Three Weddings and Some Gardening
If it were possible to become ever so slightly weary of pulling on a bell rope—I say if it were possible—I might be approaching that point. Although it’s not the ringing that’s the problem, of course, it’s the context. Yesterday’s first wedding in Old Eden ran nearly on time—how did that happen?—but we still had to race back to New Arcadia for the second one.* And the second one did what weddings usually do, which is go on and on and oooooooon. There was at least a floor show—two little flower girls** who also felt the proceedings had been going on too long—but I have a novel to write.*** And two gardens that are trying to remember my name. I did manage about an hour in the cottage garden yesterday, during which I entirely filled the big green bag the Compost Men come round every fortnight to empty, whilst begging Fantin Latour not to take on Souvenir de la Malmaison for the lead role in a floral remake of Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.†
And then Sunday morning is always my getting-out-of-bed-early trick which week after week I fail to perfect. It’s rude to have to go back to the tower a few hours later when you’re beginning to recover from the unnatural shock of the Sunday service ring. There’s also the fact that it’s a wedding so in the first place you’re ringing in your comfort zone, which means nothing very interesting, and in the second place it’s a wedding, there is no comfort zone. It’s because I love bells that I get somewhat manic about ringing for one-offs like weddings—particularly joyous one-offs. If you make crunching noises at a funeral, well, it’s unprofessional, but a bit more suited to the mood. As it happens I was the one watching over my shoulder with my hands on the rope today: standing at the treble and peering you can just see the bride appear at the top of our little window and disappear out the bottom as she progresses down the aisle—presumably she has a groom with her, but it’s the bride’s dress that catches your eye††—and when she disappears, we pull off, so the bells clamour out overhead just before they get to the door. It’s glorious and nerve wracking. I squeak the traditional words: Look to—treble’s going—she’s gone, and my bell goes bong, and as the other seven bells go bongbongbong behind me my hands are doing all those follow through things and my brain is going WHAT? WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE? DO WE KNOW HOW TO DO THIS? I DON’T THINK WE KNOW HOW TO DO THIS. Performance anxiety. The gods wept.
And it’s funny the way bands go. Our weakest band in terms of individual members was at Old Eden yesterday, and the Old Eden bells are a bit cranky as well. But we settled down and rang rather decently.††† Yesterday at New Arcadia wasn’t bad. But today, when our band was individually the best group—which is to say I was the only weak link, which is why I was on the treble: I was assuming we’d ring a touch of Grandsire Triples—we could not settle into a rhythm. We weren’t embarrassing—I didn’t feel the need to go out the back way with my coat‡ over my face—but we weren’t good either. Which is probably why Niall kept us ringing call changes most of the time.
I snuck up to Third House hellhoundless after today’s wedding: we’ve only just got through the results of the last catsh&t-eating episode at Third House and I don’t want to go through that again, especially not in this weather which deranges hellhounds’ never-good attitude toward food without any help from indigestible substances. But guilt almost spoiled my fun.‡‡ And they were so pleased to see me when I got back to the cottage.
So either in the interests of staying indoors with hellhounds or with the natural desire to punish myself for disloyalty, I decided to do what Blondel had suggested: look for performances of my songs on YouTube. My teacher wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing, he said, grinning somewhat evilly, but it can really help your understanding of a piece.
Well, that’s one way of looking at it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVB_yeAuSvY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a11YheB2zM ‡‡‡
Kill me. Just . . . kill me.
* * *
* I felt rather guilty about how fast we raced away—I think we could have managed one more burst before we rang down—but everyone else was preoccupied with the parking because there’s some damn summer gala going on. I live, as I keep telling you, two garden walls over from the church and I’ve been known to make the sprint^ in less than a minute. So I’m like, parking? Oh.
^ Round by the road. I don’t do extreme vaulting.
** As we were all hanging around by the church door at Old Eden till we had to go shut ourselves up in the fuggy bell chamber, but meanwhile lowering the festive level with our shorts and sandals, someone came out through the (closed^) inner doors with a more-than-infant, less-than-toddler in a vast satin dress with a sash.^^ This personage was whinging purposefully. Mum—assuming it was Mum; Mum had hair—set her down at the edge of the grass, where she semi-stood, swaying dangerously, and hanging onto Mum’s hands. She also stopped whinging. Eventually she found her balance well enough, put one foot out . . . and promptly stepped on her own hemline, pulled herself over and really started screaming. I felt a great pang of sympathy: I can’t walk in very long skirts either.^^^
^ So they can’t see us lowering the level. I suppose people driving by might wonder why there’s a prodigious cream-coloured limo covered in ribbons at the gate and six scruffy people who look like they’ve just come in from the garden+ at the door.
+ And the garden was winning
^^ It has come to amuse me rather a lot, although I perhaps amuse easily, that at any given wedding there will be at least one whinging infant with attendant adult, lurking around the door. This is rough in the rain.
^^^ And just by the way, why did they have a kid who is learning to walk in a dress that she’s going to stand on? She’s going to have a complex. Twenty years from now she’ll go into psychotherapy because she can’t face marrying her sweetheart when any mention of weddings makes her burst into tears and fall over. —I’m going to assume this was a last-minute borrow from an older cousin when the dog threw up on the dress she was going to wear.
*** Pegasus the semi-cow. She is at least moving, but she’s in no particular hurry. Doooo get on with it, I have carpets to pay for.
† Fantin is only supposed to get to 5 x 4’. HA HA HA HA. Souvenir at least has an excuse up to 12 x 8 but she’s already abusing the privilege.
†† If we ever have a bride in dark red we’ll need someone with better vision on the treble.
††† If not quite long enough
‡ Coat? In this weather?
‡‡ I got Hebe’s Lip http://www.classicroses.co.uk/roses/h/hebes_lip.html into the ground. She’s only been ‘heeled in’ temporarily in a pot too small for her for two years. And has gamely flowered both summers.
‡‡‡ Although I think the aquarium escapee holding her dress up is a mistake
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