Argosy (UK), January 1955 — page 105: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

TWELVE BELLS 103 as) An hour and a quarter late, he drove back with the potatoes; the bells, rolling on the floor of the lorry by his feet, clinked with frosty insistence; and as if they played an accompaniment, George raised his admirable voice and sang. At twenty minutes past seven, when he had worked an extra half-hour in the cowsheds to subdue his conscience and gone home and had his tea, he put the bells in a string shopping-bag and went out again, faintly jangling with each stride, to call on Albert Jones who led the ringers. Albert Jones lived in a thatched cottage as low and humped as a tortoise, where sparrows, at ear level, muttered complainingly from the eaves when anyone knocked. The kitchen was warm and yellow in the lamplight, but full of Albert’s children being put to bed, so Albert and George retreated into the parlour, which was full of mahogany and dark green plush and exceedingly cold. Albert lit an oil-lamp under an icy white shade with pink roses round the edge, and George set out the bells in a row on the table-cloth. He had made his wife clean them with steel wool and metal polish while he had tea, and they gleamed with dark lustre. Albert could not keep his hands off them. He kept picking them up, striking them with a scarred thumb-nail, and above the babble of his children next door and the hiss of the lamp, the notes shivered and sounded, clear and pure as water. At last he said, “ I reckon they’m worth a mint. Must be off his head.” ““Mean old b— old cuss he is too, mostly,” said George, recollecting himself in time, for Albert was a churchwarden and objected to swearing. He added, “ Still, they weren’t no use to him where they was.” “Us’ll have to get ’em fixed up now.” “ Copley’s going to market tomorrow, he’ll take ’em to Ferr- ing’s for us. They’ll get em done time we want to start practising carols.” “Who’s going to pay?” George was dashed; he had forgotten this. He said, ‘“‘ What’ll it cost, you reckon? ” “ Clappers and straps, and tuning up,” said Albert. “ I d’know. Two-three pound, I dare say.” George had eighteen pounds in his Post-Office savings account. After a moment’s hesitation—since his wife had helped save this— he said, ‘‘ Well, look, Pll lend it. Vicar might help us, and us’ll make enough carol-singing to pay back, anyways. *I'was more’n five pound last year, and I reckon us ought to do better with these proper bells. I'll chance it.” “1 d’know,”’ said Albert. ‘“‘ How about if it’s more? ” comicloooks.comn ae a. Fee