Ring the Bell

A man and his mysterious bell.

Not entertaining them, by which I mean not letting them in the house on a freezing cold night, one of the harshest nights I can remember, although I have forgotten more than my fair share of extremely cold nights with powerful gusts, was out of the question, for my cottage isn’t close to civilisation and they hadn’t a car, at least from what they said, and they had got lost and merely needed shelter for the night, so I stood aside and let the three of them enter my hallway in their soaking wet clothes.

My cottage - Lundere Cottage, for those of you who don’t know (taken from the old Latin name for London, though I suppose the person who named it hadn’t a good grasp of Latin) - is cold throughout the year, and I overheard the youngest man complain it was colder inside than out, and I thought of saying, Well, you know where you can go if that’s your attitude but I kept my mouth closed for fear of offending them. Who knows what they had in the bloated backpack of theirs. In an ideal world those three people would have feared offending me, yet they treated me as a servant, almost a slave, to do their bidding.

Run a bath, the oldest of the two men told me, make it nice and hot. Lots of bubbles.

To my shame I even bowed to him, and as I ran the bath I thought of ringing the bell, but supposed it was too early for a desperate measure like that. Then, confirming my suspicions that the three visitors (not intruders, not yet) were only sharp-tongued because of the conditions they had endured outside, the woman knocked on the bathroom door and, perhaps pressing her nose close to the wood, uttered, You don’t have to run the bath if you don’t want to; George was just being brash and rude.

Well well well, I thought. Who is this young, polite and neat woman offering her apology? Slowly I opened the door, inspected her face in a two-second span, returned her smile, careful not to show too much of my old and yellow teeth, and allowed her the use of the toilet. She turned the taps off in the bath and muttered a shower would be more adequate for herself, me and her two companions. Would she tell me more about those two men? Are they related? Just friends, she said in a tone that hinted at a secret, or secrets. Suddenly flummoxed by a sharp pain in the side of my stomach, I entered my bedroom, closed the door behind me and lay on my side on the bed until the pain went away, and when I sat up it was eight minutes past eleven, meaning I had slept for three hours without realising it, and had missed out on what I wished to do in those three missing hours. There was a history book on the Normans I wished to finish before it was due for return at the library the next day, and there was a documentary on how chocolate is made and processed in our factories, particularly Cadbury’s in Bourneville. Also I had promised to call Vera. It had been eight months since I last phoned her (she never phones me; that’s her prerogative as a lady) and, as she’s a busy woman, she’d have plenty to talk about. Soured by the unexpected sleep and the three guests in my house, I devised a plan to get rid of them. Then I debated the pros and cons of this plan. If I got rid of them, so to speak, where would they go? Outside, of course, in the below freezing temperature, maybe to wander around till they died. Hating the idea of police searching the area for them, I discarded the notion of upsetting them and ambled downstairs, all the while cursing my stupid decision to answer the door in the first place.

Can’t be in the area for no reason, I thought, staring at the kettle as it boiled. The three guests laughed merrily in the living room as a black and white science fiction film played on the television. Wind rapped the window nearest me and I took the last cigar from the Cuban cigar box, then lit it on the hob and sat on the barstool with a pile of unread Daily Telegraph newspapers in front of me. Stay here till they sleep, if they sleep, and then forget the whole thing. Why not? Everybody has their run of bad and good luck and that night happened to be a bad luck night. Maybe the next day would be a good luck day. Either way, I would sit it out like a trooper in a trench, sit it out with calm, compassion and patient stoicism. Choose philosophy over rash action. I consoled myself with the thought that my mother, the dear kind-hearted soul she was, God rest her soul, was courteous and considerate. Mother doubtless would have welcomed them with metaphorical red carpet and cups of tea to go around. Isn’t there an ounce of my mother’s spirit in me? For a long time leading to her death she had exhibited a new personality, but that was due to her illness and out of her control. After a sigh I pushed the newspapers aside, got off the chair, stretched and caught my reflection in the mirror by the sink. God, is that me? I remember thinking. In the year or so since I’d last glanced in the mirror I had put on at least a stone on my face alone, and had lost a lot of hair, almost half the hair on my head. Now where’s the evidence for this loss of hair? I hadn’t seen any hair on my pillow, in the bathtub or anything else, for that matter, so maybe my hair had simply disintegrated. Anything is possible, after all. Maintaining my gaze, I wondered how it was possible for someone to be as ugly as me. My eyes seemed uneven, the left slightly higher than the other, my pockmarked nose was crooked and chubby, my mouth small, my skin scaly and reptilian. Angered by the cruel nature of whatever designs and shapes a face, I smashed the mirror in the sink with a scream, ran a bloodied hand through what remained of my hair, took a deep breath and turned as the woman entered the kitchen showing a faux concerned expression. Wordlessly she scooped the glass pieces from the sink with my dustpan and placed the dustpan atop my pile of newspapers. Then she left. I cleared my throat, said an Excuse me and followed her into the front room where the two men lay on opposite sides of the room with their heads resting on the back of their hands. Breathing noisily, they closed their eyes after glimpsing me (don’t blame them for that) and stayed nearly perfectly still as the woman and I mulled things over.

So they’ll be gone in the morning. Is that so hard to take? One night and they’ll be gone. One night only. How long is a night? Ten, twelve hours? Eight hours? Stay as long as you please, I had said like the bloody fool I am. Where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking? Were you on the way to somewhere I’d know? These days I don’t venture far from the cottage - I’m rather too solipsistic for my own good, really - but I know the general layout of the countryside around here, I’m in nodding terms with the other locals and I can drive, albeit badly, although the Land Rover needs filling up. Came here in … oh, came here seven years ago. Ever since she was a girl mother had wanted to live in the countryside. Life got in the way of that, as it usually gets in the way of our plans, and so I felt it was my duty to save for her dream. Played piano in front of live audiences, you know, for money. Made my own music at one point. Created my own compositions. People paid to hear those. They played them on the radio. Bought them on CDs and online downloads. With the royalties I received from my compositions I was able to make mother’s dream a reality; bought her this place here. Only it turned out she had always dreamed of a cottage by the sea. Now who’d have thunk it, aye? The sea’s a long way from here. Maybe you were on our way to the sea, I don’t know, you’re so tight-lipped it’s beginning to get on my nerves.

Natalie and her two brothers were travelling to a family funeral when their car broke down a narrow country lane. Our signals stopped, she said. Signals on our phones suddenly sapped for no reason, like there was this, I dunno, this signal tampering machine thing nearby. It was doing my head in, so I ran off and my brothers followed me; they too were in a state of confusion, had no idea where they were. Thought they were at the funeral at one point! That’s how bad they were! My brother, Peter, the youngest, picked a rose from the ground - a beautiful red rose with thorns - and dropped it onto a disturbed patch of soil. Probably imagined it was a grave. My older sister’s grave. She died a month ago. Drove full speed into a brick wall. Actually she survived that crash and died of an infection she caught in the hospital. Blood oozed out of her eyes. Saw it.

Reinforced by several glasses of sherry, the only alcoholic beverage I had in the house (I jotted a reminder to drive to the supermarket six miles away and restock), she went on to say her parents must be worried about her and her missing brothers and maybe the police were looking for them. How long does it take for someone to be officially registered as a missing person? No idea, I said, but it might be longer than a day. There there, I’ll come with you to your car, see if it’s still there and passing hoodlums haven’t driven off in it. I’m sure nobody else has seen it; not many people come this way. We truly are in the back of nowhere here. Back and beyond. Which is how mother wanted it. People frustrated her with their whims and foibles. People are the main problem in this world, she said. Think of how better off animals would be if there weren’t humans to eat them. Mother had her strange sayings. Kept her happy, though, so I won’t complain. Only she went doolally in her later years, had dementia or Alzheimer’s, can’t remember which, and turned into a Jekyll. Or is it Hyde? Turned into a despicable person. Didn’t recognise me. More than once she accused me of keeping her hostage in her home. Who are you? she used to say. What do you want with me? Don’t get close! Always shielded her eyes when I came near her to give her something to eat. Mind you, looking after her gave me a purpose after I left work. Gave me the motivation needed to get out of bed, to rise and shine. Gave me a purpose. I suppose she’d have liked that. God only knows what she’d have said if she could see the shell of a person she had become. No cure for it, you know. Comes at you like a cannonball.

In the morning I cooked them all a nourishing full English breakfast (slightly overdone) and repeated my pledge to accompany them back to the car. Easier for you to drive back where you came from, I said, trying not to sound rude or eager for them to be gone. A little hungover, I found myself enjoying their company. The brothers often whispered to each other and barely talked to me, and Natalie was non-stop talk. Seated at the head of the dining table, she told me how her boyfriend would be looking for her. He can pay for someone to find me, she said.

Left it at that. Changed the subject when I prompted her to give more details on her boyfriend. Here’s a confession. I am lonely, as you may have guessed, and I only see representatives of the female sex, i.e. women, on television, and since I don’t watch much television I don’t see many women, and Natalie was a fine woman. Fell in love with her. Head over heels, as they say. Wanted her to stay and look after me. Wouldn’t mind waking to discover a hot mug of tea next to the bed. Katie never did anything like that; she was too independent-minded. If anything she expected the roles to be reversed and for me to bring her everything, for me to clean everywhere, for me to do the household chores whilst she earned the biggest wage. Thank goodness our relationship didn’t last long. I’m ashamed to say she was my first and last girlfriend. Two years of hell. Still, she must have loved me, for she allowed me to move in with her at her detached house in Stafford shortly after we met. Either she loved me or only craved company.

The brothers shared a whispered joke and laughed raucously. Natalie washed the dishes in the sink, using the last of my Fairy Liquid, and then said it was high time they started looking for the car. Concurring with this, I put my coat on and went searching for my Wellington boots. Have to be around somewhere, I mumbled, tripping over a pair of slippers near my bedroom door. By the time I found the Wellingtons my guests had gone.

I thought, Done yourself a good deal of harm in the past few years as I picked berries by the ruins of a Roman wall. The decayed remains of a Roman villa were nearby, but vandals had defaced the stones and cracked the mosaic floor. The mosaic showed Neptune and three mermaids. Neptune with his sceptre. The three mermaids could have been accurate representations of three gorgeous Roman women. Assuring myself I had done my bit for the siblings, I strolled over to the lake and, kneeling by the water, washed my face. Unable to avoid my reflection, I again cursed myself for being so damned ugly. Better off alone, I mouthed. Better off far from any other people lest your face gives them nightmares. Standing up, I grabbed my ample belly with both hands and wondered how I had got so fat when I walked nearly every day. Must be the booze. Blame it on the booze and cake.

What’s going on here? Henry called over in his booming voice. Henry has an incredibly powerful voice and the ability to sneak up unheard on people, which he claims to have acquired in his days as a secret agent, battling the KGB and other foreign spy agencies. Sporting a colonel’s moustache, he swaggered over to the lake, splashed the clear water onto his face (it is a well-known fact that the lake has no fish, nor life of any kind except frogs and the odd toad) and belched, satisfied with life. In truth he is bigger than me, at least as far as midriff weight is concerned, but has deluded himself into thinking he isn’t a large man. Diet is in order for you, he said, chuckling. I noticed he had also avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror. You off the booze yet? Best way to deal with the aftermath of the Fabian incident. He chuckled louder, which is loud indeed.

I had forgotten the Faber incident and now tried not to remember it. The gist of it is this. Having been invited to the only party I had ever been invited to, I drank half a bottle of gin as a means of dealing with my pre-party nerves and so arrived in quite a state. An unfit state to arrive at a party in, let me tell you, but I was let in and helped myself to more booze and ended up insulting most of the people there, most of whom I had never seen before and would never see again, and was manhandled out of the house and told to find my own way home. Watching from the sidelines, head slightly above the parapet (as it were), Henry the butcher chuckled his trademark chuckle before sipping from his tankard. I couldn’t guess why he was down at the lake. Where are you off to? he asked.

Why should I tell you? I said, standing straight and as tall as I could, which isn’t half as tall as I’d like to be. Are you my mental valet or something?

Occasionally glancing over my shoulder, I made my way home and found the siblings sitting outside the front door, playing tiddlywinks. Can’t find the car, Natalie said. A wheezing Henry appeared from the side of the cottage. Came to borrow some sugar. Ran out this morning and the missus is dying in bed. Woman flu, I call it. Got any sugar?

Henry left with a bag of sugar, leaving me with three teaspoons. Natalie cooked curry using her mother’s recipe, emptying my spices. Sitting alone at the table as the brothers kicked a floater football around the back garden, I tried thinking up excuses for her to stay. She could stay till she was discovered here by the police. She could stay till the signal on her mobile began working again. No, the second idea had a flaw; her battery had died in the night, as had the batteries on her brothers’ phones. No doubt she would stay till the next morning, then head off again. She and her brothers had walked in an easterly direction but hadn’t found a road after an hour or so, only what they termed moorland. I hadn’t bothered to say there aren’t any moors in the area, there’s moorland up in Bodmin but they were far from Bodmin. I entertained her with stories of my mother, who I kept calling a remarkable woman. It is true her presence made me nervous and prone to mistakes, yet she laughed good naturedly and deemed me lucky for having had such a wonderful mother. Spiteful is how I’d describe my own mum, she said, gazing (perhaps dreamily) out the kitchen window, past the fluttering blinds. The brothers made sandcastles from my sandpit at the bottom of the garden. Usually frogs got caught in the sandpit and had to be rescued with buckets, or anything else at hand. When I closed my eyes I saw a vision of an endless hill that must be climbed, and I guessed I would see the hill in real life soon, and I did, for Natalie had the sudden disruptive idea of trying to find the car again. I refused to ask if I had become too lecherous with my eyes, too lascivious in my thoughts. Can people detect thoughts? They can detect the mood of one’s thoughts on one’s face, I presume. And maybe the smell of the strong curry she cooked had put her off staying. Whatever the reason, she was resolved to leave the cottage and returned to some semblance of normality, and I would climb that continuous hill till I dropped from exhaustion.

I showed her the bell before she left. Led her upstairs and entered the code to the safe in full view of her prying eyes, supposing she noted the numbers for a later date. Now distrustful of her rather than lustful for no discernible reason other than paranoia about her boyfriend, I vowed to use the bell against her before she left. Her brothers, who were less intelligent than her and childish by nature, would be easier to lead. Raising the shiny golden bell, an object I had found whilst out walking soon after buying the cottage, I said, Isn’t it entrancing? Isn’t it hypnotic? Isn’t it marvellous? Natalie acquiesced. Watch what happens when I ring it. Watch. I rang the bell.

Three mornings later I woke to the thought that I could rule the world with that bell. In a recent dream I dreamed a Roman legion had silenced their enemy’s shields and shouts by ringing the bell. Each legionnaire had a bell. But I reckon there is only one bell in the world like this bell. Maybe a Norse god crafted it. Maybe the Greek blacksmith god, whose name I now forget, created it as part of a masterplan to dominate Mount Olympus. Power must be wielded with responsibility, yes, but sometimes people just like to have fun. I wanted to have some fun with the siblings under my control. Everything I ordered was obeyed. With one ring of the bell I became the king of my cottage. Do this, do that. Clean my shoes! Wipe that stain off the carpet! Cook curry again! I bade the brothers build a shed in the back garden, which they managed over the course of two days, using the supply of wood leftover from a treehouse I had built in preparation for the visit of one of my cousins. This cousin never arrived, and I suspect he wrote the letter inviting himself to the cottage was a joke. I am not liked by my own family, largely because I am a loner and have a habit of embarrassing myself and others during social events. Anyway, the brothers made the new shed their home. Ringing the bell close to Natalie’s head, I ordered her to become my bedfellow. She agreed to share my bed with genuine enthusiasm. All because of the bell.

Haven’t heard of anyone with that name here. I live alone. The odd neighbour comes here, nobody else. Leaning against the door frame, I remembered Henry had forgotten to return my sugar. Then I thought of using the bell against a colossal giant of a man, who had destroyed the peace. On first sight of the man I knew he was Natalie’s boyfriend, not a man sent by Natalie’s boyfriend to track her down but her boyfriend himself. How did you find this place, by the way? I asked, feigning composure. Inside, my heart danced to a nervous tune even with the reassurance that the bell could save me. After excusing myself and shutting the door in his face, I made Natalie hide in the bedroom wardrobe and demanded the brothers be perfectly still and quiet in their shed. Then I returned to the door. Come in! Don’t get many visitors round here but when I do I like to treat them! What do you fancy, cake or ice cream?

Had a lot of people come and go here. One bearded man asked for Natalie’s boyfriend by name. Has a bloke called Steve been here? the big man asked. They’re all big men. Seems like Steve was the head of some sort of criminal enterprise. A small-scale mafia? Probably had his fingers in many pies. Of course, it’s too late to ask him now. Too late to interrogate him. Natalie might know, but I squirm at the thought of interrogating her, for she has been a great help around the house and, cue drum roll … we are engaged to be married! Would you believe that! The ceremony will take place here, at Lundere cottage, next Sunday morning. Our honeymoon will also take place here. Too risky taking her away from the cottage when she’s actively listed as a missing person. How do I know that? I walked to Henry’s house and searched her name on the internet. Deleted the search history after that. Henry is too … how can I say? Henry isn’t a computer whizz by any measure. Never heard of him, became my standard reply when asked if I’d seen a Steve. What leads them here? No doubt they’ll return, one after the other, and next time they might not be satisfied with a simple, Never heard of him. Next time they might knock me unconscious with a single punch (those men looked capable of that) and search the house, and they’ll easily find Natalie, who sometimes sneezes inside the wardrobe. Oh, what to do about the brothers?

Wary of ringing the bell too often, I rang the bell. Stay where you are. Don’t move. Especially don’t move when it gets hot in here because it’s going to get very hot in here. Stay where you are. After checking if any visitor had arrived out of the blue, as those men are wont to do, I took Natalie to the shed, rang the bell next to her head and ordered her to burn the shed down with matches, which she did. Standing well back, I beamed with joy as flames engulfed the shed. So glorious! I yelled. So beautiful! Oh God oh God oh God this is joyous! Look at it! Squeezing Natalie’s shoulder, I added, We just need fireworks now! Where can we find fireworks!

Whilst shaving I noticed two men clad in gym wear (vests and short shorts) standing atop the pile of ashes where the shed had once been. Heard he has a deranging effect on women, one of them said. Or might have said; it’s hard to hear people properly from the bathroom. Can I help you, gentlemen? I called from the window. How may I be of service? What was that? No, I haven’t! I can’t understand why people keep coming here, out the blue, asking if I know this woman called Melanie, is it? Natalie, that’s right! I don’t see women round here! Might have seen a bloke called Steve but he isn’t here now! I don’t run a b and b, you know!

Yesterday morning, after a quick and simple breakfast of marmalade on toast, I walked Natalie out into a valley forge and bade her make her own way home. Time to get out of my hair, I said. It’s for the best. Love you and leave you, darling.

I haven’t seen her since. However, only a day and bit has passed and there’s a chance she could knock on the door at any time. I won’t answer it. The bell is safely back in the safe. Forgot to change the four-digit passcode but I’m sure I’ll get round to that soon. Hopefully the force behind the bell, that is the force within the bell that enables the magical power, is safe in the safe too, or I won’t hear the last of it. Before closing the bell inside the safe I said a little ditty that went like this. You stay there now, just stay, stay within the confines of this electronic safe. Oh stay, stay for many days, stay and don’t go away. Stay!

Powerful, you know, I said, savouring the taste of my home made sour lemon wine. It is too strong for Henry’s liking; he is sticking with his scrumpy cider. He was serious when he said it. Didn’t take long for him to mention this bell after he joined me at the table. I was at the hotel for a business meeting back when I was at the publisher’s firm. We tended to have meetings in the hotel’s function room. You know the hotel, it’s near Tintagel Castle. Right next to it. Lovely setting. Ideal setting for a hotel. Picture postcard panoramic portrait view. You should book yourself at a room there for the night, if it’s open, just to see the view of the sea and the ruins from the window. Nodding, Henry (I wasn’t sure he was concentrating on my words) poured more scrumpy into his glass and began cutting the end of his cigar when I added, Might need that sugar back, Henry.

No problem, Ian. I’ll bring it round tomorrow afternoon.

No rush, Henry, it’s just useful for putting in tea. I can’t drink tea without sugar! Worse than drinking tea without milk. Where was I? Hearing rummaging in the nearby bush, I turned to that general area and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nobody there. Could be a fox, I thought. A badger?

A bell. You were talking about a bell, Ian.

Oh yes. This friend of mine - we go way back, back to school - said he found a bell in the sands! On the beach, is what he meant by that. He said a ghost appeared whenever he rang the bell. What do you make of that? he asked me. Well, I said, scratching my neck, I can’t really comment till I’ve seen it for myself. Wishing I had prepared the story in advance, I cobbled together a hasty ending. He didn’t show me, said he was too busy and hadn’t got the bell with him anyway, then we got drunk together, toasted the future and all that, and I haven’t seen him since. By the way, Henry, have you had any people come over asking for a man called Steve and a woman called Natalie? He shook his head, then, energised by a sip of his scrumpy, asked, Got any spare honey I can borrow?