A New Song
“. . . a very lovely song . . .”
Ezek. 33.32
Sister Pringle was reminding the choir members about the practice on Wednesday evening.
“We’ll have the new gowns so it’s important you all come along for a fitting. We’ll
also have the music for the new anthem Dr Rees-Jones has composed. Finally, we need
some more men in the choir, so if any of you would like to join us we’d be pleased
to see you.”
“Thank you Sister Pringle,” said Pastor Wheatstone. He turned to the congregation.
“As you know, we have a distinguished guest speaker two Sundays from now, Dr Atherton
Grainge from the United States. I’m sure we all look forward to hearing his message,
and the anthem Dr Rees-Jones has composed for the occasion. I’m sure it will be a
time of special blessing for everyone.”
After the service, Sister Pringle was chatting to Mrs Wheatstone when the massive
figure of Bulstrode bore down on her. It was hard to escape the man who towered head
and shoulders above the rest of the congregation.
“Gidday, Sister Pringle,” he said cheerily. “If you’re looking for some blokes to
join the choir, I’d be pleased to help out.”
It was a characteristic response. Whenever there was a job to be done, Bulstrode
was always the first to volunteer. If there were newsletters to be stuffed into envelopes,
light bulbs to be replaced, pews to be rearranged, pianos to be humped up stairs,
or cars that wouldn’t start, Bulstrode was the man. From carpentry to concreting,
from car repairs to computers, it seemed his practical talents knew no limits.
His physical size had other advantages, too. If hooligans tried to disrupt an open
air meeting, Bulstrode had only to look at them and they would turn pale and slip
off into the darkness.
For some reason, however, there was a tiny niggling doubt at the back of Sister Pringle’s
mind. But Bulstrode was a hard man to refuse.
“Thank you, Bulstrode,” she said. “We’ll see you in the church hall at 7.30 on Wednesday.”
When Sister Pringle arrived at the church hall, Bulstrode was already there, laughing
and joking with the choir members. She was struggling under the weight of a cardboard
carton. Bulstrode relieved her of the weight.
“You should’ve asked me to carry it, Sister Pringle,” he said solicitously. “You
might have strained yourself.”
Sister Pringle blushed.
“It’s the new choir gowns.”
“They’re lovely,” the ladies said, crowding round the box. “Let’s have a dress rehearsal.”
“Do you want us blokes to wear them too, Sister Pringle?” asked Bulstrode, looking
at his gown dubiously. “It’s a bit . . .”
He changed the word he’d been going to use and substituted “small”.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” said Sister Pringle.
She saw at a glance there was no way the gown could be fastened across Bulstrode’s
huge chest. The sleeves came halfway up his arms and were perilously close to bursting
at the seams.
Muffled snickers were heard from some of the choir members. A little frown appeared
on Sister Pringle’s brow. But in her choir gown, with her softly curling blonde hair
framing a perfect heart-shaped face, she looked as angelic as ever.
“I don’t think this gown can be let out any more. We’ll have to get one specially
made for you.”
Mrs Worrel was handing out sheet music.
“Dr Rees-Jones has given us the music for his new anthem, ‘He hath put a new song
in my mouth’. What part are you going to sing, Bulstrode?”
Bulstrode looked down at the sheet.
“Sorry, Mrs Worrel, I don’t read music,” he said. “Not to worry, though. You just
play it and I’ll hum along until I get the tune.”
Mrs Worrel struck the opening chords on the piano. Sister Pringle raised her baton.
“We’ll try the soprano and alto parts first,” she said.
“He hath put a new song in my mouth,” the ladies sang sweetly. “Even praise unto
our God”
Sister Pringle had trained her choir well.
“Now we’ll try the men’s parts,” said Sister Pringle. “Tenors first. The basses and
baritones come in at bar twelve.”
“He hath put a new song in my mouth,” sang the men. “Many shall hear it and fear.”
Sister Pringle frowned and lowered her baton. Mrs Worrel heard it too, and paused.
A deep basso rumbling had appeared among the men’s voices. It began on a low E, modulated
to F, and returned to somewhere near E.
Bulstrode cleared his throat.
“Sorry, Sister Pringle, did I come in at the wrong place?”
Sister Pringle raised her baton.
The rumbling began again, a low D this time.
There was a muffled shriek and two of the ladies, holding handkerchiefs over their
mouths, fled to the restroom. Despite their efforts to suppress it, faint gales of
hysterical laughter could be heard.
“Could you play that bit again please, Mrs Worrel?” said Bulstrode. “I haven’t quite
got the tune yet. It’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?”
With a sinking heart, Sister Pringle realised that singing, unfortunately, was not
included in Bulstrode’s very considerable repertoire of talents.
“What are you going to do, Sister Pringle?” Mrs Worrel asked when Bulstrode had gone
home. “Someone will have to tell him.”
“Maybe you should ask the Lord to anoint his vocal chords,” suggested Deacon Witherspoon.
“Ask Him to anoint our ears too,” added Deacon Eagerton.
Sister Pringle did not join in the laughter.
But she did ask the Lord for advice, and suggested to Bulstrode at their next practice
that, being new to choral singing, he perhaps needed a little longer to prepare than
the other members.
“Normally, we have more than two weeks to prepare a new piece. If you don’t feel
confident about it . . . ”
“Don’t worry, Sister Pringle,” said Bulstrode. “They wouldn’t let me sing in the
choir at St. Bardolph’s but I was only twelve then and my voice was still breaking.
I’ve always wanted to have another go at it. I’ll take the music home and practise
every day — in the shower, too. I’ll have it off pat by Sunday, no worries.”
The organ had begun and the choir, attired in their new gowns, waited nervously for
the signal from Sister Pringle to file into the church. The presence of Dr Atherton
Grainge had attracted a large media contingent, including an American television
crew with their lights and cameras.
“Are we all here?” asked Sister Pringle.
“Bulstrode hasn’t arrived,” said Deacon Witherspoon. “The Lord must have detained
him somewhere this morning.”
“I hope so,” said one of the ladies, looking pointedly at Sister Pringle. “If Bulstrode
is going to sing, I’m not sure I want to go out there. We’ll be a laughing stock
all over Australia.”
“I saw his car coming up the hill,” said Deacon Eagerton. “Maybe he’s had a breakdown.”
The door opened and Bulstrode appeared. His suit was crumpled and his hands were
black with oil.
“Sorry I’m late everyone,” he rumbled cheerfully. “I had to help a bloke whose car
broke down. The big end had gone. I’ll just clean up and be right with you. Have
you got the bib and tucker for me?”
Sister Pringle closed her eyes. “Please, please, please,” she prayed silently. It
was all she could say now. She heard a deep chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Sister Pringle. I’ve been practising real hard, you know. I think I’ve
just about got it right.”
He was struggling into the specially made gown, which was still somewhat tight about
his chest. But he made an imposing figure nevertheless.
Sister Pringle could never quite recall how the accident happened. Possibly she tripped
on the hem of Bulstrode’s gown while he was pulling it over his head. All she knew
was that she stumbled and felt a sudden sharp pain in her ankle.
The choir members crowded round anxiously.
“It’s not broken,” said Bulstrode, who was on his knees and massaging the ankle gently.
“Would you like me to pray for it?”
Sister Pringle found it very soothing to have her ankle massaged. She suddenly realised
there was no need for an instantaneous healing.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to conduct this morning,” she told the choir.
“Would you mind standing in for me, Bulstrode?”
“Be pleased to,” beamed Bulstrode. “I’ve always wanted to have a go at conducting
a choir. Even more than singing in one. Let’s go, folks!”
He flourished the baton in a figure of eight and led the way into the church.
“I’ll sit in the front row,” Sister Pringle whispered urgently. “Watch my lips everyone.”
The message was passed around the choir in relieved whispers.
“Hallelujah, thank you Lord,” said Deacon Witherspoon quietly.
“Amen,” said Deacon Eagerton.
It was an impressive performance on all counts. Bulstrode wielded the baton with
aplomb. He did not keep time with the piano, nor did the choir, who were watching
Sister Pringle in the front row, keep time with Bulstrode. But both the congregation
and the media were greatly uplifted by the stirring performance of Dr Rees-Jones’s
anthem and broke into spontaneous applause at its conclusion.
“Say, you Aussies really can sing,” said Dr Atherton Grainge, in genuine amazement.
“We have some fine choirs back in the United States but you folk are really something.”
Sister Pringle blushed faintly, with a forgivable pride.
She was hobbling down the aisle after the service when she heard the familiar rumbling
voice.
“Better take my arm, Sister Pringle. You mustn’t put too much weight on that ankle,
you know.”
Although she would never have admitted it, it was very pleasant to grasp Bulstrode’s
muscular arm for support.
“You can’t walk home on that ankle,” said Bulstrode. “I’d better drive you in the
car.”
Sister Pringle looked round for Mrs Wheatstone, who had already promised her a lift,
but Mrs Wheatstone was engaged in animated conversation with Mrs Denny Atherton Grainge.
As usual, Bulstrode was a difficult man to refuse.
Bulstrode stopped his Morris Minor at the top of the hill to let his Great Dane,
Kalef, stretch his legs. They got out and looked down into the valley. The lush orchards
and vineyards were spread out before them and the silver river meandered its way
across the fertile plain from the blue mountains in the distance.
“I think this must be the most beautiful place in Australia,” said Bulstrode. “It’s
like the Garden of Eden.”
Kalef barked softly.
They climbed back into the car.
“I’ve been thinking, Sister Pringle,” said Bulstrode. “You don’t want to be standing
in front of a stove to cook when you’ve got a sprained ankle. I know a little restaurant
in one of the vineyards by the river. We could get some lunch there.”
“That would be lovely.”
Their table was on a terrace that looked out across the river, sparkling in the midday
sun. Bulstrode ordered a bottle of wine.
“Cheers, Sister Pringle,” he said, raising his glass.
They drank. It was the big, spicy, mouth-filling wine, redolent of blackcurrants
and cherries, for which the valley was famous.
“I feel a bit silly calling you Sister Pringle,” Bulstrode said, and she noticed
he was blushing under his tan.
“Why don’t you call me Alison, then?”
“Because I’d rather call you . . .”
Blushing even more deeply, he said the words.
“My dearest darling . . .”
Their hands met across the table.
At another restaurant in the valley, Pastor Wheatstone and his wife were entertaining
Dr and Mrs Grainge at lunch. Dr Atherton Grainge had been immensely impressed by
the choir’s performance.
“That big fellow who conducted really had style. I’d like to invite him over to my
church in New York.”
“That was Bulstrode,” explained Pastor Wheatstone. “He was standing in for Sister
Pringle, who sprained her ankle at the last minute. She’s the pretty girl who was
sitting in the front row.”
“Bulstrode and Sister Pringle will be getting married soon,” said Mrs Wheatstone
to Mrs Denny Grainge. “I must ask Dr Rees-Jones if he could compose a wedding anthem.
Maybe something from the Song of Solomon.”
“I didn’t know they were getting married,” said Pastor Wheatstone to his wife in
surprise. “Have you had a Word of Knowledge?”
Mrs Grainge and Mrs Wheatstone gave each other a significant look.
“Women’s intuition,” they said together.
