The Bells Of St Clement’s

This had always been a peaceful place for me . . .

IT’S Friday evening and I’m walking through the graveyard at St Clement’s church.

I know some people find graveyards creepy, but I see thing differently.

To me, it is a place full of love. Most visit because they want to feel close to someone special.

On a warm evening, too, it’s particularly pleasant here.

You can sit on a bench and listen to birdsong and watch squirrels chase each other up and down the yew trees, whose branches form a protective arch over the neat gravel paths.

The churchyard is home to some of my earliest memories.

I can’t have been much more than a toddler when Mum, or more often Gran – because Mum worked – walked me through it to preschool in the church hall.

I loved the way it changed with the seasons.

In the depths of winter, Gran would point out the first snowdrops.

Later, in summer, there was that wonderful smell of freshly cut grass.

Gran had a fund of quirky tales about the churchyard plants.

“Look,” she’d say, touching the trumpet of a daffodil. “Did you know that pixies once decided to paint all the daffodils a deeper yellow, but they ran out of paint before they finished?

“That’s why the centres are so bright, while the petals are pale.”

Of course, she made up a lot of her tales, but many came from folklore, and I loved to hear them.

“Sprites and fairies live in holly trees,” she’d say. “If you clip a twig and take it indoors, the fairies will follow and bring you good luck.”

So many happy memories, like small pockets of gold in my mind.

Right now, the sun is sinking, and the sky is peachy, turning to crimson and violet.

It will soon be twilight, but the air is balmy, and I can smell the honeysuckle that cascades over the boundary wall.

There are still a few people around, tending the graves or refreshing vases of flowers.

“Jason, put that stick down,” I can hear one mum saying to a small boy.

I recognise a few regulars, but I don’t intrude. After all, they’re not here to talk to me, and I’m not here to talk to them.

Over in the church, lights have come on.

Friday is bell-ringing practice and I see a straggler scurrying in the door, anxious not to be late.

In summer, Gran would sometimes bring me along to the sessions, hoping I’d be interested enough to join her up in the bell chamber.

I was tall for my age, and Gran said twelve years old was a perfect time to start.

“Pulling that rope will strengthen your arm muscles,” she’d say, and she was a good example of that.

Despite never visiting a gym, her arms stayed firm and strong.

But bell-ringing was never really my thing.

Instead, I’d wander the paths outside, catching the late evening sun.

Afterwards, Gran would come out, flushed and happy, and we’d go to hers to make Scotch pancakes with butter and lemon curd.

Gran was always baking something.

“If you ever get frustrated,” she said, “make bread. Thumping dough will make you feel better.”

I gave it a go, but my bread wasn’t like hers. Even the birds turned their beaks up at mine.

Gran laughed when I told her.

“It’s just practice,” she told me. “Like most things in life.”

She was right. I got the hang of it eventually.

Nothing smells as good as a baguette straight from your own oven, and it does taste better than anything in the shops.

The bells are ringing now. Gran once said it was the most historic sound most of us would ever hear.

Maybe that’s why I always find it so moving.

Ringers have been climbing that staircase up to the bell chamber since medieval times.

The clothes might have changed, but the sound hasn’t.

As the last peal fades, I make my way to the door of the church, waiting for the ringers to come out.

I’m not waiting for Gran tonight, but someone equally precious.

Trudy, my daughter, comes out flushed and

happy, like her great-gran.

“How did it sound?” she asks.

I can tell by the expression on her face that my answer is important to her.

“Excellent,” I say. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

“It’s a steep learning curve,” she says. “You’ve got to get the timing right, or it ruins the whole routine.

“But I’m beginning to feel the rhythm now.”

She launches into an enthusiastic chatter about tail strokes, hand strokes and the difference between peals and quarter peals.

The passion in her voice brings a lump to my throat.

I put my arm around her shoulders.

“You’re doing your great-gran proud.”

“I hope so,” Trudy says, her eyes shining. “I wish she could have been here.”

On the walk back to the lychgate, we pass an ancient grave.

Its headstone made Gran chuckle when she realised her kitchen work surface was made of the same granite.

Gran said she was sure the occupant would much rather the headstone raised a smile than a tear.

She was probably right. I smile as I think of her rolling pastry for apple pie.

“Granite’s perfect for pastry,” she said. “It keeps everything cool.”

And into the oven it went to emerge half an hour later, with its delicious melt-inthe mouth crust, filled with juicy apples.

My own apple pies never taste quite as good. Trudy’s phone buzzes. “It’s Great-gran. She hopes it went well and her ankle sprain is better.” She looks up. “Perhaps she’ll join me next week?”

“If she can make it up the steps,” I say, “We’ll drop by tomorrow and see how she is.”

And as the moon rises in the sky and the stars begin to twinkle, we carry on up the path beneath the ancient, arching yews to the car park and home.