The broken bicycle bell

It was the weekend before the diocese-wide bellringing competition, and the little world that Rev. Fitzpatrick inhabited was wrapped up in muted anticipation. She was fussing with the distribution of the hymnals and Songs of Praise booklets in anticipation of tomorrow’s usually tiny but dedicated congregation when her verger came bustling down the aisle.

“Vicar! There’s been an accident, Martin’s in hospital,” he said as soon as he could be considered in conversational range, like if he didn’t get the words out he would explode. “He’ll be fine, just a broke arm and bumped head,” he got in before she could break him off with questions. “Came off his bike, claims that the captain from Greater Harborough took him out on account of him being the best ringer!”

She sighed, and let the book slip from her fingers to thud to the pew. 

“When did this all happen? Is he at the hospital?”

Paul danced from one foot to the other, the news quite not out of his system yet.

“I think so, but I just got a cursory call from Greta since she’s sitting with him. But that broken bone is going to do absolutely nothing for his technique in Cambridge Surprise Major, so I’ll be leading the team next week, and it means young Sophie gets to be in her first competition.” 

Midge nodded as sagely as she could, in the experienced manner she had adopted whenever the bells came up. The sound was pleasant for the most part, certainly, and she was proud of their pride in the skill, but she found it ever so tiring to keep up with the ins and outs of the meetings and competitions and to summon the level of enthusiasm that seemed to brim from everyone on her admittedly very successful team, especially when the learner’s practice was clearly audible from the vicarage. 

“I’ll go see him just now then. You don’t give any weight to these claims of him being run down do undermine the competition, do you?”

She could hardly believe it herself, but it was difficult to get a read on exactly how closely guarded these accolades were. 

“I don’t really know, vicar. I’ve been hearing talk about how Sophie’s been getting a lot of attention from one of the plumbers from town, if you know what I mean. Vanishes in there a couple of times a week now.”

Sophie certainly didn’t seem like the sort of person to run her husband over, or even to say boo to a goose, and while it was impossible to gauge the inside of a relationship from the outside but they were a young couple, newly moved to the village and always appeared close and happy. At the very least there was a worry that crept upon her at the thought that there were seditious rumours floating about, and the ghost of sermons future floated before her, words of guarding against prejudice worming into her mind. There was little she could do in an official capacity, but maybe she could head the badmouthing off at the pass.

"How was he when you last saw him? Did he mention a falling out at all?"

"Nothing, he was leaving the pub sober as a judge to go post some forms for the Council."

“Well then Paul, can I leave the church to you? And don’t judge Sophie too closely, it doesn’t do to pry.”

“Yes, vicar,” he replied smartly, ebullient face showing not even a flicker of self-reflection. “It’ll be spick and span when you get back, I need to brush up on my the method.”

She smiled fondly at him as he bustled off, the echoes of last night's bell practice suddenly ringing at the back of her headache as she left the high ceilings of the nave behind for the stormy slate skies that crowded in on her. 

Martin was in fine fettle when she arrived, deep in conversation with the nurse over which channels his hospital television could hope to receive while Sophie was off getting him some more things for his stay, as he'd been given another night's rest on account of his head trauma. She paused in the doorway with her gift shop grapes as they rattled through options and took in his condition. True enough his arm was in a cast and his scalp alternated between bandaged and shaved, but he was bright and talking, and his knees were folded easily underneath him. 

Eventually the two separated and the nurse excused herself quickly to go attend to more medical interests, nodding at her, or at least the dog collar, on her way past. 

"Morning, Martin," she said in her most matronly voice. "How are you doing? I heard you were hurt so I thought I would check in. I brought the customary offering." 

She raised the clear grape bag high enough that he could see it and he laughed into his chest. 

"Thanks, you didn't have to. Did the wife let you know what happened?" He seemed as calm as ever, no trace of that fierce rage that she had expected from the report.

"Paul said, he was very concerned about you and the competition both."

Martin laughed again. 

"That'll be right; it was already one of the biggest dates in his calendar and now he's the main man."

"You don't think that he hit you, do you?" she asked, the image of Paul and his team barbecues bright in her mind. 

"No, no, never," Martin hurried to reassure her. "He would never, he's the best man in the tower, wouldn't hurt a fly. I think it was those rats over at Harborough, they're scared of the competition. I saw the car of the bugger who got me, a blue Corsa like their captain Rutherford has. No way it wasn't him, didn't even slow down. The police came round, apparently as a matter of course but I didn't even bother to mention it to them, they couldn't catch a cold in winter, they're not going to do jack to get a dangerous driver in some anonymous Hampshire by-road."

She watched him in growing interest: He was still so calm, mildly putting forward an accusation of a serious assault, perhaps even attempted murder. By the time they had talked over the sundries of his injury she left the ward her head was swimming in theories, each worse than the last and all completely out of character for those involved. In fact, she was so lost in thought that she almost ran head-first into Sophie coming around the quiet corridor with a crumpled barrel bag.

"Sorry, I... oh, Midge!" she started in recognition. "I didn't expect, have you seen him then?"

"I just came from there," she said, watching Sophie's face closely as it morphed through sadness to something that could almost be regret before she put a hand over her mouth to steady herself. 

"It's, oh God - ah, sorry, vicar, it's just really not what we needed right now. He might need to be off work for a while and if he's not earning commission we're going to struggle. The school doesn't pay that much, and I'm sorry, you don't need me crying into your shoulder over all of this."

Midge smiled and brought her into as warm a hug as she could manage around the bag. "That's what I'm here for, silly. Consider me a welcoming ear any time you need to talk. We could get a collection going if you want?"

The violent shake of the head she got in response was muffled against her shoulder. They drew apart.

"We don't need any of that yet, better go to those that do and all that. It's just a setback and I know I shouldn't react so badly to it all but I'd set my heart on getting the toilet moved into the bathroom so that he could have a space to work and, I don't know, have to himself. We'd been getting under each others' feet a little lately and I wanted to make sure he would have somewhere to be away from me a bit.  A man cave I guess. I'd been surveyed and quoted for it too and now I can't even bring it up to him. It's so stupid."

The closer Midge looked for deceit the less she could see. The young woman in front of her did seem genuinely distressed at the thought, and with no indication of the rumours against her she had no good reason to lie.

"It isn't stupid, you've had a big upset . There is nothing wrong with being frustrated and lost in the wake of it, but it isn't forever. You've got the rest of the congregation pulling for you as well, you know, not just me." 

"I guess," Sophie replied quietly, pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear and giving her best watery smile. "I'll see you later, Midge, got to get him his things or I'll never hear the end of it."

"Sure thing," she said, watching her hurry down the corridor. While she was confident in her faith that she was innocent of both adultery and vehicular assault, the accusation still hung heavy in the air.

The next point of call would be the Harborough tower, probably. They should know of the talk at least, as there was very little chance that the rest of the ringers at the very least hadn't been clued in, and from there the spread would be exponential; everyone in the town would know that 'their captain possibly ran down our captain' soon enough and after that there would be no stopping it leaching to their town. She wasn't sure what they would be able to do about it, but forewarned was forearmed. Better that than find out next week at the competition.

She had known the vicar of that church for years, after all he'd been one of the first people to come visit once she'd moved in and they often had diocese plans together, he would know who to call at least.

He picked up on the first ring, voice smug in an almost visible way. 

"Hey, Midge, nice to hear from you on such a fine morning. Is this about the talk of our bell ringers running your bell ringers off the road?"

It wasn't a great start to the conversation; she was missing some major context.

"Hi, Rory. Yeah, I wanted to give your guys a heads up about what was going on over here but it seems you've beaten me to it. What do you know that I should? Do you have a number of the captain I can call and see if he can't straighten things out with Martin?"

"Sorry, they're all out of the area. Very out of the area: they're in Tulloch, so definitely not running people over just now."

"All of them?" She could barely remember hearing of it existing, but its Scottish sound made this all seem very unlikely.

"They're on an intensive ringing sort of course, the lot of them. Taking the weekend up north to get ready for next week, so they say."

"Could someone have taken his car? A blue Corsa?" she tried, on a last final ditch attempt.

"He sold it last year. Horrible red sports thing now, makes an awful racket going round the green."

"Huh," was all she could manage in response to that, and it sounded weak even to her.

"Anyway then, are you coming to our town carnival next month? This'll come out in the wash before then and they've got some sort of street organ collective turning up, should drown out even that car." The smirk had completely vanished from his voice and they spent the next while chatting as if nothing had happened, to the point where she had forgotten the point of the call by the time she had hung up.

She clicked off the call and instantly the confusion returned in force. Not only did she not understand who had knocked him off his bike, but now she had no suspects left to her list. 

The last people she could think of would have been Geoffrey and Angela. They lived just across the road from the church next to the Eight Bells pub, and therefore right across from the tower, and over the years had been the first to loudly announce their distaste for their noise and their open refusal to accept that the practice was being made twice weekly instead of monthly like they had begrudgingly accepted when they bought their little cottage. It had only almost come to blows once, when Angela had been under the weather with a screaming migraine and there had been a peal started at 10am and rung on for hours. Geoffrey had emerged first, hammering on the tower door which had been locked in preparation for him, and then Angela standing at the door, pale faced and glowering like a wraith of old. While she had eventually faded into the shadows of the house, her better half had lain in wait, alternating between pacing before the door and hiding behind the Yew trees in ambush, and was only warded off when a passing parishoner raised the alarm; the tower was phoned to stay up there while Midge had made her way towards him with loud complaints about the racket and commiserations, talking him down just enough to get him into the church for the loitering team to go scuttling out unseen.

There was absolutely no way that either of them could have been involved, however. She had seen them drive off to their niece's wedding in Cornwall, been sent sniggering emails from a friend of a friend of someone who was passing on snapshots of angry Facebook rants about the quarter peal after the service and sent back as gentle of a rebuke as she could get away with given her office. 

And so her reserves of ideas ran dry. 

The idea of letting whoever had run Martin down stay loose in the world rankled her, but there really was nothing that could be done for it.

The day had worn long by this point, and the fatigue of the emotional ups and downs interrupting her quiet weekend began to tire her out all at once. Bringing a hand through her curls to find nothing but tugs she determined that it could all wait until tomorrow, especially since it wasn’t really something for her to meddle with. Time instead for one of the pretty amazing mocktails and the Bells and turn in so she wouldn’t keep herself worried and sleep through the sermon.

The Bells was as dark as ever, but the low chatter and the smell of the old upholstery was exactly what she needed to relax. She ordered her drink from Ash and its rather ridiculous name to take and burrow into the corner with and let the conversation lull her. 

It couldn’t last however, and eventually one of the old barflies wheedled his way up to her, grinning from ear to ear as he sat his ale down on the table. 

“D’you hear about Martin?”

She sighed to herself, masking her exhaustion with a show of sympathy.

“It’s awful. I can’t imagine whoever hit him meant him such harm, it must have been an accident.”

“Ha!” he barked. “Accident it was! He was pissing drunk when he left here!”

Her back hit the wall as she retracted in shock.

"But the team saw him leave completely sober!"

"He came back after he'd run whatever errand he'd had, went for a couple of rounds with the lads and then a couple more. I'm shocked he even got on his bike the right way round! He'll have driven himself into a tree, no doubt."

There was no way of disguising her shock, so she excused herself and wandered back to the vicarage in a daze. 

She woke with a start, bustling through her morning with a purpose, remembering to put a smidge more emphasis on certain morals than she usually did, and as soon as she had detangled herself from the ordinary running of the parish she was back off to the hospital.

When she broached the possibility to Martin he seemed to deflate, the inevitable reveal sitting between them as a tangible mass in the room. He refuted nothing, only explained that he had still been drunk when he woke, and while the nurses assured him they knew what had happened he couldn't bring himself to tell his wife. So he had promised them he would tell her when she got in, and then when he saw her the shame overcame him and his slurring mind came up with the first excuse it could think of, like a child caught having spent all their tuck shop money, and then he was locked in to it. He'd never meant to say it, not really, and he wasn't serious about ever talking to the police, and when later that day Sophie had told him about her plans he felt worse. He asked for her forgiveness, which she gave easily, but they both knew she was the least of the people who he needed forgiveness from. 

She settled back into her big, vicarage standard armchair at the end of the day knackered once again, holding her mug of tea by the cup rather than the handle so the heat leached into her skin. Things would sort themselves out in time, as they always had before, and it was all she could hope that her parish would eventually learn that life is much better spent trusting in people than tending the grapevine.

The bells chimed out in the night, in perfect time. 

They'd all be just fine.