He nodded.
“So, I’m just going to give it a gentle pull . . .” I tugged on the sally, then let it go. The rope shot up through the hole in the ceiling. The speed of it took Jack by surprise. His lost his grip on the tail end.
“Huh!” He huffed out a breath as I caught the rope and passed it back to him.
“Try again,” I said.
The second time he kept hold of it.
“Now try pulling the sally yourself.” I was going to step off the boxes, to give him more room, but in his eagerness, he grabbed the rope before I could move. “Don’t look up!” My warning came too late. He lost control of the rope, which swung toward me. He made a grab for it and knocked me off balance. Somehow, he managed to catch me before I hit the floor.
“Alice! Are you—”
I don’t know if it was the shock of my body against his, but suddenly I was laughing. It was a strange reflex that I just couldn’t control. Then he started laughing, too. I could feel the vibration of it in his chest as he held me.
“I’m . . . dreadfully sorry,” he gasped, raising himself up and setting me gently down on the bench. “You were quite right: it’s harder than it sounds.”
“We’ll have another go,” I said, jumping up and reaching for the rope. I could feel my cheeks burning. When he took the rope from me, I stood behind him, willing the fire inside me to die down.
He got the hang of it very quickly. After a couple of minutes, I took the silencer off the bells and stood between the other ropes.
“You’re going to ring two bells?” He looked at me, astonished.
“I have to,” I replied. “We need a three-bell sequence, starting with yours, which is the highest pitched, and ending with the one on my left, which is the lowest. Don’t worry—I’ve done it before. Just stamp your foot when you want to stop.”
It took a few strokes to get the timing right, but as we got into a rhythm, we began to produce a sound that was truly uplifting. I only caught glimpses of Jack’s face. He had a look of intense concentration—but it was lit with a smile.
After what I judged to be about ten minutes, he gave me the signal to stop. We were both panting for breath, so talking was difficult.
“That . . . was . . . amazing,” he gasped. “Thank you!” He grabbed his tie and knotted it round his neck. “Is it straight?” he asked, as he turned around.
“Not quite.” I went to adjust it. Our faces were so close I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. I could feel the heat of his body through his shirt.
“I’m afraid I have to go and join the choir,” he said. “They’ll be getting ready in the vestry. Will you wait for me—after the service?”
“Yes, if you want me to.”
He grabbed his jacket and hat and ducked through the little door. My heart was beating very fast—and I knew that it wasn’t just because of the bell ringing. My emotions seemed to have come alive the way seeds do when rain comes. Pale stalks of desire sprang up from the desert place where I had buried them.
The church was already half-full when I emerged from behind the pulpit. Merle and the children were there. She beckoned me to come and join them, her smile as open and welcoming as it had been that first morning on the beach.
“How’s Jacqueline’s thumb?” I whispered as I sat down.
“A bit bruised and sore—but the cut’s almost healed,” she replied. “I like your hat—very stylish. Did you get it in London?”
“Er . . . yes.” I fingered the brim, making an unnecessary adjustment, unable to look her in the eye as I lied. It must have been Jack, then, who’d provided it. Had it belonged to the same woman who had left the clothes behind? She must have a vast wardrobe, not to miss such expensive items.
I glanced over my shoulder at the people in the other pews. It was mainly women and children, with only a few elderly men. The organ struck up and everyone stood as the choir came up the aisle. They were led by Jack, who had a red cassock and white surplice over his suit. Behind him was George Retallack. His sightless eyes darted from side to side as he walked up the aisle unaided, tapping the floor in front of him with a white stick. They were followed into the choir stalls by five men who looked to be in their late sixties or seventies, and a group of boys aged about ten to fourteen.
A lump came to my throat when they began to sing. It was the “Regina Caeli”—the Latin chant Jack had told me they’d been rehearsing for weeks. This kind of singing was my passion—the centuries-old music of the church. It was the thing that, more than anything, had drawn me to the religious life, and it had soothed my troubled soul as I struggled to become a nun. Hearing that pure sound as the first light of day slanted down from the chapel windows had made the daily hardships and humiliations seem bearable.