The Bell

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘It’s marvellous,’ said Dora.

  ‘It’s not a bad example of its kind,’ said Paul.

  Dora knew from experience that nothing put Paul in a good humour so quickly as being able to show her something. He was looking up at the house with satisfaction, as if he had made it himself.

  ‘A pupil of Inigo Jones,’ he began.

  ‘Better bustle up if we’re going to make Compline,’ said James. ‘So sorry.’ He started off up one of the flights of steps. The others began to trail after him.

  James stopped, looking down on them from above. ‘I suppose the newcomers would like to join us?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Toby. This seemed to be the right answer.

  Dora supposed that Compline must be some sort of religious service. At least this would put off the moment when she had to meet all those people, and the worse moment when she would be alone with Paul. She nodded.

  Paul said nothing, following her silent and preoccupied.

  Dora climbed the steps, trailing her hand upon the wide sloping stone banister. It was warm from the sun. She shivered slightly as she touched the house. In a moment she found herself upon the wide paved balcony under the portico. The tall doorway ahead of her led into a large hall. All was rather dark within, as no lights had been turned on yet. Dora followed James and Toby through the door, and got an impression of a great staircase, and of people hurrying through the hall and out by another door at the far end. There was a stale smell, like the smell of old bread, the smell of an institution.

  A woman detached herself from the hurrying figures and came up to them. ‘I’m so glad you’ve arrived in time,’ she said. ‘Welcome to Imber, Toby and Dora. We all use Christian names here, you know. I feel I know you both quite well already, I’ve heard so much about you!’

  The woman, whom Dora could see now in the gloomy light of the interior, was a middle-aged broad-set person with a round freckled girlish face covered with fair fluffy down which gave her the appearance of an amiable lion. She had pleasant blue eyes and very long faded fair hair which she wore in neat plaits round her head.

  ‘This is Mrs Mark,’ said James.

  ‘Would you like to retire anywhere?’ said Mrs Mark to Dora.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Dora.

  At that moment Dora saw, over Mrs Mark’s shoulder, what looked like a rather beautiful girl who was hurrying after the other figures in the direction of the door. She was very slim and had a long downcast pale face, long heavy eyelids, and a weight of dark hair which she wore in a drooping bun. Lost tendrils of hair curled in a short straggly fringe upon her high forehead. She turned a little in Dora’s direction before she went through the door and smiled.

  Dora felt an immediate twinge of displeasure. She realized that she had been assuming that if she had to decorate so uncongenial a scene she would at least be the only beautiful girl upon it. A woman of the appearance of Mrs Mark was quite in place here. But the figure she had just seen was disturbing, like a portent, menacing almost. Dora remembered that she had forgotten to smile back. The smile appeared on her lips a second or two after the girl had gone.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ said Mrs Mark.

  She led the way, and Dora followed with Paul. Toby and James came after. James hurried forward to hold the door open and they passed into a wide corridor. Paul took hold of Dora’s hand, squeezed it hard, and continued to hold it. Dora was not sure if the pressure was meant as a threat or as a reassurance. She left her hand limp, resenting the hold, overcome with dejection.

  A moment later they were stepping quietly into a large long room in which the lights had already been turned on. Three tall uncurtained windows with rounded tops opposite to the door gave a view over the park land, now darkened to a hazy twilight by contrast with the bright naked lights within. Dora blinked. The room was lofty and elaborately panelled. Its pink and white paint had faded to a dusty pallor, blanched now still more by the harsh glare. This, Dora conjectured, must have been the great drawing-room, or banqueting-hall perhaps, of Imber Court, now turned into a chapel. The wall at the end on her right had been completely covered by a curtain of royal blue hessian, fixed to the middle of which was a plain cross of light oak. Below it on a dais stood an altar covered with a white lace cloth and surmounted by a brass crucifix. At the side stood an elaborate metal music stand which served as a lectern. The body of the room was unfurnished except for a few rows of wooden chairs and a scattering of hassocks. A small number of people were already kneeling, and a strong silence, which because of the oddness of the scene seemed to Dora slightly dramatic, made her catch her breath.

  James Tayper Pace crossed himself and knelt down at once near the door. Toby knelt beside him.

  ‘We’ll pop you in at the back,’ whispered Mrs Mark, and pointed Paul and Dora to the back row. Mrs Mark then slipped away to what was evidently her usual station near the front. They went to their places, setting their feet down carefully on the bare floorboards. The silence was resumed.

  After a moment’s hesitation Dora knelt beside Paul. In the stillness she found that her heart was beating violently. She had released herself from Paul’s grip when passing through the door and now clasped her hands determinedly together in front of her. Resisting the pious atmosphere she threw her head well back and looked about the room. She saw now that the ceiling rose in the centre to a round lantern and what must be the inside of the green dome which she had seen from the drive. From inside it appeared quite small. Dora’s gaze wandered for a while among pale egg-and-dart friezes and pink scrolls and stucco garlands until it found its way back to the sober scene below.

  Kneeling in the front row she could see a man in a black cassock who must be a priest, and near him she now made out with an unpleasant shock a shapeless pile of squatting black cloth that must be a nun. Behind them, in a group with James and Toby, there were three or four men. Mrs Mark was to be seen, kneeling very upright, her head covered by a crumpled check handkerchief which she must have whipped out as she came through the door. The dark girl whom Dora had glimpsed in the hall was kneeling nearer to the back, her face covered in her hands and bent very low. She had cast a scarf of black lace over her head and beneath it there appeared the black knot of her hair, glistening in the bright light. There were no other women.

  Someone began to speak and Dora jumped guiltily. She listened, but could not follow what was being said. The speaker appeared to be the priest at the front. After listening for a little longer Dora realized that it must be Latin. She was dismayed and distinctly shocked. She had retained her prejudices when she lost her religion. A murmur of voices suddenly surrounded her, and a dialogue was begun between the priest and the congregation. Dora ventured a quick glance sideways at Paul. He knelt with shoulders squared and hands behind him, looking ahead and slightly upward toward the cross at the far end of the room. He had the solemn somewhat noble look which he often wore when he was thinking about his work, but rarely when he was thinking about his wife. Dora wondered whether, happily, his mind was turned to higher things, or whether the religious scene had wrought some change in his feelings. She must remember to ask him, some time when he was in a good temper, whether he believed in God. It was absurd not to know.

  Dora suddenly noticed that the nun in the front row had turned round and was looking at her. The nun was fairly young and had a wide ruddy face and strong intent eyes. With the detachment from her devotional surroundings which can best be shown by those whose profession is devotion she scrutinized Dora with unsmiling objectivity for a moment or two. Then she turned away and whispered something over her shoulder to Mrs Mark who was kneeling just behind her. Mrs Mark also turned round and looked at Dora. Dora felt herself becoming red with alarm. There was a cold familiar inevitability about these looks. With the resignation of one who had never in her life got away with anything Dora watched Mrs Mark get up and tiptoe round the chairs to the back so that she could lean over Dora’s shoulder. Dora twisted round, trying
to hear what it was that Mrs Mark was now whispering in her ear.

  ‘What?’ said Dora, more loudly than she had intended.

  ‘Sister Ursula says please would you mind covering your head? It’s customary here.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything!’ said Dora, ready to burst into tears of embarrassment and vexation.

  ‘A hanky will do,’ whispered Mrs Mark, smiling encouragement.

  Dora fumbled in her pocket and found a small not very clean handkerchief which she laid on top of her head. Mrs Mark tiptoed away, and the nun looked back once more with amiable satisfaction.

  Blushing violently, Dora stared ahead of her. She could see that Paul’s expression had changed, but she dared not look at him. She clutched the back of the chair in front. The Latin mumbling went on. Dora became conscious that her skirt was intolerably tight and that a ladder was slowly spreading down one of her stockings. Her feet were hurting and she became suddenly aware that it is extremely uncomfortable to kneel with high-heeled shoes on. She began to look distractedly about the room. She could not see it as a chapel. It was a shabby derelict pitiable drawing-room, harbouring an alien rite, half sinister, half ludicrous. Dora drew a deep breath and rose to her feet. She whipped the idiotic handkerchief from her head and walked quietly to the door and out.

  She found herself in a corridor which was unfamiliar, but after trying one or two doors discovered her way back to the stone-flagged hall which opened onto the balcony. She listened for sounds of pursuit but heard none. The hall was spacious, and devoid of decoration: no flowers, no pictures. An open fireplace with a stone carved chimney-piece was swept clean and filled with a heap of brown fir-cones. A green baize notice-board announced times of meals and services, and that there would shortly be a recital of Bach records. Dora hurried on and passed through the tall doorway onto the balcony.

  She leaned on the balustrade between the pillars, looking down across the terrace to the lake. The sun had gone, but the western sky to her right was still full of a murky orange glow, glittering with a few feathers of pale cloud, against which a line of trees appeared black and jaggedly clear. She could also see the silhouette of a tower, which must belong to the Abbey. The lake too was glowing very slightly, darkened nearby to blackness, yet retaining here and there upon its surface a skin of almost phosphorescent light. Dora began to descend the steps.

  She crossed the terrace and went down the further flight of shallow steps to the path. She paused here because her feet were hurting, took one shoe off, and caressed her foot. Her foot released felt so much better that Dora kicked the other shoe off at once. It fell into some long grass by the side of the steps. Dora tossed its fellow after it and began to run towards the lake. The steps were dry and still warm from the day’s sunshine. The path between the yew trees was of clipped grass and slightly damp already with the dew.

  At the edge of the water, fringed by reeds, was a little wooden landing-stage and a small rowing boat. The boat had the attentive tempting look that small rowing boats have. A single oar lay within it. Dora loved boats, though they made her nervous too since she could not swim. She resisted the temptation to get into the boat and glide upon the black glass of the lake. She walked instead a little way along the bank, walking now through the longish grass which tugged stickily at the hem of her skirt. The ground was becoming damp and marshy underfoot. The lake began to bend sharply away to the right and she dimly saw that there was another reach of water on the other side of the house, dividing it from the Abbey. She stood looking out into the darkness across the water and reflected that this was the first moment of quietness in her day. She stood so for a little while listening to the silence.

  Suddenly a hand bell rang sharply and clearly from the other side. It rang urgently and vigorously shaken for nearly a minute. Then there was complete silence again. It sounded as if the ringer of the bell must be outside on the edge of the lake, so clearly did the high imperative sound reach Dora’s ears. She turned and began to run quickly back toward the yew tree path. The bell alarmed her. She hurried panting up the slope and as she put her first foot onto the steps she remembered her shoes. She began to forage in the long grass at the side of the steps. The accursed shoes were not to be found. She looked up at the house, looming up dimly over her in the night sky. She stooped again to fumble helplessly in the grass. It was too dark to see anything. A light went on in the house, somewhere in the region of the balcony. Dora gave up her search and began to trail back across the terrace. The stones hurt her feet.

  The room where the light was on opened directly onto the balcony, on the right side, through a pair of large glass double doors, which looked as if they had been recently put in, doubtless by the same vandal that had been active below. Dora could see that there were a lot of people gathered inside the lighted room. She did not dare to hesitate, but blundered quickly in, shielding her eyes as she did so.

  Someone gripped her arm and led her further into the room. It was Mrs Mark, who said ‘Poor Dora, I’m so sorry we scared you away. I hope you didn’t get lost out there in the garden?’

  ‘No, but I lost my shoes,’ said Dora. Her feet felt very cold and wet now. She moved forward instinctively and sat on the edge of the table. People clustered about her.

  ‘You lost your shoes?’ said Paul in a disapproving tone. He came and stood in front of her.

  ‘I kicked them off somewhere near the edge of the stone steps, the ones down to the path,’ said Dora, ‘and then I couldn’t find them.’ The simplicity of this explanation gave her a curious comfort.

  James Tayper Pace came forward and said, ‘Let a search party be organized! It shall consist of Toby and me, as we know Mrs Greenfield already. Flash lights will be distributed. Meanwhile Mrs Mark can do the introductions.’

  ‘I’ll go too,’ said Paul. Dora knew that he was always certain that he could find anything that she had lost. She hoped that he would find her shoes, and not one of the other two. It would put him in a better humour.

  Swinging her cold wet legs in their torn and muddy stockings Dora fixed her gaze upon the one remaining familiar face, that of Mrs Mark. A lot of people stood before her, staring at her. She did not dare to look at them; yet everything was so awful now that she was almost past caring what anyone saw or thought.

  ‘You must meet our little group,’ said Mrs Mark. ‘Toby has been introduced already.’

  Dora continued to look at Mrs Mark, noticing how her rosy face, devoid of make-up, contrived to be shiny and downy at the same time, and how exceedingly long her plait of fair hair must be when it was unrolled. Mrs Mark wore a blue open-necked shirt and a brown cotton skirt above shaggy bare legs and canvas slippers.

  ‘This is Peter Topglass,’ said Mrs Mark. A tall baldish man with spectacles swayed in a bow to Dora.

  ‘And this is Michael Meade, our leader.’ A long-nosed man with pale floppy brown hair and blue eyes set too close together smiled a rather tired and anxious smile.

  ‘And this is Mark Strafford, with the beaver.’ A large man with bushy hair and a ginger beard and a slightly sarcastic expression came forward to nod to Dora. He smelt strongly of disinfectant.

  ‘I am Mister Mrs Mark, if you see what I mean,’ said Mark Strafford.

  ‘And this is Patchway, who is a tower of strength to us in the market-garden.’ A dirty-looking man with a decrepit hat on, who looked as if he did not belong and was indifferent to not belonging, gazed morosely at Dora.

  ‘And this is Father Bob Joyce, our Father Confessor.’ The cassocked priest who had just come into the room bustled up to shake Dora’s hand. He had a bulging face and eyes glittering with conviction. He smiled, revealing a dark mouth full of much-filled teeth, and then gave Dora a piercing look which made her feel shifty.

  ‘And this is Sister Ursula, the extern sister, who is our good liaison officer with the Abbey.’

  Sister Ursula beamed at Dora. She had dark high-arching eyebrows and a commanding expression. Dora felt she would never forgive
her for the handkerchief incident.

  ‘We are very glad to see you here,’ said Sister Ursula. ‘We have remembered you in our prayers.’

  Dora blushed with mingled indignation and embarrassment. She managed a smile.

  ‘And this,’ said Mrs Mark, ‘is Catherine Fawley, our little saint, whom I’m sure you’ll love as we all do.’ Dora turned to look at the rather beautiful girl with the long face.

  ‘Hello,’ said Dora.

  ‘Hello,’ said Catherine Fawley.

  Perhaps she was not really beautiful after all, Dora thought with relief. There was something timid and withdrawn in her face which prevented it from being dazzling. Her smile was warm yet somewhat secretive. Her large eyes, of a cold sea-grey colour, did not sustain Dora’s stare. Dora still found her, in some undefined way, a little menacing.

  ‘Would you like a boiled egg or something?’ said Mrs Mark. ‘We usually have high tea at six and just milk and biscuits after Compline.’ She indicated a side table with mugs and a large biscuit tin in which Peter Topglass was now rummaging.

  The group around Dora had broken up. Michael Meade could be seen, in converse with Mark Strafford, flashing a nervous smile of irregular teeth, his long hands darting about in Egyptian gestures. ‘No more Petit Beurre,’ Peter Topglass was saying meditatively to himself in the background.

  ‘No egg, thank you,’ said Dora. ‘I ate something on the train.’

  ‘A little milk then?’

  ‘No, thank you, nothing,’ said Dora. She thought of the whisky bottles. They would be in South Wales by now.

  James Tayper Pace came bursting back through the doors, crying ‘Eureka! Toby was the lucky one!’

  Toby Gashe followed holding Dora’s shoes by the heels, one in each hand. He lowered his eyes as he approached Dora and his dusky red cheeks burned a little redder. He presented to her the top of his round dark head as he gave her the shoes with an embarrassed little obeisance.