The Sandbag Times Issue No: 48

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MRS FOX GOES TO WAR Mrs Fox Goes To War... The Chronicles of Little Hope 1939 - 1945 Villager of the month: Young Percy Fishwick... Hilda Ffinch: The Bird With All The Answers Hilda Ffinch, Little Hope's very own Agony Aunt (page 5 of the Little Hope Herald) was easily bored and terribly rich. She loved nothing better than taking on the problems of others and either sorting them out or claiming that she'd never heard of them if it all went tits up and they had to leave the district under cover of darkness having followed her sage advice. Miss Threaplethwaite the baker's baps were looking particularly good today... You can catch up with the adventures of Percy Fishwick at https://www.mrsfoxgoestowar.co.uk/percy-fishwick This month’s letter comes from Miss Isabel Ringer and touches on the vicar’s bell rope and clappers... Chronic myopia due to reading far too many racy novels under his bed sheets meant that young Percy Fishwick was entirely unsuitable for military service and thus it was that he came to stay with his uncle, the Reverent Aubrey Fishwick in Little Hope. A bookish lad with literary ambitions of his own, Percy became the village Air Raid Warden, a job which he took jolly seriously when he wasn't too busy dusting off his Pepys, stroking his Dickens or paying court to young Fanny Fuller... | 40 www.sandbagtimes.co.uk
THE CHRONICLES OF LITTLE HOPE Letter of the Month Dearest Hilda, I am at a total loss as to what I am to do. Since those nasty German fellows have started being beastly again, the government have issued an edict banning the ringing of church bells unless the enemy invade. I mean, what am I to tug on now that the vicar’s bell clappers have been muffled? I have been pulling his bell rope now for several years and have become something of an expert in manual dexterity, indeed I can pull his rope with one hand, both hands or indeed either hand, such is the muscle strength in both hands. I can tell you now that the vicar heaves a sigh of bliss when He feels me tugging away manually. I am at a loss, how do I keep the muscles in trim for future manual manipulation? Yours, Isabel Ringer Dear Miss Ringer, Oddly enough, the Vicar and I were discussing your prowess in the pulling department on Tuesday last when we met for our weekly tête-à-tête and a quick munch (one has to admire the man, even in these difficult times one never comes away from his front parlour empty handed, indeed, on this occasion he gave me an excellent stuffing) and I can confirm that the good fellow misses your giving his bell rope a good old tug every bit as much as you miss doing it. “Miss Ringer really did have it down to a fine art,” he explained, “Bell clappers are terribly delicate things, Mrs Ffinch and you’d be surprised at the scale of damage which might be occasioned by a rogue tug.” Actually, I wouldn’t. Colonel Ffinch and I went through a phase of frenzied campanology whilst on honeymoon in the west country, it came to an abrupt end when my dear spouse gave a gargantuan pull on the Bishop of Exeter’s well hung bell rope causing a frightful commotion in the poor man’s upper chamber as his gudgeon dropped out and occasioned his headstock to come adrift. One shredded muffler and a questionable tittums touch later and a subsequent pull-off was completely out of the question, there was nothing for it but for the assembled ringers to get the Bishop’s hand bells out for evensong, give them a quick spit and polish and go at it like buggery, as it were. The colonel and I heard later that neither the Bishop nor his congregation were particularly impressed with the state of affairs and that it took several members of the Exeter WI a great deal of pulling and bunking to get the good man’s beam up again (so to speak), but by this time we’d given up bell-ringing and had moved on to mud-larking, which proved to be much more fun, and so we weren’t too concerned about the havoc caused by Colonel Ffinch’s slightly over zealous handstroke and agreed that the Bishop really ought to have had his gudgeon examined more closely before inviting complete strangers in for a pull. Now, back to the present and your dilemma. The vicar and I both agreed that it would be a shame to let your masterful grip weaken through wont of a good jerk of a Sunday morning and he’s wondering if you would like to volunteer to polish his knob instead? It is, as you know, rather large and heavy and is handled by parishioners several times a week when calling at the vicarage for spiritual advice and succour. Impressive though it may be, it is however in need of constant attention lest it come off in someone’s hand again as was the case when I called for tiffin last week. The Reverend Fishwick asked me to let you know that the job’s yours if you want it and blow what the rest of the ringers think. Do please let him know your thoughts at your earliest opportunity. I do hope this helps. Yours, Hilda Ffinch The Bird With All The Answers. p.s. Obviously, polishing the vicar’s knob will also entail wiping down the church door and giving it a fresh lick (of paint) as and when required. If you’d like Hilda Ffinch, The Bird With All The Answers to address your own wartime problem, then pop along to https://www.mrsfoxgoestowar.co.uk/hilda-finchagony-aunt to subject your personal crisis to her (hopefully) sober scrutiny. Remember to give yourself a suitable wartime alias! Letters will be answered online and a selection of them published in next month’s Sandbag Times. www.sandbagtimes.co.uk 41 |
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The Sandbag Times Issue No: 48

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