Dialogues of the Dead

On Saturday morning Rye Pomona had to field so many questions about Ripley's TV programme from her colleagues en route to the reference library that she arrived ten minutes late and found that she'd missed the beginning of a half-furious row in the office. The furious half was Percy Follows whose angry tirade bounced off the placid surface of Dick Dee, leaving no trace but a faint puzzlement. 'I'm sorry, Percy, but I got the distinct impression you didn't want to be troubled with anything to do with the short story competition. In fact I recall your exact words - you always put things so memorably. You said that this was such an inconsiderable task, you could see little reason why it should disturb any of the essential routines of the department and none whatsoever why you yourself should be troubled with it beyond news of its successful completion.' Rye took a positive pride in her boss's performance. That attention to and memory for detail which made him such an efficient Head of Reference also gave him a forensic precision in an argument. Not wanting to interrupt such good entertainment, she didn't go into the office but sat down at the enquiry desk. The department's morning mail had been placed there plus the all too familiar plastic bag containing the latest and (her spirits rose) presumably the last batch of short stories from the Gazette. Lying at the top of the bag, half in, half out, was a single sheet with only a few lines typed on it. Still listening to the row, she picked it up and read.

/ see thee as a flower, so fair and pure and fine. I gaze on thee and sadness steals in this heart of mine

83 'But this wasn't about the competition, was it?' Follows was blustering. 'These Dialogues, so far as I can make out, must have got mixed up with that by accident. Ripley said they were probably meant for the news desk of the Gazette.7 Trying to put distance between the library and any bad fallout from the Dialogues, thought Rye as her eyes continued to scan the verses.

/( is as though my fingers should linger in your hair, praying that God preserve thee so fine and pure and fair.