The Same Bell

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This story starts the same as one from last week. Stay with it. 

Pugh moved his head and watched the reflection of his face distort in the shiny gold in front of him. He longed to touch the bell, to pick it up and give it a shake; hear the tones of the clanger on the metal. It really was a thing of beauty. The highly polished waist was criss-crossed with the scratches of time, the tip of the dome was slightly dented and the rim scuffed.  Of course they didn’t use it anymore, in fact it had never been rung since Pugh had been back here. Instead of the melodic ringing, his ears were invaded every thirty-five minutes by the grinding, grating buzzer telling the students the lesson was over. Despite being surplus to requirements, the bell sat just outside the head teacher’s office as a reminder of a bygone age.

It was an age that Pugh remembered well. He  wondered what the bell sounded like now. Would it take him back to his school days? He’d been a student in these very halls. He remembered how he’d stare into space waiting to hear the noise of that same bell. Mr Pearce marching through the school his arms windmilling, the ringing bringing the end of double maths, double history or his favourite ring, the end of the day.

These days he still stared into space waiting for the bell, the end of double history or the end of civics, whatever the fuck that was, Christ, he’d been teaching it for three years and he still didn’t know. The last ring was still the one he looked forward to the most, home time was home time, whether you were fourteen or forty-three.

 “Nothing to do Mr Pugh,” Pugh turned around and looked at Mrs Griffiths, the head teacher. The kids called her Gruffalo, the teachers called her Grunge.  

“Mrs Griffiths.” Mr Pugh said, cursing himself for being caught lurking in the corridor. He’d managed to get to Wednesday without being caught by Grunge.

“Have you got those reports for me?” Griffiths said. Pugh looked up at the head teacher. “No Miss,” he said.

“They were meant to be on my desk by Monday.”

“I know Miss, but…”

“No buts Mr Pugh, rules are rules.”
“I’ll get them to you tomorrow.” Pugh looked down at his feet.

“Be sure that you do.”

“Yes miss.” Pugh mumbled.

Mrs Griffiths turned and went back into the office.

“Oh and Mr Pugh?”

“Yes Mrs Griffiths.”

“Get your hair cut.” She slammed the door behind her.

Pugh looked at the bell. He smiled. The wooden handle felt as good as it looked and the bell let out a gentle tingle as Pugh picked it up. He felt the smooth surface in his hand, worn down by the hands of headmasters past. He heard the door open behind him.
“Mr Pugh What do you think you are doing?” Mrs Griffiths barked at him from the doorway, but Pugh was not to be denied. He held the bell above his head and brought his hand down. 

It clanged and tingled, filling the room with the most delicious tone Pugh had ever heard taking him back to his own school days.