disclosed?’
‘That’s a secret that will not be disclosed,’ said the Chief, but he looked pleased enough as he leant forwards and smartly swivelled the paper towards me. I saw something like: ‘The officer shall keep secret any information of a confidential nature obtained by him by reason of…’
‘Sign at the bottom, please,’ said Henderson-Richards.
I fished for my fountain pen, and Henderson-Richards sat back and half-smiled towards the Chief in a way that stayed in my mind throughout the railway journey back to York, as I sat in the first-class compartment with the Chief, and then later on in the dining car, and then in the compartment again as the sky darkened and the rain flew against the windows. I thought I now had everything pretty clear, although Gifford remained a bit of a mystery to me. The Chief knew all, of course; or nearly all. I had begun to think differently now of his absences from the office, his distracted way of talking. He was in on a whole lot of things he could never tell me about, and I wondered whether this was partly a question of age. Would I be in on a lot of unmentionable things when I was approaching retirement? I hoped so. It was important to take secrets with you when you died.
At York, the wife was waiting with Harry. I gave him the funny paper I’d bought for him at King’s Cross, and gave his cap a shove, which is my usual way of saying hello.
Lydia kissed me, and we made for the footbridge, with the Chief walking behind.
‘Want to speak about it?’ she asked.
‘Not over-much,’ I said, as we climbed the footbridge steps.
A long ‘up’ train was rolling along beneath the bridge.
‘Thanks for asking,’ I called over the racket, ‘but I’ve signed the paper, and I’ll say no more about the matter.’
‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it, Jim,’ said the wife, half-turning towards me and giving a grin.
