‘Then why weren’t you…’—and also of knowing when to say nothing at all. ‘You know something, Isaiah?’ God. She was now busy with her third.

‘I sometimes think you don’t want them to live.’ She said this solemnly, expecting a violent protest. In the silence that followed she crawled on to the fourth seedling. ‘Look at this little fellow. Do you think he could live with all his roots sticking out like that?’

‘No Madam.’

‘Then why do you do it? Sometimes I think you’re just a naughty boy.’ Using the fence as a support Miss Marriot at last got to her feet. ‘There. I’ve done all your work for you.’ Her critical desires were satisfied, but she stayed on for a few minutes longer, looking vacantly over his head into the street where the donkey cart was trotting back the way it had come. She made a few more remarks about chrysanthemums and gladioli and then with a final reminder that he was planting on holy ground, because it was church ground, she left Isaiah.

He had been so exhausted by her presence that he took no more chances. For an hour he worked without a break. At the end of that time the crooked row had been straightened out and then he went back to where he had left off. A few minutes passed and then he was out of sight of her window and could settle down to an uninterrupted reverie on that most provocative of thoughts, the white man.

What better example was there of the immense range of experience covered by that one phrase, the white man, than the contrast between his immediate boss, Miss Mar- riot, and the big boss, the holy Father Ransome. Heaven and earth, it was, if not hell. They had both taught him, or tried to teach him, to do something; Miss Marriot, endlessly, painfully, regretfully, to weed the church garden and plant seedlings in a straight row, Father Ransome to ring the bell.

It had happened soon after Isaiah got the job as caretaker boy to the church. He was weeding the garden and Father Ransome, seeing him, had come up to him.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Isaiah.’

‘You’re a Christian, then?’

‘Yes boss.’

‘Father Ransome, Isaiah.’

‘Father Ramsy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘How would you like to ring the bell, Isaiah?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Would you?’

‘Me?’

‘Right. There’s a service tonight. Be at the door ten minutes before seven o’clock and I’ll show you.’

That night, ten minutes before seven: ‘Pull this rope, Isaiah. Go on.’ Isaiah gave it a tug; nothing happened.

‘Harder.’ He tried again and the bell pealed out one note.

‘Do you believe in God, Isaiah?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Deeply. I mean, do you believe in God a lot?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Well Isaiah, the ringing of this bell is to call all the other people to believe in God. Remember, some are lazy and don’t want to hear. Now try.’

Ding-dong-ong-ong-ong. Ding-dong-ong-ong.

That was all there was to teaching and learning how to ring the church bell.