go when you've got these on?'
Ayscue nearly told him to bloody well find out, but that would not have done at all. 'I go into the town,' he said.
'What for? Whatever the reason is it's safe with me.'
'I can't tell you that.'
With what seemed a great effort, Leonard said, 'You must tell me, Willie.'
'I wish I could. I really can't. It's a Church matter.'
'Ah-will you swear by almighty God and our lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost and on your honor as an anointed priest of the Church-you are anointed, aren't you?-that whatever you get up to in town wearing those civvies it's nothing to do with Security?'
'I so swear.'
'Thank Christ for that.'
'Amen.'
Leonard slumped back on to the bed. 'That ought to hold them,' he muttered. 'If I had to I could take this all the way up to the CG and the Archbishop of Canterbury too. That'd hold ‘em.'
'What are you waffling about, Brian?'
'Look, Willie.' Leonard spoke earnestly as well as urgently. 'I know you're not a spy as well as you do. But my master's a fanatic for detail, for closing every avenue and leaving no stones unturned. In my reports I've had to say I've been keeping you under surveillance. Now I can say you've solemnly sworn by God and the rest of them that you're not doing anything we ought to know about. That'll hold him. We can both forget about you. Of course, if you turned out to be a spy after all, my head would roll and so would his. But since he knows as well as you and I do that that won't happen, this'll be the end of it. I hated doing all this. I apologize most humbly.'
'Don't give it another thought, my dear chap. Now if you'll excuse me…'
'Yes, I must be going.'
Leonard's way to the door took him past Ayscue's work table. He gestured at it with his head.
'Funny poem or whatever it is you've got there. Who wrote it?'
'What's that got to do with you?'
'Nothing. Nothing in my capacity as Security Officer, that is. But I'm not in that capacity all the time, you know, even though you probably think I am. I can take an interest in a poem and who wrote it without thinking it's a code message from the Kremlin.'
This was said reproachfully and with a flash of spectacles that could have betokened some sort of toss of the head. Ayscue found himself nearly grinning.
'Of course you can, Brian. I'm afraid I've no idea who wrote it. There's no signature or anything.'
When Leonard picked up the typescript and looked at it consideringly, his mouth pushed forward, Ayscue again felt the sense of ownership, almost of authorship, that had made him interrupt his walk. He wanted to snatch the poem from the other's hand and put it somewhere out of sight.
'So I see,' said Leonard. 'Mind you, I can't make much head or tail of it, but it seems rather morbid to me. We all know these things happen, but there's no point in dwelling on them like this, I'd have said myself. Still. The bit that really beats me is this thing here about… Limb-o. Can you throw any light on that?'
Ayscue shook his head emphatically. 'No,' he said.
'Mm. He does nice punctuation, though. Well, I mustn't take up any more of your time. Thank you for putting up with me.'
When he had watched Leonard march rather than walk to the edge of the meadow, his shoulders hunching and unhunching in turn as he swung his arms, Ayscue went back inside and sat down at his table. He glanced at the poem again, intending to reread it, but decided not to do so and locked it away in his cash-box. Leonard had omitted to ask to see inside this, perhaps an odd omission, certainly a fortunate one. The merest look would have nullified all Ayscue's efforts to conceal the purpose of his expeditions in mufti.
With the poem out of sight, he opened the stout manuscript notebook in which he drafted his sermons and prayer-meeting addresses. Since his ordination he had filled more than twenty such books, destroying each in turn as soon as the contents of its last page had been delivered. He had never knowingly used the same material twice.
The current page ran,
Ideas of God. Traditional see as human. Primitive, attrib own weaknesses, angry need placating, drought, sacrifice. Even Gks, altho JEsch etc., Soc, A'totle, + Parth, lech, anger, revenge, favorite (Achill). Only Xtn, father. Anthropols say origin 1) tribal authy 2) father-fig Freud 3) relic fear + man – someone makes thunder. Ok interesting, not whole story. Only Xtn God not human weakness. UK courts best, but always innocent/guilty & w. ‘Only human.' God always 100% fair, unable not. Human father v often gd, loving, no favorite, all kids same, ugly = gd-looking, when we bad = when we good. But only human, even best tired, worried, busy, just not there. Only God always there, 100% loving.
Having read through the above, Ayscue replaced his pen unopened in his pocket and shut the notebook. He went and switched on his gramophone, a table model with a plug-in second loudspeaker for stereophonic reproduction. The record he chose was the Magnificat of C. P. E. Bach. The pealing of the trumpets in
