Bill the Bachelor

olitary bell somewhere between eight and nine hundred times, his last tug at the frayed bell-rope always synchronising with the first stroke of the church clock. It may also be added that he repeats this operation at twenty minutes to eleven and at ten minutes past six, while on alternate Sundays he throws in an extra five minutes before the Children's Service, thus providing a weekly test of his own muscles and of everybody else's nerves. For apart from association, there is nothing ecclesiastical about the sound of that bell. Indeed, if it had not sought sanctuary in a consecrated building, it is hard to believe that public opinion would have tolerated for an instant the din which it produces. But being where it is, public opinion has decided to be proud of the bell, and has even bestowed on it the affectionate nickname of Cracked 'Arry, in double compliment to the thing itself and to the weak-minded Sir Henry Hare who originally presented it to the church (as well as building Hare Hall in 1774, and subsequently breaking his neck, under the mistaken impression that he had developed the gift of flight, in 1798). Yes, Little Matchings will stand no nonsense from open cut-outs, as motorists have discovered to their cost; and Little Matchings still sings of the day when it secured an injunction against the Sticklebridge WagonWorks for employing a steam saw, variously described by witnesses as resembling the cry of a lost soul, the yelp of a hyaena, the screech...