Blind Date by Frances Fyfield Page A

should really tell her now what the surveyor had said about the bells. His heart sank unaccountably then rose again as his eye took in the creature comforts she had provided for herself in here. Rugs on the wooden floor. A kitchenette, consisting of two electric rings, a microwave and a tiny fridge. The rudimentary bathroom in the alcove had been there since the Church had begun to convert the place to give it potential for a dwelling, and then given up.
    â€œIt
is
nice, you know,” he ventured, as if to reassure himself as much as her. “And you don’t have to go upstairs to sleep, do you? Not for the time being.” The ghost of another smile lit her features again. She was in the corner, making tea. He felt he ought to help and knew she would refuse.
    â€œYes,” she said. “It is. And once the diocese can make up its mind what it wants to do with the place, you’ll probably be able to sell it for a small fortune. Until then, it’s mine.” It was a gentle reminder that she had already lived here for five years, according herself the rights of an occupant. Lived here and suffered here: he knew that. He nursed the tea, then swallowed it in a gulp, burning his mouth. The urge to look at his watch irritated him. He did it all the time, yet punctuality continued to elude him. There was always somewhere to go; some other person in greater need than the one he had seen last: he knew he spread himself too thinly, but could not stop it.
    He could fair scamper down those steps, Elisabeth thought, shouting goodbye. He was like an alarmed mouse, scurrying not towards a corner, but to the next crisis. He was saying something as he went. About a cleaner and a key: she missed it. Thought of it when he was gone.
    She waitedfor the slam of the door, a hollow, echoey sound which was a reminder of how solid it was, almost as solid as the door to this room, and the doors to the chambers above. I love living here, Elisabeth thought. Perhaps having a passion for the place one inhabits means that my mother and I are not so dissimilar, after all. Slowly, she mounted the steps to another closed door, and beyond, to the room which housed the clock and her bed. Father Flynn was right of course: she should ignore these levels of her domain, but not until she had proved she could climb to the top. Upwards again, the stairs steeper, the cobwebs gathering. The door of the belfry opened on oiled hinges. And there, dusty in the glorious light, were the bells which no-one used. Eight bells, provided by a benefactor. Seven treble, one tenor. Inscribed on the one side with the words “Robert Cross made me, 1895” and on the other with a dedication. Elisabeth moved around the awkward space and read each. “To God the Father, God the Son, and God the Spirit, Three in One, Be honour Praise, And Glory Given, By all on Earth, And all in Heaven.” In the centre of these was the bell for the clock. Elisabeth moved and touched each bell, noting the rotting wood which held them aloft. There were steeply recessed, unglassed windows in the tower: the heat rose up here to a smooth and dusty dryness. On the top step, listening to the breeze which always moaned through the slats covering the narrow openings, Elisabeth Kennedy sat and wept.
    She wept for her mother and the things left unsaid. She wept for the sister who had died. She wept for her own ignominious failure to trap the man who had killed her. She wept for herself and the failure which was her life. And she wept for the bells which were not used, like her own heart, rotting away.
    Pray for me,Robert Cross.
    P ray for me. John Jones, known as Owl, had found himself crossing himself as he passed the church on the way back to the office. Stupid. You prayed for the dead, and then only if you were another generation. Or you prayed for something important, like promotion, in the superstitious belief it might help. That was it. You did not pray for success with