in two parts (âFor His mercy endureth for everâ); he also made Israel to go through the midst of it, or had started to do so when he discovered that it was a treble solo, upon which he retired behind Hooker, blushing hotly. The choir, however, were either too well mannered to take any notice, or more probably well inured to the vagaries of musical visitors, and Pollock recovered sufficiently from this contretemps in time to take a cautious seat by the waters of Babylon and hang up his harp upon a tree.
After the âConfitebor Tibi,â to a strange chant (and outside Pollockâs musical compass) Canon Beech-Thompson ambled out to read the first lesson. Beyond the fact that it lay in the Sixteenth Chapter of Ezekiel and the forty-fourth verse (which he knew because he had read it in the service list) he heard little of this masterpiece of declamatory literature. It was not that Beech-Thompson was a bad reader, but he spoke in a round confident boom, and the villainous acoustics of the building did the rest. However, everybody, as far as Pollock could see, was reading the passage for themselves, except for the choristers who had relapsed into complete vacuity and an elderly tenor who appeared to be filling up his Saturdayâs football pool.
Magnificat followed. There was an unaccompanied treble solo on the words, âHe remembering His mercy hath holpen His servant Israel,â and Pollock who, in his early days in London had heard most of the famous sopranos, was struck by a quality in the tone. He fumbled about for the right word and decided that it was impersonal. The words meant nothing to the boy. He was producing a note as pure and beautiful as that of a trained canary, and with as little feeling.
The Dean read the second lesson. His quieter voice suited the building. Nunc Dimittis. Prayers. No sermon, the anthem, and only one hymn. Almost before it had started the service seemed to be over, the organ boomed forth, and the choir were filing out. Pollock realised with a start that he had been too interested in the service to fulfil his real purpose of watching the participants. Technically, he reflected, a most finished performance. Spiritually it had meant nothing to him, but that was probably his fault. Did police officers have souls, anyway?
He walked slowly down the now deserted nave and out of the west door. It was dark outside, and the wind was getting up. It would probably rain before morning.
He turned to the right outside the cathedral, passed the dim bulk of the cloisters on his left and emerged from the precincts a few yards from the Deanâs front gate. It was then about half-past six. Pollock felt that he had done enough for one day and dozed comfortably in front of the study fire. The Dean, when he came in a few minutes later, respected the truce and conversed until dinner on Roman history and the chances of Chelsea in the coming league contest; he seemed to be considerably better informed than Pollock on both subjects.
After dinner Pollock decided to sample the night life of Melchester, which resolved itself into a choice between (about) sixty public houses and one cinema. After visiting a few of the former he came to the conclusion that solitary beer drinking was one of the gloomiest forms of dissipation and fell back on the attractions of the screen. The film, which was modestly described as the perfect mystery-comedy-thriller, so shocked Pollockâs professional eye by the improbability of its police routine that he slept soundly through the last six reels.
It must have been at about this time, or possibly a little earlier, that Mrs. Mickie had a fright. She was sitting by the fire darning a sock when she heard the front door open with a crash. The wind was now blowing great guns, and thinking that the servant had carelessly left the door unlatched she hurried into the hall. There she stopped in astonishment. Her husband â whom she had imagined to be quietly
After the âConfitebor Tibi,â to a strange chant (and outside Pollockâs musical compass) Canon Beech-Thompson ambled out to read the first lesson. Beyond the fact that it lay in the Sixteenth Chapter of Ezekiel and the forty-fourth verse (which he knew because he had read it in the service list) he heard little of this masterpiece of declamatory literature. It was not that Beech-Thompson was a bad reader, but he spoke in a round confident boom, and the villainous acoustics of the building did the rest. However, everybody, as far as Pollock could see, was reading the passage for themselves, except for the choristers who had relapsed into complete vacuity and an elderly tenor who appeared to be filling up his Saturdayâs football pool.
Magnificat followed. There was an unaccompanied treble solo on the words, âHe remembering His mercy hath holpen His servant Israel,â and Pollock who, in his early days in London had heard most of the famous sopranos, was struck by a quality in the tone. He fumbled about for the right word and decided that it was impersonal. The words meant nothing to the boy. He was producing a note as pure and beautiful as that of a trained canary, and with as little feeling.
The Dean read the second lesson. His quieter voice suited the building. Nunc Dimittis. Prayers. No sermon, the anthem, and only one hymn. Almost before it had started the service seemed to be over, the organ boomed forth, and the choir were filing out. Pollock realised with a start that he had been too interested in the service to fulfil his real purpose of watching the participants. Technically, he reflected, a most finished performance. Spiritually it had meant nothing to him, but that was probably his fault. Did police officers have souls, anyway?
He walked slowly down the now deserted nave and out of the west door. It was dark outside, and the wind was getting up. It would probably rain before morning.
He turned to the right outside the cathedral, passed the dim bulk of the cloisters on his left and emerged from the precincts a few yards from the Deanâs front gate. It was then about half-past six. Pollock felt that he had done enough for one day and dozed comfortably in front of the study fire. The Dean, when he came in a few minutes later, respected the truce and conversed until dinner on Roman history and the chances of Chelsea in the coming league contest; he seemed to be considerably better informed than Pollock on both subjects.
After dinner Pollock decided to sample the night life of Melchester, which resolved itself into a choice between (about) sixty public houses and one cinema. After visiting a few of the former he came to the conclusion that solitary beer drinking was one of the gloomiest forms of dissipation and fell back on the attractions of the screen. The film, which was modestly described as the perfect mystery-comedy-thriller, so shocked Pollockâs professional eye by the improbability of its police routine that he slept soundly through the last six reels.
It must have been at about this time, or possibly a little earlier, that Mrs. Mickie had a fright. She was sitting by the fire darning a sock when she heard the front door open with a crash. The wind was now blowing great guns, and thinking that the servant had carelessly left the door unlatched she hurried into the hall. There she stopped in astonishment. Her husband â whom she had imagined to be quietly
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