A Perfect Spy

by John le Carré

“God’s the twelfth man on the cricket team, son. It’s God who tells us to keep the left elbow up through life. No one else.” “So you always said. But it’s not the cricket season. Are you drunk?” “He’s umpire, judge and jury rolled into one and never you forget it. There’s no conning God. There never was. Are you glad I paid for your education, then?” “I’m not conning God, Father, I’m trying to celebrate with my family.”

until all that was left of Rick was what he owned of Pym; and all that was left of Pym, it seemed to me, as I wove my lies and blandished, and perjured myself before one kangaroo court after another, was a failing con man tottering on the last legs of his credibility.

But the truth is, Tom, that Pym preferred to test the limits of the tolerance of those he loved. He preferred to sit here in Miss Dubber’s upper room and wait for God to come, while he looked down the gardens to the beach where the best pals ever had kicked a football from one end of the world to the other, and ridden their Harrods bicycles across the sea.

Across the street stood a hideous Baptist church that told you God was no fun either.

We’ve all rather decided to accept that he’s part of life’s rich pageant, and not some sort of monster.

untidiness was the sister of insecurity.

But Jack Brotherhood was standing to attention like a dead centurion at his post, and everyone was watching a dignified little lady in a dressing-gown coming down the steps of her house.