Newly arrived from Virginia, Henry and Charlotte were entranced by Westminster Abbey. They had just spent two hours immersed in this Gothic-inspired royal church, full of tributes, memorials, the graves of remarkable people, and not least, with its wonderful mellifluous bells.
It already felt like this was going to be the holiday of a lifetime. A small group of friends on a guided tour of some of the finest churches and cathedrals in Britain, and this only the beginning. Slightly jet lagged, yes, but totally enthralled by the Abbey, they gathered near the door, sharing their reactions and excitement.
Then Henry spotted something.
Just to the left of the double doors, and elegantly placed on an ornate shelf, was a golden telephone, glinting in the light of newly lit candles. He and Charlotte moved closer, to read the panel mounted on the wall beside it. The wording was concise, yet intriguing.
Direct line to Paradise: £1,000
They looked at each other, puzzled, just as a smiling Verger approached.
‘Does anyone ever make the call?’ asked Charlotte in her soft Tidewater accent.
‘Some do’, replied the Verger.
‘A few former Prime Ministers have been known to try. Nervous perhaps about their legacy. The Right Honourable Gordon Brown is one that springs to mind’.
‘And he made the connection?’ Henry now, getting curious.
‘Oh yes, but that was interesting in itself. Whilst some have complained that the person at the other end was rather difficult to understand, Mr Brown seemed to converse with them rather easily. Curious don’t you think?’
Leaving the question hanging, the Verger drifted away. He had more candles to light before Evensong.
Now it was time for the tourists to move on too. The schedule promised an early dinner and early to bed. Tomorrow they were heading North.
***
Lincoln Cathedral did not disappoint, sitting magnificently atop Steep Hill and dominating everything around it. Early Gothic this time, and sometimes known as Lincoln Minster, its tall towers could be seen for miles around.
The visitors strolled through the cloisters, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. There was time for tea and scones in the café and then tempting retail opportunities in the warm stone and wood interior of the Cathedral shop.
Making their way to the early Norman arch of the West door, and lingering over the Romanesque carvings, something caught Charlotte’s eye.
Sitting on a stone plinth, to the right of the doorway, was a large telephone. It was silver and catching the slanting rays of the sun through the stained glass. Charlotte was quick to move towards it. There in a few strides, she saw a small card, easily missed from a distance. Its message was clear enough though.
Direct line to Paradise: £500
As Henry walked across to her, Charlotte turned to a volunteer guide. ‘We saw something like this in St Paul’s, London, yesterday. More pricey than this though. They said it was working’.
‘I don’t think this one is, I’m afraid. Apparently some years back, the Dean and the Sub-Dean had a difference of opinion about what the charge should be. So in the end, to settle the argument they simply disconnected the phone. It’s still here though. Now part of Lincoln legend’.
Puzzled by it all, the two Americans smiled and re-joined their group. Was this something unique to British cathedrals? No one seemed to have seen it in the guidebooks.
***
Next day at Durham Cathedral, déjà vous was setting in. Now they were actively looking for the mysterious telephone. It didn’t take long to find. This time the appliance was bronze, and it must be said, a little dusty. But the accompanying sign was clear enough.
Direct line to Paradise: £250
‘What’s going on Charlotte. Has every Cathedral in Great Britain got this same set-up? And why does the price keep going down?’
‘It’s a mystery to me too Henry. Let’s ask in the shop’.
The attendant was obliging.
‘No one seems to know how it got here, but it definitely works. Out of my price range, though’.
‘So who might have used it recently?’ Henry asked.
‘Well, that’s a story in itself. It was a well known musician. Sting, no less. Just last week at the end of a big concert he did here with all his pals. They got him to have a go. “God talks to God”, as one of them put it! So he made the call. Paid by credit card.’
Henry and Charlotte leaned in, their elevated eyebrows asking the next question.
‘Well, he said the line was a bit crackly, but someone definitely answered. They seemed to natter away for a few minutes, but Sting wouldn’t say what about’.
The rest of the morning passed most agreeably. An exquisite example of Romanesque architecture, with its vaulted nave and ingenious use of buttressing, Bill Bryson had once declared Durham the ‘best cathedral on planet Earth’. The tourists did not demur.
Then it was back in the bus.
They’d just got underway, when the guide told them about a change to the itinerary. Instead of heading up the Great North Road immediately, to St Giles’ in Edinburgh, they would go across country, to where a special treat was waiting for them. Not a grand religious edifice, but an unusual country church, with a fascinating local history.
The group members were in good spirts, and the weather continued fine. So no one dissented. On the contrary, they were now on a magical mystery tour. They even croaked a few lines from the Beatles’ song of the same name, as the bus made its winding way over the Border hills – to South West Scotland.
***
Two hours later, the travellers pulled up on the edge of a well-scrubbed village, its two rows of simple cottages painted in a cheerful palette of bright colours. They had arrived at Dalswinton, in the parish of Kirkmahoe, Dumfries and Galloway.
Alighting from the bus, the setting was captivating. Here was a place of exquisite greens, rolling hills, and small forests. The gentle light served only to enhance the verdant and sylvan landscape, whilst in the distance stood an elegant sandstone mansion in beautiful grounds, overlooking a reed-fringed loch that shimmered in the sunshine.
The guide turned their attention to an unusual red-painted iron church, nestling among the trees. They entered through its tiny porch to find the smell of beeswax, fresh flowers, a wood panelled interior, and pitch pine pews. An exquisite modern stained glass window, created by a local artist, filled the nave.
The minister, in a casual sweater and corduroys, gave the warmest of welcomes and explained how this beautiful little ‘tin tabernacle’ was made in Glasgow in the 19th century and had been destined for the colonies. Until the Dalswinton landowner of the day bought it to provide a church for the people of the village. Since then it had seen many christenings, weddings and funerals, had rung to joyful singing and was the venue for occasional concerts, where fine musicians played to appreciative audiences.
The tour group murmured with pleasure and seemed content to sit for a while, perhaps reflecting on the rustic simplicity of the place, and the complete contrast with what they had seen so far on their tour.
Then, reluctantly, they began to drift outside and back towards the bus. Henry and Charlotte bringing up the rear, the Minister at the church door, bidding them farewell.
It could so easily have been missed.
The black Bakelite telephone was next to a pile of hymn books on a console table. Propped up beside it, was the now familiar notice, albeit in this case slightly abbreviated. It simply read:
Direct line to Paradise
Stopping in their tracks, they examined the arrangement carefully before asking if they might take a photograph.
‘Of course’, said the Minister, ‘it’s something special isn’t it?’
‘It most definitely is, Sir’, Henry replied.
‘You see, these past few days, we’ve come across a few other examples of something like this’.
‘Really?’
Charlotte explained what they had seen, first in St Paul’s, then in Lincoln and earlier that day in Durham.
‘That’s right – “a direct line to Paradise” – but first at a cost of £1,000, then £500, then £250’.
‘Is that so?’ responded the Minister.
‘Yet here there seems to be no charge to make that special call! Really, how could that be?’
The Minister smiled, nodded slowly and looking across to the telephone, gave Henry and Charotte his considered reply.
‘Well my friends, the answer is really very simple indeed. You see, this direct line to Paradise, well, it’s only a local call from here!’
Acknowledgements
I’m grateful to Professor Rex Taylor, who told me an abbreviated version of this story many years ago.
Quotidian 