A Pocketful of Rye

  ‘It’s so good to see you, Laurence. Thank you for coming.’

  Then, to the others: ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he apologized, ‘I had a long session … quite a lecture in fact. But I’m to stay, Mother.’

  Congratulations drowned Mrs Ennis’s ecstatic sigh, and after Frank self-consciously said grace, we sat down to a lavish spread of all that is worst in that destructive Scottish meal which combines tea and supper and is normally served at six o’clock. Mrs Ennis, a parsimonious housekeeper, had thrown caution to the winds, producing such extremes as boiled silverside and black bun, sausages and trifle, ham, tongue and cherry cake. But for all this variety and the pervading air of pious gaiety which accompanied its dispatch, it was a strained and difficult repast, with undercurrents springing from the circumstances that had brought us together. Of Frank himself there could be no question. Whatever his physical composition, his behaviour was perfect: quiet and unassuming, gentle towards his mother, tolerant of the frequent Davigan lapses into bad taste and, beyond an occasional moment in which I detected strain, considerate and affectionate towards Cathy. And suddenly I saw him for what he was: a made-to-order celibate who from his first glimmerings of understanding had been taught, brought up and conditioned to regard chastity, that cardinal virtue of the Church, as the essential objective of his being, whose heart responded fervently to that final dramatic peroration of Canon Dingwall’s mission sermon: ‘ Show me a pure man or woman, and I will show you a saint.’ A belief so self-exaggerated that the mere thought of physical union was gross, repugnant, a defilement to be rejected instantly from his thoughts. Of course he had loved Cathy, but with a total sublimation of sex, an idealized conception of marriage so impractical, if it had not been pathetic, it would have been a joke.

  Conscious of my own earthy bondage, I could not help admiring, even half envying, this built-in continence. Yet I felt sorry for Cathy. Her glands had not been pre-sanctified. She had been let down and humiliated and she was hating it, probably hating Frank too, since she remained moodily and unresponsively silent. Had she thought to hurt him by taking Davigan on the rebound? It was a possibility, yet I wondered if she really could go through with it – marry that vulgarian who, lit by a few double Powers and a final Guinness, which he drank to the trifle, was becoming increasingly possessive. I wanted to tell her: ‘for your own sake, don’t, Cathy,’ but as she moved restively in her chair, not eating but defiantly pouring herself another drink, I did not have a chance, time was getting on, and having asked myself uncomfortably throughout the meal what the devil I was doing in this galley, I now felt like a fish out of water. I looked at my watch: almost a quarter to eight: I must leave soon for my train.

  I had hoped to see Dr Ennis and just as I got up to go his shaggy head came round the door. He was cold sober. He must have made a considerable effort since at this hour he was usually the best part of a bottle to the good. Knowing how he had wanted Frank in the practice, I dreaded a scene. But he was completely in charge of himself, talked civilly and pleasantly, made a few innocuous jokes welcoming me to the profession, then as he went out to his case, he caught Cathy by the arm.

  ‘Come along, dear lass. Time for you to turn in for your good night’s rest. I’ll see you home. You’ll never dance at your own wedding or raise a fine brood of altar boys for Frank if we don’t make you a big strong girl.’

  At the doorway I stepped into the hall to let her pass.

  She held out her hand.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Laurie, it’ll be long enough before I see you again … if ever.’

  ‘Goodbye, Cathy.’

  How acutely, painfully conscious of her I was as she stood there, close to me, looking me straight in the eyes. It was a look that lasted longer than it should, filled with a strained anxiety and something else that went direct into my heart. Then she turned away and I watched her go out with the old doctor. After that I had to get away and, despite Frank’s pressing me to wait for a later train, I hurriedly said goodbye.

  Outside, in the clear dry night I stood, motionless, hearing the vanishing sound of Ennis’s Ford, looking at the dark Considine house. A light went on in an upper window, then a blind was drawn. That brought a sigh out of me, not ecstatic like Mrs Ennis’s, just sad, the lament for a lost happiness now gone for ever. What was I anyway? An eager Romeo or a jilted lover? Neither. I was a substitute ship’s doctor on my way to Australia. With an exclamation that Frank would not have liked, I turned up the collar of my coat, stuck out my chin and set off at a hard pace down the road towards the railway station.

  Chapter Five

  A hand on my shoulder was shaking me with unnecessary vigour. That, and the roar of a jet taking off, returned me to Zürich Flughafen. I started, turned sharply, and there was Lotte in the airport bar, standing over me with a woman and a small boy beside her.

  ‘You went to sleep … again?’ With an embarrassing emphasis on the last word, Lotte laughed, put down the suitcase she had been carrying, then said to the others: ‘You are all right now I have delivered you. But do not trust this man too much, Mrs Davigan. He is not so simple as he looks.’

  Cathy muttered some words of thanks. I kept staring at her, in total unbelief, like an idiot. At first sight I had barely recognized her. My mental picture was not more than eight years out of date, but here was a woman who seemed much older, with a strained, almost broken-down look. Her expression was harder, her mouth, though full, was no longer tender, and her eyes, those wonderful dark eyes, had an edgy, questioning look, as though she would find it difficult to smile. She had on a felt hat without much shape and a brown suit, cheap-looking and shabby, but neat enough to do justice to the one thing that was unchanged. Her supple, fluid figure and the natural grace with which she stood and moved had the same appeal that had once made my heart turn over with desire. But now I had no more than a strange and painful awkwardness, pity perhaps.

  ‘I’m afraid you had a bumpy flight,’ I said, when Lotte had gone. ‘Can I get you something before we start?’

  ‘I couldn’t eat a thing. But,’ she hesitated, not looking at me, ‘I’d not say no to a drink.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I’d rather a brandy, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What about the boy? A sandwich?’

  ‘He ate some of his dinner on the plane. He’s probably too tired to eat.’

  I bought her a cognac, with a ham sandwich and a Coca-Cola for the boy. He thanked me. Until now he had not spoken, although he had been studying me with observant eyes. He was extremely pale, too slightly built by far, with a reserved, examining expression – a delicate, even gentle look, if it had not been so composed. His brow was the best part of his face, which thinned towards the chin, a feature reminiscent of his father who, I recollected, had had a receding jaw. He was wearing grey shorts and stockings and a hand-knitted grey jersey. What was his name again? Of course … awful but inevitable … it would be Danny boy. Dislike rose up in me, at the memory of Davigan, but I checked it with a false kindness.

  ‘Don’t finish your sandwich, Daniel, if you don’t want it.’

  ‘I’ll keep this piece for later.’ He wrapped half in the waxed paper it had come in.

  His mother’s silence was so awkward, so restrictive indeed, I had to keep talking to him.

  ‘Your first flight I suppose? It didn’t upset you?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. I played a game part of the time.’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘Yes. Chess.’

  I smiled, in an effort to lighten the situation.

  ‘Who did you take on? The pilot?’

  ‘He plays games against himself.’ His mother broke in almost sharply, as though my facetiousness had offended her. ‘ He has a pocket set.’ After a moment, still in that unnatural and distant manner, she said: ‘Are we going to Davos or not?’

  ‘Decidedly not. We have everything ready for you at the Maybelle.’

  ‘The Maybelle?’

  Was there the vag
ue inflection of a gibe?

  ‘Ridiculous name, isn’t it? But I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘A longish drive, I’m afraid. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.’

  When she put down her empty glass we went out to the parking lot. As before, I carried her suitcase. On this occasion it was light. I sat the boy in the back seat of the car.

  ‘He can stretch out there and perhaps get a sleep.’

  After a momentary hesitation she got in beside me.

  For some time I drove without speaking, taking the by-pass to avoid central Zürich, striking the shore of the See beyond, hoping that silence and the darkness might relax her nerves. Any anticipation I had entertained of our meeting, a reunion one might say, born of nostalgic recollection of the past, had been flattened by the stiffness of her attitude. And I had not failed to notice that she kept herself apart, well over to her own side of the car. Had Lotte’s remark upset her, as it had me? I made another effort to start the conversation.

  ‘I owe you an apology for not being at the barrier to meet you, Cathy.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ If it hadn’t been for your girl-friend we’d have lost ourselves completely.’

  My girl-friend. So that had nettled her. I smiled in the darkness.

  ‘My only excuse is … believe it or not … that I was thinking of you. Yes, hanging on in the bar, I got into a day dream of the old days, with Frank and you, lost all sense of the present in the past.’

  ‘I’ve had more to think of than that lately.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I said appeasingly. ‘I didn’t know you’d lost Dan until I had Frank’s letter. I’m sorry. Was he taken suddenly?’

  ‘Yes, very sudden.’

  ‘Too bad,’ I said, trying to sound sympathetic.

  Obviously she didn’t want to talk of it, so I curbed my curiosity and said:

  ‘Then you’ve been worried about your boy. How long has he been … let’s say … off-colour?’

  ‘About five weeks. We first noticed the T.B. gland then.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, Cathy. We ought to be able to get him right for you. It’s not an uncommon condition in children of his age. Just a bovine T.B. infection. Not the pulmonary type. We’ll not worry him by putting him in the ward. I’ve arranged with Matron for you both to have the guest chalet. It’s very cosy … usually reserved for visiting committee members.’

  ‘The Matron? Is she nice?’

  ‘Not bad at all, if you take her the right way. Oh, by the by,’ I hesitated, ‘I had to work a bit of an angle with her … to get you and Daniel in together, and with all the fancy trimmings. You see, normally we’re not allowed to take parents. So I established a sort of family relationship, told her you were my cousin. You can disown me if you like.’

  She did not speak for some time, then she said:

  ‘Still playing about with the truth, Carroll. You were always good at it.’

  After that, I let it rest. Damn it all, I had only put on the act for her sake, to give her a good start with Matron and to get her the privilege of the committee chalet. I drove on in silence, and at speed, climbing now as we left Zürcher See behind, flashing through the villages of Landquart and Jenaz, almost deserted at this hour. The night darkness was deepened by the overhanging mountains. There was no mist but a fine rain had begun to fall. I switched on the radio to get the late news and weather report. Another level-crossing accident. Two killed in Grisons. Disarmament Conference reconvened in Geneva. More trouble in the Yemen. Servette had beaten Lucerne in the Cup two goals to one. Brighter weather lay ahead.

  From the swift occasional glare as we passed an illuminated sign I saw that she was sitting erect with closed eyes. Daniel, in the back seat, had fallen asleep, his audible breathing synchronized with the regular beat of the windscreen wipers. I switched on the heater. Out of sheer decency and good-heartedness I had tried to make it a cosy threesome in the snug little Opel, but something had gone sour and it was making the journey twice as long.

  However, towards eleven o’clock we were there at last, and as we came up the drive it was a relief to see lights in the guest chalet. I had been a trifle uncertain of Matron, but she had actually stayed up, well beyond her usual hour of retiring, to make a welcoming party of one.

  ‘Ach, so! You are tired. So late, and so much journeyings.’ With an arm round Cathy she helped her from the car. ‘And the leetle boy? Sleeping. That is goot. But so pale. Can you take him, Herr Doktor? We are all prepared.’

  Inside, the chalet glowed, a bright fire in the little sitting-room warmly burnishing the freshly polished furniture, gilding the pot of white cyclamen that since morning had undoubtedly found its way from the village Blumengeschäft to the centre table. Nearby, on a tray, was a Thermos jug flanked by a plate of pretzels. A clean warm smell of burning pinewood seeped from the burning logs. Shaded lights were on in the large and adjoining small bedrooms, both beds were turned down, and on each, light as swansdown, lay that unique provider of nocturnal comfort, a Swiss Steppdecke.

  What a tribute to myself that Matron had put herself to such trouble to achieve so warm and convincing a welcome. Cathy, tired and exhausted to the point, almost, of an estrangement from me, looking about her with an expression of dazed surprise, had clearly expected nothing so attractive, so heartwarming.

  ‘You like, ja?’ Matron said, in a pleased tone, studying her.

  ‘It’s perfect … so lovely … and comfortable. I … I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Goot! Now you must take your hot trink while I put to bed the chield. And for you, Herr Doktor, there is also hot milk and pretzels already in your room. So, gute Nacht.’

  She bustled through the main bedroom into the little room where I had taken Daniel. As Cathy stood motionless and silent, her eyes lowered, I unstoppered the Thermos and poured a glass of milk which I slid along the table towards her. I scarcely knew what to say, exactly what note to strike, how in fact to break the ice which seemed to have congealed between us. But it was she who spoke first. Apparently still thinking of Matron she said, almost to herself:

  ‘That’s a kind-hearted woman.’

  ‘She is, Cathy,’ I endorsed heartily, then with some justification, feeling that I might take my fair share of the credit, I added: ‘We both felt, she and I, that you deserved the best.’

  ‘Because I was your cousin?’

  ‘Well,’ I shrugged, ‘that was just to help things along.’

  She did not answer but remained, with head averted, not looking at me. At the sight of that drooping figure, still slender, even youthful, another touch of pity came at me. Not the journey alone, trying though that might have been, but some other, harrowing experience, anxiety for the brat, perhaps, I couldn’t yet discover the hidden cause, but whatever it might be, had worn her down.

  ‘Don’t worry, Cathy. We’ll get the boy right, and you too. I’ll examine him first thing tomorrow, and do everything I can to help you.’

  I came towards her and took her gently, soothingly, by the arm.

  Instantly she froze. In a low but intense voice, looking me dead in the eyes, she said:

  ‘Keep your dirty fingers off me. You … you lying woman chaser.’

  I was staggered. After all I had done; inviting her to stay; meeting her; driving her in the pitch dark for hours over those damn dangerous mountain roads; to be blasted like some bloody sex maniac. Then I saw that she was more upset than I, and at once everything became clear. Not just her seeing Lotte, of course, the big Swede had given me away, yes, all the way – I might have known she couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut – and Cathy, eagerly looking forward to meeting me again, had been hurt. Well, it would pass. I would soon put things right. Meantime, take no offence, remain calm and sympathetic, time would heal the breach. I said gently, but in a slightly injured voice:

  ‘I can see you’re tired, Cathy. So I’ll say good night. I hope you sleep well.’

/>   I went out on the balls of my feet, just like Frank, and quietly closed the door.

  Chapter Six

  Next morning, after my exertions on the previous day, I slept late. After I’d had my croissants and coffee, which was always kept hot in a Thermos jug in the sitting-room, I ambled into the office. Matron, at her desk, looked meaningfully at the clock as I gave her ‘Guten Morgen’, but she was in a smashing good mood.

  ‘Ach, Herr Doktor,’ she beamed all over her face, ‘I like much your cousin Caterina. Ja, already she asks me to call her so. And she is risen so early, all dressed, and knowing my absence of staff, is helping much with my verk.’

  ‘I’m so glad, Matron.’ Slightly bewildered, I managed to get this out.

  ‘I, also. That is a most goot, nice voman.’

  These superlatives caught me unawares, but I kept on my smile.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In the Küche, so do not disturb.’ She raised a minatory finger then nodded with an approving chuckle. ‘She makes for Mittagessen a Scotsmann’s food … the meence.’

  Hell mend the old battle-axe, she killed me with her mangled double jargon and whatever might lie behind it. But I was still a bit slack-headed myself – I usually felt that way after an outing, or should I say an innings, with Lotte, and besides I’d had all the fag of that late night drive – so I could only beam back.

  ‘I’ll leave her to it then. I’m terribly pleased you’re friends already. Now I’ll go over before my ward round and see the boy.’

  I walked slowly to the guest chalet wondering what the devil this Caterina was up to. Making a play for Hulda’s good will? Could be: to prolong her stay. Or, after years of Davigan, was she just the thoroughly browbeaten domesticated little housewife? The meence! It would make a horse laugh.