Alicia speaks
Handbells, Hellhounds and Hampshire
Remember that scene in ‘Some Like it Hot’, where Jack Lemmon in his character as a female band-member has just come back from an evening of dancing the tango, undertaken in order to keep his millionaire admirer away from said millionaire’s yacht for the evening? Lemmon reclines on his bed back at the band’s hotel, still with the maracas in his hands, twitching and muttering, compulsively reliving the dancing and unable to respond sensibly to Tony Curtis’ questions. Well…that’s a shadow of an analogy for the state of a staid middle-aged female, rigid* on her hotel bed at the end of her first introduction to bells and ringing.
It started with my hotel’s inability to understand that everyone in the locality doesn’t know exactly where they are in the city and so might need a bit of help – signposting, lights, that sort of thing.** With a 10 minute delay, therefore, in Robin’s collecting of this handbell-virgin for the packed schedule planned for the evening, our subsequent journey through the dark back lanes of the city and out onto the road to Niall’s house was necessarily swift.*** Niall, and Colin, were extremely welcoming when we arrived but it was obvious they were itching to get on with the purpose of the evening. So 20 seconds later I found myself catapulted onto one of the four upright wooden chairs that had been arranged in a square, facing in, Robin on my left, Colin on my right, and Niall opposite me. The handbells were distributed, two each, and I found I had numbers 1 and 2 – those with the highest sounds of the set of eight. Niall explained the basics – the ring made at the upstroke of the bell and that of the down-stroke count as two separate elements in the pattern, it’s essential to keep count in your head of the numbers to know when you next need to ring your correct bell, and you need to tie a knot in your right elbow to remind you that the right hand leads each time – except when the pattern changes, you must move the knot to your left elbow, and then the left rings first. Oh – and once the pattern starts it goes with some speed.† Yes…right…well, that’s both sides of my brain knotted for a start and I’m no longer sure whether I have the normal two arms or possibly an extra set as well! The next 15 minutes passed in something of a blur. I dimly remembered how to count up to eight and that didn’t seem to have changed much but that’s all I can say for my input. Niall, nobly counting both my numbers and his in his head with total precision and urging me on to the correct bell stroke with almost telekinetic fervour, was working extremely hard and smiling in an unnervingly friendly and encouraging way†† while doing so. Robin seemed to me to be ringing with carefree but exact rapture†††, while Colin was obviously a rock of stability in the pattern. The wobbly element of all this – yours truly – was so hypnotised by what was being done that the words ‘oops’ and ‘sorry’ can’t have passed my lips more than, say, once every other second…! Anyway, after we were judged by Niall to have come to the end of what could be attempted with a nithing‡ in the pattern, I was allowed to sit out for the next set – during which bells were rung with such mind-bewildering exactitude, great speed, and total concentration from the three involved that one could practically see a golden glow unifying them – they looked something like Zen-masters doing a simple little thing like re-arranging the pattern of the Universe.‡‡
It emerged after this, while we were consuming tea and biscuits at half-time, that Niall and Colin had been ringing tower bells for most of the day and regarded this as a little light relief to slow down with and calm the mind before sleep. Bell-ringers like these three obviously have spare brains they can retro-fit when the ordinary ones have given up.‡‡‡ But the discussions – and terminology used – during that break were really fascinating. (No, no, I haven’t got the brain for this sort of thing, I must not get interested.§) At the end of the evening, Niall directed at me the sort of smile that warns while it warms and asked what I was doing the following Thursday…gulp!
Our journey back to the hotel, with a diversion to collect hellhounds en-route (I’m in love, I’m in love! Their fur is so soft and they are so gorgeous§§) passed in a blur and I soon found myself – as noted earlier – lying rigid on my bed and muttering things like ‘bob’, ‘grandsire’, ‘ring it up’, to myself to the extent that I couldn’t even spare the mental energy necessary to direct my hand towards one of the little bottles of restorative brandy that someone had thoughtfully arranged close by…
It was a lovely evening§§§ and there was more that I’m not recovered enough to describe at all adequately! Colleagues that I had a meeting with this morning seemed to be looking slightly askance at me and repeating v..e..r..y…s..l..o..w..l..y.. anything I needed to take in, so I may still have appeared a tad distracted.¤
Thank you, Robin, very much. :)
And you’re very welcome.¤¤
* * *
* Oh, I’m sorry about the rigid. You were supposed to be all floppy, like a toy stuffed animal put through the washing machine too many N. I’ll have to consult with Niall about refining our approach.
Niall, by the way, came up to me at tower practise tonight, very worried that we might have done you permanent harm. I said you were threatening to come back and he cheered up immediately.
I do apologise for the white hair however. Although it looks extremely fetching. And you know it will always be appropriate with bloodshot eyes, which is a consideration.
** I’ve decided it’s some kind of elaborate plot. The hotel is a front. It’s hard to find and DARK because they don’t actually want people there. Guests cramp their style. So the next time you stay there, I want you to pack a good torch and a pair of rubber-soled shoes, and then get up in the middle of the night and poke around. Unfortunately I have no idea what you should be looking for. I’m not very good at conspiracies and deep secrets.
*** Here I thought I was the soul of vehicular discretion. Hey, you have to whizz around the corners through the rat run in the medieval part of town, or you don’t get the proper effect.
† Yes it certainly does. Gak. Handbells go about as quickly as you can flick your wrists. Terrifying.
Niall said tonight that he hasn’t tortured a . . . I mean, started a genuine beginner in a while, and he should have made us ring slower. But we’re evil! Of course we ring quickly!
†† Some of us have been known to find Niall’s ringing smile somewhat frightening. Sharklike, even.
††† Snooork. I’m aware of beginning to develop The Ringing Smile, however.
‡ Pause for extreme hilarity. My OED defines ‘nithing’ as ‘a vile coward; an abject or despicable wretch; a villain of the lowest type.’ It also calls it ‘now only archaic or historical.’ I was trying to remember when I last encountered it: it has echoes of my misspent youth as an English lit major. I’m sure I met some nithings in Henry Fielding. But neither you nor Jack Lemmon in drag deserves such an epithet.
‡‡ Mfffffphhhhhhtttttttt! Even snork doesn’t cover this one. Dear lady, are you feeling quite all right?^
^ No, no, what am I saying? You’ve just been introduced to handbells! Of course you aren’t feeling all right!
‡‡‡ We all wish. Niall and Colin can however at least ring. I seem to exist in the gaps between the nuts, bolts, hasps, screws and other attachments of the retro-fit.
§ This is what we all say. You are doomed.
§§ Beam. Of course if you were ever planning on returning to this town, these are wise words to be on record as having spoken.
§§§ Oh good! I mean . . . no, no! You had an awful time! You’re traumatised! We’re evil!
¤ Heh heh heh. That’s more like it.
¤¤ Mwa ha ha ha ha ha . . .
comments
Please join the discussion at Robin McKinley's Web Forum.