A Sound Correction
By #HerbieHind
When Prudence Featherstone campaigns to muffle the village church bells, she finds herself face to face with a most unexpected form of pastoral resistance. A Sound Correction is a riotous tale of muffled decorum, ecclesiastical determination, and the redemptive power of olivewood. Expect scripture, scandal, and a peal of thoroughly instructive consequences.
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 brass band being mugged in a stairwell.”
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.
Ringing the Changes
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 hoods.”
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 visibly coloured, and a pause followed—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.”
The Spoon and the Spirit
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 long moment, then reached for the utensil jar beside the stove and passed him a large wooden spoon—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 the 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 with a bit more authority than a teacup.”
Pastoral Guidance
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 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—firmly—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 may I remind you that Christ Himself cast out the moneylenders when decorum no longer sufficed.”
“Reverend Ashby—”
“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, if you please.”
She stared at him. “You cannot possibly mean to—!”
“I assure you, I mean it entirely. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Miss Featherstone.”
She stepped back instinctively—straight into a loop of the bell rope. Her right foot slipped through it and she stumbled, catching herself on the rope frame.
“Reverend Ashby,” she snapped, “I must protest in the strongest possible—”
But he had already taken her firmly by the wrist and, with more dignity than the situation deserved, guided her over his lap.
Ashby adjusted her posture, with great decorum. “Do let me know if I’m doing the Lord’s work yet.”
As she kicked in defiance, her second foot also slipped into the loop.
Ashby, removing the wooden spoon from his pocket, raised an eyebrow. “Psalm 98:4—‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.’ Let’s see what we can do.”
Thwack... Smack.
Before she realised the implications, she began to wriggle, pulling hard enough on her tangled feet to give the bell a surprisingly musical peal.
DONG.
“Ah. I see you're ringing the changes, Miss Featherstone. How ironic,” Ashby quipped.
Smack—Thwack.
DONG.
“This is barbaric! Not to mention—out of time!” she gasped, her hips demonstrating an unexpected aptitude for jitterbug-style jiggling—accompanying the strong lead of the vicar’s instinctive rhythmical cadence.
Thwack... and a Thwack... and a Thwack-Thwack-Thwack.
With the bell’s peal reverberating around the tower, Miss Featherstone winced—startled, flushed, and faintly aware that not all of the reverberation was coming from the bell.
Whack.
DONG.
“Ouch! Really now Reverend! This is far too much sting for sacred ground!”
“I had no idea you considered this area to be sacred, Miss Featherstone. But in that case, I shall proceed with reverence—and a few more blessings.”
Smack. Smack. Thwack.
“Oh my gracious, the indignity!”
Whack.
DONG.
The bell rang again—louder this time and, as her struggles continued, the rope pulled even more taut around her ankles.
“I do believe you’re calling the village to witness,” he said, and delivered another corrective swat.
“And I,” she wailed, “demand you untangle me at once!”
“I shall—as soon as the lesson concludes. Proverbs 13:24—‘He that spareth his rod hateth his son.’ In this case, substitute daughter, or bell-muffling tyrant.”
Whap. Crack. Smack.
She squirmed and shouted, her protests mixed with indignant squeaks. Every fresh wriggle tugged the bell rope and it began to ring louder.
DONG. DONG. DONG.
Outside, the peals rang like Judgement Day. Ashby remained composed.
A Ringing Endorsement
On the village green, the cricketers paused mid-match. “That’s the church bell,” someone said. “Is it a wedding?”
“Doesn’t sound like a wedding to me,” replied the barman.
Mrs Gander cupped her ear. “I think I heard... a yelp?”
People began to drift closer towards the tower.
“They’ve locked the door!” whispered Miss Pennythorpe. “That’s most irregular. I wonder why?”
“There’s some sort of commotion,” murmured the bishop’s niece. “Shouting. Rhythmic percussion that seems to be cleverly syncopated with the clanging bell. Is that a hymn?”
“Whatever it is,” replied Miss Pennythorpe, “it certainly isn’t properly muffled.”
The crowd grew larger.
“I thought the vicar was supposed to be... meek,” said the butcher.
“Correctional ministry,” replied the organist, deadpan. “Very scriptural.”
A Sound Correction
Ten minutes later, the reverend concluded his very practical sermon and guided Miss Featherstone 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, but decidedly unamused.
Clutching her smarting behind, she had begun to realise it wasn't the bells which should have been wrapped in soft felt padding.
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. The seat of her skirt was noticeably softened. So too, perhaps, was her outlook.
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.
Epistle to the Featherstonians
The Quietude League dissolved without ceremony the following week, and the bells of St Mildred’s rang out once again—crisp and clear. 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 this time,” murmured the barman. “We might need it to measure the applause.”
Back at the vicarage, Mrs Wetherby met Ashby at the door.
“Well then,” she said, folding her arms. “From everything I’ve been hearing around the village, I gather the spoon must have hit the mark?”
Ashby hung his cassock and placed the spoon gently on the mantelpiece—between the hymnals and the tin of Earl Grey, where all righteous instruments belonged.
“It certainly stirred the spirit rather effectively. And if not the spirit,” he added with a slight cough, “then it certainly stirred up the seating arrangements.”
She nodded wisely, and returned to polishing the brasses.