A Sound Correction
When Prudence Featherstone campaigns to muffle the village church bells, she encounters an unorthodox method of pastoral resistance. She soon discovers that moderating noise is far more challenging whilst on the receiving end of an old-fashioned spanking! A Sound Correction is a riotous tale of dampened decorum, ecclesiastical determination, and the redemptive power of a wooden spoon.
There were only a few things in life that Miss Prudence Featherstone disliked more than noise — though she was, in due course, to discover another.
This included, but was not limited to: the over-exuberance of the handbell choir, the thwack of cricket bats on summer afternoons, the gramophone at The Hare and Barrel — especially when it played jazz — and above all, the joyous clanging of the bells of St Mildred’s, which she had once likened to “a tin bath tumbling down a coal chute.”
She was Chairwoman of the St Mildred’s Quietude League, a self-appointed but fiercely active group which, in the last eighteen months, had curtailed bell-ringing practice, ended the cricket season prematurely — citing “excessive whooping” — and caused the village fête to adopt a silent tombola in place of the customary bingo.
Some in the village found her terrifying, but all found her inescapable. And the Reverend Hugo Ashby — peaceable, long-suffering, and presently halfway through a tepid cup of weak Darjeeling — had arrived at the conclusion that she had become intolerable.
The parish council meeting was held in the vestry, as always, beneath a portrait of the church’s founding rector: a dour old cleric with a long face and the aura of a man who never once permitted laughter.
Miss Featherstone took the floor.
She adjusted her spectacles, laid down her notes, and announced, “I hereby submit that the peal of the bells, except in the case of Sunday service or national emergency, be formally muffled with felt padding.”
There was a collective groan of exasperation.
“What about the wedding next week?” asked Mr Bowyer, the verger.
“The couple can kiss to the sound of a dignified silence,” she replied crisply.
A low moan came from the cricket captain in the corner. “And if we’re victorious in the one-day match against Sporking Seniors on Saturday? How are we supposed to mark that occasion?”
“You may offer a sportsmanlike handshake and then be on your way,” she replied. “And not via The Hare and Barrel beer garden!”
The organist went visibly pale, lest she be contemplating stuffing his pipe organ with cotton wadding.
The vicar raised a hand. “Might I suggest we consult the community before we unilaterally silence the tower?”
Prudence narrowed her eyes. “Reverend, you know as well as I do that I speak for the community. As a man of the cloth, I would have expected a little more support. Sometimes I really do have to wonder if your mind is entirely on the Lord’s work?”
The vicar’s cheeks coloured and a pause followed. It was a sharp-edged stillness that seemed to press against the vestry walls.
Ashby smiled thinly and folded his notes. “Yes, I am quite sure,” he said. “But, it might be helpful if I proved it.”
That evening, the vicar returned to the vicarage and set down his teacup with uncharacteristic firmness.
His housekeeper, Mrs Wetherby — who had served more curates and clergymen than most people had had hot dinners — glanced up from polishing the brass.
“I take it the Quietude League are causing a stir again?”
The reverend sighed. “This time Miss Featherstone insists we should muffle the church bells.”
Mrs Wetherby snorted. “I hope you gave her a polite refusal. If she can’t take a hint, you’ll have to try something with more... impact.”
“I fear that moment may already be upon us,” he muttered.
She regarded him for a moment, then reached for the utensil jar beside the stove and passed him a large wooden spoon. It was so large, in fact, that he wondered if it might have served duty at the feeding of the 5,000. Its weighty olivewood construction suggested it could have endured through the centuries. Large though it was, it fitted snugly into his jacket pocket, though the handle gave him an occasional jab in the armpit.
“Trust me, Vicar. If you’re intending to put Miss Featherstone in her place, don’t go in barehanded. This is going to require something that carries the weight of authority. This spoon has a longer record of reform than any bishop.”
The following morning, Miss Featherstone received a note:
Miss Featherstone,
I would appreciate your expert view on the acoustics of the bell tower.
Four o’clock please. Yours in solemn service,
H. Ashby.
She arrived at precisely three fifty-nine, in a storm-grey skirt-suit and polished shoes that echoed as she stepped into the nave. The door to the bell tower stood ajar.
Inside, the reverend waited by the rope frame.
“Reverend,” she began, removing her gloves, “this will take no more than a moment. I’ve brought my decibel chart.”
He smiled kindly, then shut the tower door and slid the bolt.
Prudence turned.
“I’ve had some time to consider your proposal,” he said evenly.
She sniffed. “Then I trust you’ll be implementing a solution as soon as possible.”
“Oh, it’ll be implemented very soon indeed, Miss Featherstone. If you remember your Proverbs 27 5 — ‘Open rebuke is better than secret love.’ And, I assure you, this is a rebuke you will remember for quite some time.”
“Reverend Ashby. Just what exactly are you suggesting?”
“For three years,” he declared, stepping forward, “I have turned the other cheek. I have nodded through silent fêtes, unplayed gramophones, and a choir so cowed they can only sing in the key of discretion. But last night, when you proposed muffling the church bells, I realised that the Lord’s work may require a firmer hand.”
He seated himself on the stout oaken bench beside the frame. “Over my knee. Right now!”
She stared at him, her sheer disbelief manifesting as an impertinent chuckle. “But, you cannot possibly mean to smack my bottom! I'm a grown woman. It's absurd.”
She stepped back instinctively, straight into a loop of bell rope. Her right foot slipped through it, the sturdy rope wrapping her ankle and she stumbled, catching hold of the vicar's shoulder as she tried to steady herself.
“I assure you that I do mean it. Sometimes the Lord moves in mysterious ways Miss Featherstone. I might not be able to explain all of them, but I can certainly demonstrate this one.”
“Reverend Ashby,” she snapped, “I must protest in the strongest possible terms!”
But he had already taken her firmly by the wrist and, with more dignity than the situation deserved, drawn her over his lap. As she kicked in defiance, her second foot also slipped into the loops of bell rope. The more she struggled, the tighter the insistent tangle of knots became.
“Do let me know once you feel like I've commenced doing the Lord’s work,” Ashby declared. Without hesitation he peeled back the folds of her skirt, revealing a pair of navy blue knickers. Despite their modest tailoring, he noted the insubstantial fabric that tightly enveloped her pert behind, would not hinder his intentions in any way.
The wooden spoon emerged from his pocket, gleaming with the quiet menace of a relic that had stirred more than porridge in its time. Its purpose was now clear to the reverend. It was not just a kitchen utensil, but a tool of divine discipline.
There was a wicked gleam in his eye as he announced, “To paraphrase Proverbs 13:24, if I spare the spoon, the Quietude League might spoil the parish!”
Thwack... Smack... Crack.
Prudence yelped at the immediate and penetrating sting the spoon imparted to her derriere, but perhaps also from the sound of its impact. Before she realised the implications, she began to wriggle and squirm, pulling hard enough on her rope entangled feet to give the bell a surprisingly musical peal.
DONG.
“I see you've decided to ring the changes, Miss Featherstone. How ironic,” Ashby quipped.
Smack. Thwack.
DONG.
“This is barbaric!” she gasped, her hips demonstrating an unexpected aptitude for jitterbug-style jiggling — accompanying the strong lead of the vicar’s instinctive rhythmical cadence.
Thwack... Thwack... Thwack-Thwack.
With the bell’s peal reverberating around the tower, Miss Featherstone winced. She was startled, flushed, and faintly aware that not all of the reverberation was coming from the bell. Every impact of the dreadful spoon blazed through her like a shockwave, igniting fresh waves of smarting within her tender cheeks.
Whack.
DONG.
“Ouch! Really now Reverend! This is entirely inappropriate, especially when applied on sacred ground!”
“I had no idea you considered your bottom to be sacred ground, Miss Featherstone. But in that case, I shall proceed with reverence — and some even more enthusiastic blessings.”
Smack. Smack. Thwack.
DONG.
As her struggles continued, the rope pulled even more taut around her ankles. The bell responded in kind, tolling loudly, though whether it leaned more toward cathedral or cabaret, it was difficult to say.
“I do believe you’re calling the village to witness,” he said, and delivered another firm, corrective swat.
“And I,” she wailed, “demand you untangle me at once!” She writhed upon his lap, the smarting heat becoming almost unbearable upon her inadequately protected rump.
“I shall release you once the lesson concludes. Not before.”
Whap. Smack.
She squirmed and shouted, her protests becoming a symphony of indignant squeals. Every fresh wriggle tugged the rope and the bell continued to toll in its unconventional duet. She tried to maintain composure, but her howls of protest were breaching every anti-noise regulation that she had ever espoused.
DONG.
Outside, the peals rang like Judgement Day. Ashby remained composed.
On the village green, the cricketers paused mid-match. “That’s the church bell,” someone said. “Is it a wedding?”
“It doesn’t sound like a wedding to me,” replied the barman.
Mrs Gander cupped her ear. “I think I heard... yelps?”
People began to drift closer towards the tower.
“They’ve locked the door!” whispered Miss Pennythorpe. “That’s most irregular. I wonder why?”
“It's certainly quite a commotion,” murmured the bishop’s niece. “Unusual use of percussion, but it seems effective.”
Mrs Gander appeared unable to stifle her smirks. “Psalm 98 perhaps? Make a joyful noise unto the Lord? Although, I'm not sure Miss Featherstone is the one who's finding it joyful!”
“Whatever it is,” replied Miss Pennythorpe, “it certainly isn’t muffled.”
The crowd grew larger, and from the back of the group the cricket captain was heard to observe, “The vicar is making some very fine strokes. We might be able to use him as our opening batsman on Saturday.”
Five minutes later, the reverend concluded his lively, practical sermon and guided Miss Featherstone back to her feet, releasing her from the tangle of bell rope.
“And so, here endeth the lesson, Miss Featherstone,” he said, observing she appeared contemplative, and decidedly unamused.
Clutching her smarting behind, and bearing the scowl of a pained grimace, she realised it wasn't the bells which would have benefited from being wrapped in soft felt padding. This was, she reflected bitterly, the first time she had been made to participate in a noise that she could not silence.
But, thankfully the bell had ceased its peal, and Prudence emerged from the tower pink-cheeked, hair askew, her shoes clacking a rhythm of reluctant repentance. Her posterior was far more tender than usual, and the Vicar hoped her future outlook might be too.
On the green, a full gathering of villagers stood in quiet expectation. Cricketers, bar patrons, bell ringers, and even Mrs Plunkett’s cat. When it came, their applause was a tastefully muted blend of restraint and relief.
Prudence said nothing. She adjusted her blouse — and her chin — and made her way home with the unmistakable air of a woman who had experienced clarity of mind, if not of seating.
Framed in the lychgate, Reverend Ashby smiled and gave a modest bow. Mrs Wetherby had promised the spoon carried authority, but Ashby had not appreciated quite how decisively it would make its point.”
Epilogue
The Quietude League dissolved without ceremony the following week, and the bells of St Mildred’s rang out once again. The vicar was overheard suggesting a “Festival of Joyful Noise.”
“Will Miss Featherstone attend?” asked someone.
“I believe she will,” Ashby replied. “Though this time, I don’t think she’ll need to participate quite so directly.”
“Well, let’s hope she brings her decibel chart,” murmured the barman. “We might need it to measure the applause.”
Back at the vicarage, Mrs Wetherby met Ashby at the door.
“Well then, Reverend — from all I’ve heard in the village, that spoon made quite an impact.”
Placing it carefully on the mantel, between the hymnals and the tin of Earl Grey, he nodded. “Indeed, Mrs Wetherby. I can give it nothing less than a ringing endorsement.”
“And Miss Featherstone?”
He allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Ah… let’s just say she discovered the true seat of learning. And from the sound of it, I'm certain the lesson left her with a lasting impression.”
Mrs Wetherby chuckled, nodding wisely, and returned to polishing the brasses.