her left hand. She dipped her right hand into the little font of blessed
water there, then crossed herself and knelt in one of the rear pews. Morse
envied her, for she looked so much at home there: looked as if she knew
herself and her Lord so well, and was wholly familiar with all the trappings
of prayer and the promises of forgiveness. She didn't stay long, and Morse
guessed that the cause of her brief sojourn was probably the paucity of any
sins worthy of confession As she left. Morse could see some of the contents
of the carrier bag: a Hovis loaf and a bottle of red plonk.
Bread and wine.
The door clicked to behind her, and Morse stepped over to meet St Anthony,
wondering whence had sprung that oddly intrusive 'h'.
According to the textual blurb at the base of the statue, this great and good
man was clearly capable of performing quite incredible miracles for those who
almost had sufficient faith. Morse picked up a candle from the box there and
stuck it in an empty socket on the top row. At which point (it appeared)
most worshippers would have prayed fervently for a miracle. But Morse wasn't
at all sure what miracle he wanted. Nevertheless the elegant, elongated
candle was of importance to him; and on some semi-irrational impulse he took
a second candle and placed it beside the first. Together, side by side, they
seemed to give a much stronger light than both of them separate.
A notice suggested an appropriate donation per candle, and Morse pushed a 1
coin into the slot in the wall behind St Anthony. Half of bitter. Then,
remembering that he'd doubled his investment, the reluctant hagiolater pushed
in a second 1 coin. A whole pint.
As he walked down to St Giles', the man who had virtually no faith in the
Almighty and even less in miracles noted that the past few minutes had
slipped by quickly. It was now just after 11 a. m. ; and when he came in
sight of the Bird and Baby on his right, he saw that the front door was open.
He went in.
172
chapter thirty-seven Careless talk costs lives (Second World War slogan)
I think men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage.
They've experienced pain and bought jewelry (Rita Rudner) five days after
morse had declined the free draw for a miracle at the Oratory, at noon, at
Lower Swinstead, at the bar of the Maiden's Arms, Tom Biffen stood leaning
forward on his tattooed arms. Very quiet so far for a Saturday. Just the
two hardy perennials, horns already locked over their continuous cribbage;
and the pale-faced, ear-pierced, greasy-haired youth already squaring up to
the fruit machine.
It was twenty minutes later that the fourth customer arrived.
Usual? '
The newcomer nodded and placed the requisite monies on the counter.
The white van in the car park economically proclaimed the newcomer's
profession: 'J. Ban-on, Builder'.
'Not out at Debbie's today, John?'
'What do you think? The day after the funeral?'
'No. Have you seen her since Harry . . .?'
'No. Well, I wouldn't have gone last weekend anyway, would I? Thought
they'd like being on their own, like you know, the day after they'd let him
out and all that.'
'No.'
The youth was standing beside them, a 10-note folded length ways between
the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
'You're taking all me change,' complained Biffen as he exchanged the note for
ten 1 coins from the till.
'You'll have bugger all left for the honeymoon,' ventured the builder; but
the youth, un hearing or uncaring, had already walked back to what was perhaps
the first great love of his life.
At the bar a few low-voiced confidences were being exchanged.
'When's the wedding. Biff?'
'Five weeks today.'
'Nice bit o' skirt?'
'Yeah. Dental receptionist down in Oxford somewhere.'
'Glad one of 'em's earning!' The builder half-turned towards the
unremunerative machine.
'Nobody earns much of a living on them things.'
'Except the Company,' corrected the landlord.
'Except Tom Biffen,' corrected one of the cribbagers.
The landlord grunted.
Odd really. Most men in their latish seventies would ever have been
