Toby. ‘I remember learning at school that Monmouth was caught after the rebellion, when he was hiding in a ditch near Cranborne, because his eyes were gleaming in the moonlight.'

‘Yes, but surely not like
that
,' said Michael. An unidentified animal faced them at some distance down the road, a pair of greenish flashes, and then was gone.

‘I believe there's something about special cells behind the eyes,' said Toby. ‘But I'm still not completely sure that our eyes mightn't glow too if we really faced the headlights. Let's try it! I'll get out and come walking towards you facing the light, and you see what my eyes look like!'

‘You
are
a scientist!' said Michael, laughing. ‘Well, not now. We'll wait till we arrive home, shall we? Then you can make your experiment.'