The Bells of London

The church bells that once connected the old City of London to itself like a nervous system have fallen silent, bell by bell. Yet still they ring in memory.

Big Ben in the 19th century — it’s the bell not the tower nor the clock-face

BEING SOMEWHERE ELSE altogether this week, I am surprised to find that I am filled with the joy of the church bells of old London, my home city, which have felt as alive to me as my toes since the days of “Oranges and Lemons”.

In fact I have been haunted by a strange and beautiful recollection of the Bells of London which has eluded me for the bulk of this past half-century, and rings neither true nor false but at some exalted pitch that belongs to neither. In my visual recall it is as vivid as a 16^th-century engraving, mapping the bells’ reach and coverage of the old City stews, but as I hear it in the mind’s auditory crypt it is a hesitant shower of tinkles and dongs, near and far, like a quiet alarm that never stops sounding back and forth, hither and yon, in every crinkle, crankle and nook of the world, like a nervous system checking itself for viability.

My old man, the Coleman (a genuine cockney born within the compass of Bow Bells, though you'd never have known it, especially if you tried to offer him a dish of whelks), he wore a coalman's hat… No, he didn't. He never wore a hat. But he did take me once when I was small to visit his ancient Auntie Lilla in her abode which was certainly within striking distance of the City's ding-dong dillies. No idea why we went or why we ended up spending the night there. But we did, and I lay awake all night entranced as the entire range of old London church bells rang out their calls to the hearts of every man and woman born. And the world’s most excited little boy. It was as if all the world were a belfry and I was in it.

I promise you it was beautiful and, though I had forgotten it till just now, I firmly believe that it is a true memory, not a false one. And what I wonder is, do any of my fellows on Substack recall having the Bells of London to yourself, alone in your bed? Can you remember listening to the old bells ringing through the night, as if to charm away bad things? I would say I heard them some time between 1964 and 1966. Never since.

I mentioned this mystery to my belle of a wife and she reminded me of the unsentimental chime of our family dynamic, as it was once construed while pissed, to the song of the belfry.

"All will be well," said the bells of Polly-Ann.

"Ding-dong, fuck that," said the Bells of Old Nick.

Well, you had to be there, I suppose.