The Drum and the Bell: A Historical Novel

By Marguerite Anne Muller

It was a time of change, a time of uncertainty, a time for men and women of vision and commitment, a time of high adventure for those with the courage to step into the unknown, or for those who had nothing to lose.

It was Christie’s time.

From Swiss estates, to the African wilderness, join Christie in her epic journey, through the changing landscapes of Europe and Africa at the turning of the twentieth century and into a wild and uncertain future.

Christie's story is an account of a long life remembered, and the panoramic lives of those who touched her, retold, by a granddaughter, who was paying more attention than Christie realised.

Listen, as her granddaughter sings the song of Christie’s history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543916379

Book preview

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CHAPTER ONE

Switzerland 1883 - Christie

When you have ten brothers and sisters you feel closer to the ones who are nearest to you in age, the eldest being almost adult, the babies there to be petted and taken for walks, but not quite your responsibility. So little Christie Volez shared her Swiss mountains and winter snow with her younger brother, Albert, and her secrets with her sisters, Anne and Marguerite. For the first ten years of her life she ran free and healthy as a young chamois, surrounded by laughter, and God, in the form of nightly Bible stories, read from the great big Bible, surely the biggest book in the world - perhaps because it was God’s book - and green fields in summer, and large fires and cozy feather beds in winter, and morning squabbles about who would get the golden crusts of the big round loaves, still warm from the oven, and the satisfying concern of the whole family when a tomboy tomfoolery caused broken skin or bruises, and older brothers and sisters who protected her and prepared her way.

In the years that followed Christie would often draw strength from those first years of her life.

On the day that would change all their lives forever, Christie and Albert were in a hurry. The pond had frozen over after the night’s cold snap and they wanted as much time as the short day provided to spend on one of their favourite sports.

Let’s take the short route, said Albert.

Christie hesitated for a moment - the younger children were not supposed to use these fields as a short rout to school or the lake - then, slinging her newly sharpened skates over her shoulder by their long bootlaces, she climbed over the low wall and ran across the white field, the snow crunching under her fur-lined boots. A steep hill lay before her and she skipped down the slope, making a pattern of footprints in the crisp snow. Albert followed, trying to keep in her tracks.

At the edge of the field Christie stood on the wall and watched her brother zigzagging towards her. Come on Albert, she called. Let us be the first ones there.

A large black bull was moving across the white field towards Albert. Look, there’s a bull, she called. Albert, turning in the direction of her pointing finger, stopped to stare at the huge animal. Hot breath rose from the bull’s nostrils, like smoke in the cold air.

It’s a dragon! he yelled, prancing about in the snow on an imaginary steed and flourishing a huge sword over his head. Christie watched him nervously. The bull was looking at Albert, its head lowered, sharp horns pointing at the noisy, whirling boy.

Albert! she called, as the bull began to paw the ground, Stop that!

But Albert was Percival and St George, and not to be cautioned by a mere damsel. Christie shouted again, and something in her voice made Albert stop and look again at his dragon. It had become an angry charging bull, huge and terrible. He started to run, the snow dragging at his feet.

* * *

Twenty kilometres to the north a carriage, drawn by four black horses, started up the steep road that wound its way up and over the pass.

The Alps sparkled and shone in the sun, horses steaming in the champagne air. Inside the carriage, caressed by a deep fur rug, M and Madam Volez talked idly of their journey and other amusing events, while high above them the mountain groaned and moved, a small black scar tearing across its frozen white face.

*

Christie, wanting to turn and flee, stood on the wall screaming at Albert to run. Albert, twisting around to look at the bull, fell backwards into a snowdrift. Struggling up amid a flurry of snow he plunged again towards his sister’s voice. He could feel the ground beneath the snow shaking as the bull’s hooves pounded the earth.

*

Above the carriage the mountain, now continually groaning, shook the trees on its slope, dislodging boulders, which clattered and tumbled down the gullies.

*

The bull was almost upon them. Christie grabbed Albert by his coat as he scrambled over the wall and pushed him down into the snow behind it. Huddling beside him, she had an impression of mad white eyes bearing down on her, before the huge steaming black barrel body hurtled over them. She pressed herself into the snow and shut her eyes tightly. When she opened them again the bull was gone, chasing on down the hill after an illusion.

*

Above the carriage the mountainside tore loose with a roar. Snow, rocks and trees began their descent, slowly at first, and then with all the violence and speed of nature when she erupts. After the bone jarring noise subsided the silence that followed was complete, except for a small chuffing sound as the wheel of a carriage spun on its broken axle.

* * *

It was not long after the death of Christie’s parents that her father’s sister-in-law - You may call me Tante Augustine - came into her life and told her that she and Albert were to leave behind all that they knew and held dear and go with her.

What a large and grand lady, stiff in black satin, with skin like cold coffee. ‘Oh, Mama, Papa…’ Looking up Christie caught sight of her younger brother, and his apprehension and grief penetrated the veil of her own misery. She reached out to him and held his hand, then she shook her long braids and, smiling, reminded him of his desire to see the far shore of Lake Geneva, and in that moment willingly gave up childhood for his sake.

The night before they left, the last they were to spend together, Christie, Anne and Marguerite clung together and promised never to forget each other, and although Christie was never to see either of them again, both sisters would stay in touch with her for the rest of their lives.

* * *

They traveled to Tante Augustine’s estate in silence. Albert was six and Christie ten. The house was large and grey and surrounded by neat gardens. The flowers marched like soldiers in straight rows. The hedges were clipped and, although some of them were flowering shrubs, stray blooms were clipped off as though too frivolous or untidy to be tolerated. Even the trees were tall and straight and evergreen.

Their guardian marched into a heavily furnished room with the children following behind her. A large portrait of a handsome young man, with her father’s laughing eyes, looked down at Christie. Phillipe Volez, who had married Augustine when she was eighteen, and left her a widow before she was twenty, remained eternally young in his portrait while his bride grew old. Augustine, who had had little confidence in herself as a girl, elevated her husband to sainthood after he died, she herself becoming the inconsolable widow. For the rest of her life she would wear her widow’s weeds and allow no fun or laughter to undermine her role. In time she came to regard herself as the guardian of all that was pure and chaste, which in her mind was equivalent to all that was orderly, clean, and in accord with her opinions.

On the day she became the guardian of two small children her life took on an added zeal. It would be her religious duty to cure them of their original sin, and work and discipline would be the remedy. Striding across the room she rang for a maid, then turned on her two charges.

Take your hats and coats off. Stand still when I talk to you and remember what I say, for I do not repeat myself. Disobey me and you will be punished.

What was this dreaded and imagined threat, this thing called punishment, pronounced with such awful menace? Little Albert was so frightened.

In my house children must not speak until spoken to. Also, I will not have…

Christie felt cold and wanted to go to the lavatory. She worried that Albert did too. Did she dare ask where it was, since she could not speak?

Albert began to fidget, and suddenly, from nowhere, lightning swift, a black-gloved hand descended with a thud on the side of his head. Christie froze for a moment, feeling suddenly terrifyingly confused and small in a huge world, and then she screamed, and went on screaming, right into that coffee-skinned face, and did not even feel herself being shaken and shaken, and she knew too, that she had partly won, for the woman in black was also shaken and confused by the intensity of her protest.

* * *

Life on Tante Augustine’s estate was hard. Work would expel the devils that lived in both of them, and work they did. Now even God changed. Here He was an Old Testament God, furious and vengeful, and the threat of hell replaced the promise of heaven.

Christie took on the more strenuous of Albert’s chores, and as the years passed - grey drab years that left little time for anything, especially ‘devils of idleness’ - she grew into a wiry young girl, too thin for beauty, even then when fashionable waists could be circled by two hands. The shapeless grey dresses she always wore did nothing to enhance her appearance, but nothing could diminish the beauty of her eyes or dull the colour of her thick auburn hair.

You have a remarkably pretty niece, if somewhat thin, said the parson on a visit to the estate. Tante Augustine looked up with surprise. Come here, child, let me look at you. Yes, a pretty profile. I always think a good profile important, but beauty is as beauty does. Tomorrow you will be sixteen.

Christie looked at her in surprise. Over the years they had held to a tentative truce. She knew she still unsettled her Tante Augustine, even if she did not quite shake her, but kind words and approval were something out of the distant past. No birthday or Christmas had ever been mentioned, let alone celebrated, in this house of mourning.

Sit, Christie, said her Tant Augustine. I wish to inform you of my plans for your future now that you are a woman and no longer in my charge.

Christie listened with vague apprehension. An imperceptible tightening of tiny muscles in her back and neck made her lift her head and tilt her chin in a characteristic way she had. The arrogance of her tilted chin and the honesty of her direct and level gaze annoyed Augustine. She sighed. She would have liked Christie to be suitably demure and yielding. The downcast eyes and gentle blush of well-bred young ladies would have endeared Christie to her. Heaven knew, she had tried to instill humility in her ward!

Do sit, Child! she said again. "I have had word from a distant relative living in London, a God-fearing man. He has very kindly agreed to allow you to teach his children to speak French. She picked up a letter that had been lying in her lap and looked at it through her pince-nez.

Your duties will include caring for the children when their nanny is unavailable. My cousin tells me they permit her an afternoon a week to attend to her own affairs. She snapped her glasses shut and they swung to and fro off the cliff of her bosom. That is London for you Parson, frivolous! She addressed Christie again, All is arranged. You will leave the day after tomorrow.

What about Albert? Christie asked, even though she knew the answer.

He will stay here, of course.

Christie nodded. So once again she would be parted from her family, but now she was older and strengthened by purpose. She would work to free Albert. She had to succeed! She thought of him; so small for twelve, his eyes too big in his pinched face. She would make him hold on until she could send for him. ‘Oh, my brother!’ She left the room with the tilt of her head defying fortune to defeat her.

Her aunt sighed. I have failed that child, she said. No, no, I insist, I have failed. The devil of pride lives in her. Now I can only pray that London teaches her what I could not. She has been a bad influence on Albert. Now that she is leaving I shall be able to correct that!

The parson nodded sagely, for this formidable woman paid handsomely towards his living, and his visits to the estate were not to enlighten its mistress, but to underline her decisions with his agreement. I wonder if she realises how much you have done for her, he said, giving her a home, and feeding and clothing her.

I was only doing my duty, said Augustine, primly.

* * *

Like water in a semi-desert, or woodland in a denuded area, or mountains rising from the plain; in a life made drab by the gaze being directed at the drudgery behind the shining silver, white linen, sparkling dishes, spotless garden and clean, oh-so-clean stables; beauty beckons to the weary eyes, and when encountered is held so precious in the memory that Christie’s hot little African granddaughter would demand to hear the story of the pink snow over and over again, always anticipating the climax and never failing to be touched by the wonder and enchantment experienced so long ago by a sixteen-year-old girl and her twelve-year-old brother.

For a long time Christie had seen a glow on the mountaintops as she set about her preschool chores, and on the night that she had been told she was to leave she decided that she and Albert would climb the mountain to unravel the mystery of the predawn glow. It would be an adventure, a treasure hunt, a picnic, and a better place to tell Albert that she had to leave.

As soon as the house was quiet she went to his room and, wrapped up against the night’s cold, packs on their backs, they walked up the road to the foothill of the mountain. They started up the hiker’s path long before dawn, the air chill, but fresh and sweet, and as they walked their country became, once more, their own. Up here on the mountainside they were not unwanted intruders; they were part of this land, and their hearts swelled with love for it.

Reaching their chosen summit they looked up. The Alps stretched away on all sides. Oh wonderful sight! Would anything ever be so beautiful again as those starlit peaks? And then, like a blessing, the Sun’s first rays reached over the far ridges, and as they stood, silent and together, the snow turned rosy and golden until the whole mountaintop was ablaze with light. It lit up their faces and sparkled in their eyes. It rose up to meet them and showered down upon them; the colour of love streaming at them, surely from heaven; yes, certainly from heaven. Then God was good, and wonderful and powerful, and playful too, for why else would he light up His mountains to delight the hearts of two tiny specks of children!

* * *

The following day Christie’s aunt gave her a parcel, wrapped and beribboned; a birthday present. She opened it and found, lying in its tissue-paper bed, a china doll, dressed in a cream silk dress and bonnet, silk stockings, and lace petticoats. What a delight and comfort - perhaps even friend - this pretty doll might have been, at the right time, to a bereaved little girl. Now, what pain it caused, what a sense of precious loss. She would take this doll with her always. It would remind her never to give too late.

Transvaal 1943

Walking beside the hard red-sand road, with her shoes in her hand, the little girl followed the sloot; the small stream that pretended to irrigate the harsh dry golden grass of the South African veld. The water was cool on her feet, and the big gum trees, with their coloured strips of bark, offered patches of relief from the hot sun. She watched, absorbed, while her stick-boat shot the rapids and floated slowly out of the stiller pools.

Arriving at her special spot she settled down, her back against the trunk of a huge old gum tree. For a while she played with the brilliant coloured pieces of bark and idly rummaged through the crackly dry leaves for ‘manna’; the sweet white pellets tasting of honey and spice found under these trees. The dust was swirling away in little dancing devils; tiny capricious tornadoes that would whip up a young girl’s skirt, lift off an old lady’s hat, and throw dust in the eyes of spectators, all at the same time.

When the wind blew like this the land dried out even more, and the heat shimmered in the dust. She watched it distort the horizon with its false water. From somewhere a coolness touched her face.

She crumpled a leaf and inhaled the distinctive smell of eucalyptus. Then she opened the huge old leather-bound book she had found on the very top shelf of her grandparents’ library and began to read. Soon she was lost in the wonderful adventures of four friends fighting for each other and their king and queen against the wicked Cardinal Richelieu.

London 1889 - Christie

London, grey, depressing, foggy, cold, and damp, greeted Christie. Like a mountain creature newly acquired by a city zoo, she stood, trembling slightly, her valise in her hand, her shoes letting in the damp from the grey pavements. Yellow-grey tendrils of fog surrounded her and muffled the dull tones of this strange language that lacked the warmth and colour of her own. The people who spoke it seemed to know that they had abandoned the poetry that once was theirs as too fanciful for the pragmatic, and mumbled now, as if ashamed of what they had done. She would spend most of her future life speaking English, but she would enliven it always with the lilt of her mother tongue.

Even the rain here was grey. Her Swiss mountains would be covered with brilliant snow, back dropped by a translucent sky. ‘Bon courage, Albert, we shall be free again!’

The trap that had come to fetch her was black, and emerged from the fog like a ghostly apparition destined to ride the streets forever and ever. Clutching her aunt’s old hat on her now pinioned hair, her knuckles white on the grip of her valise, she started forward to acknowledge the coachman who, like a town-crier, was loudly calling her name.

Three years were to pass before she left these islands, but in her descriptions to her children and her grandchildren, to be born in a far land where tropical sun and terrible drought could be the enemy, London would always be cold, grey, and swirling with yellow cotton wool fog.

* * *

Have you received the French mademoiselle yet? asked the man of the house; a thickset ruddy man with angry black brows.

Yes, Dear, answered his tiny wife.

Christie looked at her. ‘A pale grey bird,’ she thought, ‘silken, groomed, rustling, but a grey London bird nevertheless.’

The man spoke again. Nanny will show you to your room and inform you of your duties. You will start tomorrow… And how is dear Augustine?

Christie listened to the unfamiliar sounds and tilted her head.

The man, piqued by her demeanour, frowned for a moment. Ah, I forgot! Our new mademoiselle does not speak English. The children’s tutor will have to act as interpreter until she does. Ring for Nanny to bring in the children.

A little girl, with sad eyes like Albert’s, was ushered into the room and stood utterly still before her father, who turned her to face Christie. This is Priscilla, he said.

Two more children, a dimpled girl called Jacqueline, and a robust boy called James, followed their quiet sister and were lined up too. Greet Mademoiselle, said their father. She will teach you French. Now take them away, Nanny… James, you stay. We shall go for a ride in the carriage if the weather improves.

* * *

Christie was shown into a room in the eaves of the four-storey house. It had no window, only a skylight over the bed, too high to reach, and looking as if it had never been opened. A small table, a chair, a washstand, a narrow bed, and a thin cupboard, made up the furniture. On the little table she found paper, pens and ink, a carafe of water, and a glass.

That night she wrote to Albert, colouring forever his image of London, and describing her pupils, their unlikely mother, and their father, whom she called `La Bête Noire’. And ‘black beast’ he remained in her private evaluation of him as time unfolded the mysteries and mores of his house, for that was what it was. Everyone in it lived on sufferance. Questioning his rules or his power was not tolerated, no matter how cruel or unjust.

At first the children were her world, and then breaking his rules became her appointed task. Girls were to be small and pretty and marriageable, and totally subservient to men. Men, on the other hand, should grow robust and strong and manly, and thoroughly spoiled and pampered. Something understood by the intimidated staff in charge of the nursery.

Christie watched James being fed all he wanted while, at the same table, his two sisters were so strictly rationed that they sometimes cried with hunger. She found herself sharing her food with her two small pupils. She would hide it in her pockets and secretly feed the little girls during their walks in the park.

‘Despite his papa’s determined efforts to undermine his good nature,’ she wrote, `young James is a kind boy, and may yet grow to be a discredit to his father. La Bête would have him become a small monster, and is sadly disappointed in his only son for his display of what he calls, ‘unmanly qualities’. Madam says nothing; she has no voice, poor little grey bird. Last night I again crept into the baby’s room and undid the cruel corset in which her nanny has been instructed to tie her. Can you imagine what stupidity reigns in this unhappy house?’

In summer the heat of the room stifled her and in winter she froze. As the French mademoiselle to la Bête’s children, she was expected to look neat. That meant a white cotton blouse and long black skirt both winter and summer. Her long mountain stride was disapproved of and she learned to shorten her walk, but only before la Bête’s watchful frown.

‘I caught a cold last winter that stays with me,’ she wrote, and indeed she had developed a persistent cough. Often at night she would awaken to find her pillow and hair