Iris Murdoch - The Bell

Nick pulled the table away from the door and opened it. Toby stood for another moment, his hand raised to his face. Nick gave him a light push between the shoulders. He inclined forward as if he were going to fall and bolted out into the night.

IT was still raining but the wind had dropped. A soft sizzle of fine rain made the night more obscure and deadened all other sounds. It was after three o’clock.

Dora stood alone in the barn, close to the bell. She reached out every now and then and touched it, for company and to make sure it was still there. Earlier on, by the light of Toby’s electric torch, she had attempted with soap, water, and a sharp knife to clean the bell. She had managed to prize away a good deal of mud and gravel, but many strange growths still adhering to the surface seemed to have the hardness of metal. For the last half-hour however Dora had done nothing but wait. She had arrived well before two, since for fear of being delayed by Paul she had not gone up to bed. Paul would know soon enough that he had misjudged her. She had hidden herself elsewhere in the house, dozing in a chair, and then had made her way through the rain to the barn.

At first she had been quite certain that Toby would come. Even though she had not managed to communicate with him during the day, he would know when and where to appear; and it had at least been agreed that he should bring the second steel trolley with him direct to the barn. When by halfpast two he had not arrived Dora had imagined that he might have had difficulty getting the trolley out of the stable yard, and she walked back that far to see. The stable yard was deserted and the trolley still in its place, though Dora noticed uneasily that there were two lights on in the house, one in her and Paul’s bedroom, and the other in another room which she could not identify, James’s or Michael’s perhaps. She left the trolley where it was and rushed back to the barn, feeling sure that she would now find Toby there; but he was not there.

Dora was wearing a mackintosh and a scarf, but she was already wet through. Her sandalled feet were cold and muddy and the water had splashed up over the end of her dress which now clung damply to her knees, impeding her movements. She stood shivering in the barn, frightened by the darkness and the close blanket of the rain, awed by the proximity of the bell, and feeling increasingly sure now that Toby would not come. She wondered whether she should go and look for him at the Lodge.

It had not escaped Dora that Noel Spens must obviously have imagined that the letter which she had dropped was intended for him; indeed its contents were perfectly framed to sustain this illusion. It was therefore probable that Noel would present himself near the Lodge at two; and this thought had deterred Dora from going earlier to search for Toby. By now, however, Noel would have got tired of waiting and gone to bed. It was surely safe to go to the Lodge; and in any case anything was better than hanging round in the barn frightened out of her wits and chilled to the marrow. Dora set out along the path.

The moon was obscured and the path was full of obstacles, but Dora knew her way pretty well by now and was indifferent to the briars and brambles which dragged at her legs. She could feel the warmth of blood about her ankles. When she emerged from the wood she did not go round the house to the ferry but turned right across the causeway. The two lights were still on; and as she looked ahead of her across the water she saw that there was a light in the Lodge too. This made her extremely uneasy.

Dora began to run now, passing under the Abbey walls and away diagonally across the grass towards the Lodge. When she got near it she slowed down, avoiding the crunchy gravel of the drive and approached cautiously, laying her sodden feet quietly on the wet grass. She saw that the light came from the living-room of the Lodge; there was no light in Toby’s room. She came cautiously up toward the window; it was a modern casement window set with small leaded panes and it was slightly open. Dora heard a murmur of voices. She fell on her hands and knees and crawled toward the window until she was almost underneath it. The voices could be heard clearly now, together with a clink of glasses.

“It would be hard to say whether or not it’s supposed to be a joke,” Nick’s voice was saying. He sounded drunk.“With people like that you can never tell.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Fawley, but I still don’t understand,” said another voice.

Chilled as she was Dora went a degree colder. The voice was Noel’s. Incautiously she lifted her head to the level of the sill. Noel and Nick were sitting together at the table with the whisky between them. There was no one else in the room. Amazed and horrified Dora sank back and settled herself on a cushion of wet grass.

“You see,” Noel went on, “this is in the technical sense such a good story that it would be a pity not to get it absolutely correct. And in any case I have a certain preference for getting things right. Even we newspaper men have our morals, Mr Fawley. Thanks, I will, just a little.”

“I’ve told you all I can,” said Nick. “As for getting it right, who ever gets any story right? All you can do is mention a few facts, I don’t suggest any more than that. What will happen tomorrow is anyone’s guess. All I can promise you is a spectacle. I hope you’ve got a camera with you?”

“I’m sorry to keep on bothering you,” said Noel in the slow patient voice of a sober man talking to a drunk, “and I know you must be frightfully tired, but do you mind if we go over it again? I’d like to check the notes I’ve made. You say that two members of the community, identity not disclosed, have found an old bell which used to belong to the convent long ago. And these two are planning what you call a miracle – the substitution of the old bell for the new bell. But what do they expect to achieve by this? After all, this is England, not Southern Italy. It sounds more like a practical joke.”

“Who knows what they expect to achieve?” said Nick.“I’m sure they don’t know themselves. Publicity perhaps. I told you this place was appealing for funds. And if you think it sounds mad, it’s no more mad than believing that Jesus Christ was God and died to redeem our sins.”

“I can’t agree,” said Noel. “Belief is a highly selective business. And people will believe that who otherwise don’t part company with common sense. But never mind, let’s get on with the story. You say that the plan won’t now be carried out?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Nick. “It was a beautiful plan, but one of the parties has lost his nerve.”

“I must say, you intrigue me,” said Noel. “As you may have guessed, I feel no sympathy with an outfit like this. I don’t think these peoples are consciously insincere, but they’re just born to be charlatans malgré eux . I’m sure there are all sorts of little feuds and delusions in this crackpot community and I’ve certainly no objection to reporting them, without comment. If people want to stop being ordinary useful members of society and take their neuroses to some remote spot to have what they imagine are spiritual experiences I’m certain they should be tolerated but I see no reason why they should be revered. But as I say, I want to report and not to malign. What I was wondering, if I may ask it off the record, is what your motives are in telling me all this. Thanks yes. But fill up yourself.”

“There are moments”, said Nick, “when one wants to tell the truth, when one wants to shout it around, however much damage it does. One of these moments is upon me. And now I shall go to bed. I advise you to do the same. You will have a strenuous and amusing day tomorrow.”