Handbell - Short Story by Alan K Tillman

Handbell    by   Alan K Tillman

My place is on the table, topped in green baize, near the door to the playground.  It’s the door marked ‘Fire Exit’.  Here I sit, have done since 1935 when I was cast, just one duty five time a week.  The caretaker has polished me twice:  the day war broke out and when Winnie said ‘pooh’ to Hitler.  I’ve grown a nice patina in the 15 years since.

     My dome has a skirt engraved with ‘Barnsole Road School, 1935’ on it.  I was a sort of commemorative gift by the governors.  My handle is turned yew and would polish up a treat - given half a chance.  I had a new clapper leather when old Higginbotham got a fright in a thunderstorm in ’43 but otherwise am ‘as found’ as they say.

     Some children pass me as they go to play after their milk.  That’s at ten twenty.  Strong, healthy kids they’ll be.  ‘Teeth strong as ivory castles,’ I heard the nurse say one day.  They don’t notice me, going about their business; just like a fixture I am.  Those kids don’t really need a bell to bring them in again when their playtime is up. But later they all pass me when everyone has to go out after school dinners; they ought to call them school lunches but they’re a bit working class round here.  Talking of fixtures, I keep notice of the clock on the wall - ‘old tick-tock’ I call him.  Never stops, except when the caretaker winds him up on Monday morning. 

     It’s 23 minutes to two, there’s the footsteps in the corridor, right on time.  Who is it today?

     Oh!  I do like her firm grip.  Confident she is.  Miss Fletcher picks me off the table and carries me out to the playground.   Three dings, not too vigourous, what you might call the feminine touch - know what I mean?  It is always the same, especially for Miss Fletcher, no reaction from the children.  They seem to know they’ve got 15 seconds more - children, that is, play. 

     Here we go!

     ‘Clang - bonggg -clang - bonggg - clang, clang, clang.’

     Cor!  That was a bit much!  A real attention getter that was.  Shut the noise a treat, it did.  The children start getting into line.  The playground has gone as silent as the corridor at night.  The juniors lead the way and in they all troop.  Past my table and off to their classes they go.

     Miss Fletcher puts me back on my green baize while she checks the door is closed.  I allow my clapper to settle, just a very quiet ding as I get comfortable.  My duty is done.  I don’t think she heard me settle as she marched off along the corridor.  It would be silent if it weren’t for old tick-tock fixed to the wall.

     Thank goodness it’s the weekend; I can relax until the caretaker winds the clock on Monday.