harder.
‘Be careful the business doesn’t take you over,’ cautions Ashwell. ‘You’d be such a bore gassing on about … oh, I don’t know … crop yield.’
‘No fear,’ says William, fearing.
‘Far better to make a trembling young beauty yield to the crop ,’ snarls Bodley theatrically, then looks to Rackham and Ashwell for praise.
‘That’s utterly feeble, Bodley,’ says Ashwell.
‘Maybe so,’ sniffs Bodley. ‘But you’ve paid pounds for worse.’
‘At any rate, Bill,’ pursues Ashwell, ‘– pornography aside – you mustn’t let Agnes keep you out of the great stream of Life this way. The way you’re worrying so much over a mere woman … it’s dangerous. That way lies … uh … what’s the word I’m looking for, Bodley?’
‘Love, Ashwell. Never touch the stuff myself.’
A wan smile twitches on William’s face. Stroke on, old friends, stroke on!
‘Seriously, Bill, you mustn’t let this problem with Agnes turn into a family curse. You know, like in those frightful old-fashioned novels, with the distracted female leaping out of cupboards. You have to realise you’re not the only man in this position: there are hordes of mad wives about – half of London’s females are positively raving . God damn it, Bill: you’re a free man! There’s no sense locking yourself up, like an old badger.’
‘London out of Season is enough of a bore as it is,’ chips in Ashwell. ‘Best to waste it in style.’
‘And how,’ asks William, ‘have the two of you been wasting it?’
‘Oh, we’ve been hard at work,’ enthuses Ashwell, ‘on a simply superb new book – mostly my labour,’ (here Bodley scoffs loudly) ‘with Bodley polishing up the prose a bit – called The Efficacy of Prayer .’
‘Awful lot of work involved, you know. We’ve been quizzing hordes of devout believers, getting them to tell us honestly if they ever got anything they prayed for.’
‘By that we don’t mean vague nonsense like “courage” or “comfort”; we mean actual results , like a new house, mother’s deafness cured, assailant hit by bolt of lightning, et cetera.’
‘We’ve been terrifically thorough, if I do say so myself. As well as hundreds of individual cases, we also examine the general, formulaic prayers that thousands of people have uttered every night for years. You know the sort of thing: delivery from evil, peace on Earth, the conversion of the Jews and so on. The clear conclusion is that sheer weight of numbers and perseverance don’t get you anywhere either.’
‘When we’ve chalked it all up, we’re going to talk to some of the top clergy – or at least solicit correspondence from them – and get their view. We want to make it clear to everyone that this book is a disinterested, scientific study, quite open to comment or criticism from its … ah … victims.’
‘We mean to hit Christ for six,’ interjects Bodley, driving his cane into the wet earth.
‘We’ve had some delightful finds,’ says Ashwell. ‘Superbly mad people. We talked to a clergyman in Bath (wonderful to see the place again, capital beer there) and he told us he’s been praying for the local public house to burn down.’
‘“Or otherwise perish”.’
‘Said he supposed God was deciding on the right time.’
‘Completely confident of eventual success.’
‘Three years he’s been praying for this – nightly!’
Both men thump their canes on the ground in sarcastic ecstasy.
‘Do you think,’ says William, ‘there’s the slightest chance you’ll find a publisher?’ He’s in better spirits now, almost seduced, yet feels compelled to mention the spoilsport realities of the world as it is. Bodley and Ashwell merely grin at each other knowingly.
‘Oh yes. Sure to. There’s a simply thundering call nowadays for books that destroy the fabric of our society.’
‘That goes for novels, too,’ says Ashwell, winking pointedly at William. ‘Do keep that in mind if you still mean to
‘Be careful the business doesn’t take you over,’ cautions Ashwell. ‘You’d be such a bore gassing on about … oh, I don’t know … crop yield.’
‘No fear,’ says William, fearing.
‘Far better to make a trembling young beauty yield to the crop ,’ snarls Bodley theatrically, then looks to Rackham and Ashwell for praise.
‘That’s utterly feeble, Bodley,’ says Ashwell.
‘Maybe so,’ sniffs Bodley. ‘But you’ve paid pounds for worse.’
‘At any rate, Bill,’ pursues Ashwell, ‘– pornography aside – you mustn’t let Agnes keep you out of the great stream of Life this way. The way you’re worrying so much over a mere woman … it’s dangerous. That way lies … uh … what’s the word I’m looking for, Bodley?’
‘Love, Ashwell. Never touch the stuff myself.’
A wan smile twitches on William’s face. Stroke on, old friends, stroke on!
‘Seriously, Bill, you mustn’t let this problem with Agnes turn into a family curse. You know, like in those frightful old-fashioned novels, with the distracted female leaping out of cupboards. You have to realise you’re not the only man in this position: there are hordes of mad wives about – half of London’s females are positively raving . God damn it, Bill: you’re a free man! There’s no sense locking yourself up, like an old badger.’
‘London out of Season is enough of a bore as it is,’ chips in Ashwell. ‘Best to waste it in style.’
‘And how,’ asks William, ‘have the two of you been wasting it?’
‘Oh, we’ve been hard at work,’ enthuses Ashwell, ‘on a simply superb new book – mostly my labour,’ (here Bodley scoffs loudly) ‘with Bodley polishing up the prose a bit – called The Efficacy of Prayer .’
‘Awful lot of work involved, you know. We’ve been quizzing hordes of devout believers, getting them to tell us honestly if they ever got anything they prayed for.’
‘By that we don’t mean vague nonsense like “courage” or “comfort”; we mean actual results , like a new house, mother’s deafness cured, assailant hit by bolt of lightning, et cetera.’
‘We’ve been terrifically thorough, if I do say so myself. As well as hundreds of individual cases, we also examine the general, formulaic prayers that thousands of people have uttered every night for years. You know the sort of thing: delivery from evil, peace on Earth, the conversion of the Jews and so on. The clear conclusion is that sheer weight of numbers and perseverance don’t get you anywhere either.’
‘When we’ve chalked it all up, we’re going to talk to some of the top clergy – or at least solicit correspondence from them – and get their view. We want to make it clear to everyone that this book is a disinterested, scientific study, quite open to comment or criticism from its … ah … victims.’
‘We mean to hit Christ for six,’ interjects Bodley, driving his cane into the wet earth.
‘We’ve had some delightful finds,’ says Ashwell. ‘Superbly mad people. We talked to a clergyman in Bath (wonderful to see the place again, capital beer there) and he told us he’s been praying for the local public house to burn down.’
‘“Or otherwise perish”.’
‘Said he supposed God was deciding on the right time.’
‘Completely confident of eventual success.’
‘Three years he’s been praying for this – nightly!’
Both men thump their canes on the ground in sarcastic ecstasy.
‘Do you think,’ says William, ‘there’s the slightest chance you’ll find a publisher?’ He’s in better spirits now, almost seduced, yet feels compelled to mention the spoilsport realities of the world as it is. Bodley and Ashwell merely grin at each other knowingly.
‘Oh yes. Sure to. There’s a simply thundering call nowadays for books that destroy the fabric of our society.’
‘That goes for novels, too,’ says Ashwell, winking pointedly at William. ‘Do keep that in mind if you still mean to
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