A Pocketful of Rye

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘Well, Dr Laurence, I’m glad that’s over.’

  He gave a bit of a laugh and took my hand, an action which, I need not add, embarrassed me acutely, gave me what in Scotland is called the grue. I was not in the best of moods. After all my trouble in making the appointment I had been hung up for most of the afternoon with only two quick chances to telephone Lotte, trying to explain why I was in Zurich without seeing her, and getting pretty well told off for my pains. Still, in the circumstances, I could not do other than let him drag on to me.

  ‘Surely it wasn’t too bad?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, no. I liked Dr Lamotte. Very serious, with that way he has of reading right through you. But he gave me such a nice smile as I was leaving. He’s clever, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s the tops,’ I said shortly. ‘ French-Swiss. They’re the best … intellectually.’

  ‘But I never thought he would send me in to all those young ladies, doing all sorts of things to me.’

  ‘Those girls are technicians … each trained to do a special test.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, more or less everything, for example, find out all about your corpuscles, and of course your blood group.’

  ‘But couldn’t you have done that, Dr Laurence?’

  ‘Naturally, if I had their equipment. You’re a group A.B. if you want to know.’

  ‘Is that quite regular?’

  ‘Perfectly. It’s the least common of the blood groups.’

  ‘What group are you?’

  ‘I’m group O.’

  ‘They did seem rather interested in my blood.’ He reflected. ‘Perhaps it isn’t blue enough.’ He looked up as if expecting me to smile. ‘I hope Dr Lamotte gave you a good account of me.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ I said, freeing myself from his sweaty little clutch to give him a reassuring pat on the back. ‘We’ll have a chat about it presently.’

  We walked through the avenue of plane trees, the dry fallen leaves crackling under our feet. I’d had nothing but a cold beef sandwich for lunch so I said:

  ‘We’ll have something to eat before we start back.’

  ‘Good!’ he said cheerfully. ‘As a matter of fact, now it’s all over, I’m quite peckish, and ready for anything.’

  This silenced me for the moment.

  We got into the Opel station wagon, which I had parked in the Hospital lot, and I took him to Sprüngli’s which at this hour between lunch and five o’clock was not overcrowded. Upstairs at a window table I ordered poached eggs on toast, hot milk for him, café crème for myself.

  ‘None of these lovely cakes?’ he hinted. ‘Remember, we had a sort of agreement …’

  ‘You’ll have a couple after your eggs.’ What the hell did it matter anyway? Let him have some fun while it lasted.

  As I watched his pale-skinned, tight face brighten, I looked quickly out of the window, barely seeing the heavy traffic moving in the Bahnhofstrasse or the long low blue trams swinging round the island with the newspaper kiosk in the Parade Platz.

  Classic Leucocythaemia. Malignant Myelocytic type: cause still unknown. Lamotte had flattered me by confirming my diagnosis, putting a few knobs on by way of ornament. Relentlessly progressive. The multiplying abnormal cells colonizing the various organs of the body – choking liver, spleen, kidneys, lungs, proliferating in the bone marrow, pouring out more and more from the bone marrow. Symptoms: acute weakness and wasting, big belly, haemorrhage from the stomach and bowels, oedema of the feet and legs from obstruction of the lymphatic vessels. Treatment: specific medication unknown: radiations in small doses inadequate, larger doses destroy the few healthy cells: in emergencies, blood transfusions. Prognosis: indeterminate yet inevitably fatal. Minimum, six months; at the most, three years.

  Too bad, naturally. But he was not the first kid to get his marching orders. I had a sudden recollection of the epidemic of cerebro-spinal meningitis I had come up against in the Rhondda. How many dirty blankets had I pulled over those poor little stiffs? No wonder you get tough. The groundwork had to be laid and better now than later. When he was well into his second egg I leaned forward.

  ‘How is the grub?’

  ‘First rate.’

  ‘Good. That’s part of your treatment – no more cod-liver oil but lots of protein. I think I did mention that you are anaemic.’

  ‘Oh, you did. You were the one who really spotted it. Did … did Dr Lamotte agree?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And your treatment’s all worked out for you.’ I paused, then added cheerfully: ‘It’s just a pity that we can’t work on the important part of it at the Maybelle.’

  His mouth opened like a hooked trout’s, and a piece of egg dropped off his fork.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We haven’t got the facilities.’

  He digested that slowly.

  ‘Couldn’t I go to the Kantonspital. Like today?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Daniel. It’s too far from Schlewald. You need regular treatment. And the natural place for you to get it is the Victoria Hospital at home.’

  His chin really dropped, down into his thin chicken’s neck.

  ‘You mean, go back to Levenford?’

  ‘Why not, boy?’ I laughed. ‘You live there, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘ I did live there. But I … Mother said … we were hoping we might spend a longer time in Switzerland.’

  ‘I was hoping so too, but needs must … and what’s wrong with dear old Levenford?’

  He was silent, his eyes on his plate.

  ‘I’ve not been particularly happy there since my father died.’

  ‘You miss him?’

  ‘I suppose I do. But it’s not … not quite that.’

  ‘What then?’

  He had gone white round the lips and suddenly I wanted to rise, get the bill, and clear out to the car. But something held me there, bending towards him, waiting for the answer. And it came. Speaking slowly, not looking at me, he said:

  ‘When my father died, or was killed falling off the roof, there was a lot of unpleasant talk.’ He paused, and the thought hit me like an electric shock: no wonder Mama doesn’t want to go back to Levenford.

  ‘Yes, Danny?’ I prompted.

  ‘Boys shouted things after me. And at the inquest, after Canon Dingwall told me …’

  He broke off, raising his head pitifully to look at me, and I saw the tears running down his cheeks. How low can you get, Carroll? Cut it out, for God’s sake. You’ve heard more than enough.

  ‘Come, Danny boy. Not a word more. You know we wouldn’t upset you for the world. Here, take my handkerchief and I’ll pop over to the counter for your cakes.’

  In five minutes, playing it good and hearty, I had him dried off and polished up, eating a meringue with no more than an occasional sniffle.

  On the way to the car, which I had parked in Tielstrasse, I hoped it wouldn’t happen, but it did. First the hand, then the usual:

  ‘Thank you for being so decent to me, Dr Laurence.’

  But when you are Carroll you can brush off compunction after no more than a brief, bad moment. Self preservation is the first law of nature. Anything by the name of Davigan had always spelled poison for me, I positively had to get rid of them. I had nothing against this little semi-animated bit of grey matter, but the mother would kill me. Always she would have her knife in me and one day, so help me, she would out me from the Maybelle.

  As we got into the car the sky had turned to a livid grey and a few soft flakes came fluttering down.

  ‘You see, Daniel,’ I reasoned. ‘It’s beginning to snow. Soon we’ll be into winter and that’s not very suitable for you.’

  ‘I like snow,’ he said, and looking up at the lovely feathery drift he muttered, half to himself as if explaining it away: ‘It’s just the angels having a pillow fight.’

  ‘They must be knocking the hell out of themselves,’ I said – it was getting thicker. I left it at that, revved the
engine and set off.

  It was not an easy drive, the de-icer wasn’t working too well and at one pointy near Coire, I thought I might have to stop and fit chains. But at the back of ten o’clock we reached the Maybelle.

  I dropped the boy at the chalet where his mother was waiting to put him to bed, and went on to the main building. Matton, alerted by the headlights of the car – for the snow muffled all sound – was at the door to meet me, and her manner, while restrained and formal was, to my surprise, not hostile.

  ‘Schlechte Nacht, Herr Doktor. You have managed well to come safely.’ Then, as I shed my coat and scarf: ‘ Haben Sie Hunger?’

  ‘I’ve had practically nothing to eat all day.’

  She nodded and turned away. Further surprises lay ahead. In my room the stove had been freshly stoked, the table was set for supper, and almost at once the old battleaxe came in with a tray on which I made out a tureen of steaming soup and something I had not seen in years – a big ashet holding the good remaining half of a steak and kidney pie.

  I couldn’t wait to get into it but, softened, not sitting down, I said:

  ‘I suppose you want to hear everything.’

  ‘Nein, Herr Doktor.’ As I stared at her she went on: ‘You must forgive. Caterina becomes so anxious and I alzo, that I did telephone the ward sister of Dr Lamotte. We know all, alas. Alzo that everything you have said of this bad illness is absolute and correct.’

  This from Hulda was a very handsome amende – if I hadn’t been so chilled I might have glowed. But as I eased into my chair and began to ladle out the soup, she went on:

  ‘So now, without question it is settled that Caterina and the boy must remain. This afternoon I wrote express to Herr Scrygemour telling how undispensable she becomes to me, so long without proper assistance. He will consent. It is sure. And so, Herr Doktor, I wish you gute Nacht.’

  With that she bobbed me that recently developed formal little bow and went out.

  After the soup I ate the steak and kidney pie, slowly and thoughtfully, savouring the flavour of good Scottish food. I ate all of it, and it couldn’t have been tastier. The brave Caterina had certainly been putting in more good work on Hulda, than whom no one liked better to feed well. So be it, let them have it their way for the present. I held the card that was the clincher. At the moment it was not up my sleeve, but it would be, for I knew where to find it.

  After I had finished, though I was full to the ears and all in with tiredness, I sat down determinedly and wrote to the Circulation Department of the Levenford Herald requesting their report on the Davigan inquest by return of post.

  Chapter Eleven

  I had a foul night. So far I have refrained from elaborating on the extraordinary fantasy that afflicts me. It is a personal matter. It worries me. And as it is patently an hallucination, both auditory and visual, I prefer to keep it to myself. Nevertheless, lately the attacks have been more frequent and last night I suffered one of unprecedented severity. In fact, a shattering nightmare.

  It began as usual. Darkness and desolation in the strange silent city. A sense of heartbreaking loneliness and the need, immediate and terrible, to seek help, to escape. Then, after that moment of fearful anticipation, the slow footsteps beginning, following, deliberate and insistent, echoing from behind me in the empty street.

  I began to run. Usually I ran with speed. But tonight my feet were weighted and by the greatest effort I achieved only a dragging trot. The sounds behind me increased, drew gradually nearer. I must be overtaken. Almost, I could feel the touch of that unseen hand upon my shoulder. I swerved into an alley. Immediately I was in a network of narrow streets lined with low windows, each curtained red, and open, offering some hope of refuge and escape. But as, one by one, I stretched towards them a wind arose and blew in gusts along the narrow alleys, slamming the windows shut. Now I had reached an empty square, enclosed by tall half-ruined buildings, through which I toiled in a breathless sweat, and still relentlessly pursued.

  The syndrome was lasting longer, much longer than before, the more so since this final enclosure appeared to offer no possible exit. To be trapped so abjectly was more than I could bear. I would not endure it and at last, flinging myself into the doorway of a deserted warehouse, I forced myself to face about and at the pitch of my lungs to shout towards that invisible approach.

  ‘Keep away. Don’t come near me!’

  Instantly I heard the signal of release, the low, distant baying of a hound, and in the same second the rush of footsteps ceased. The pursuit was over, once again, though by the skin of my teeth, I had escaped.

  In the morning when I half awoke with a ringing head, it took an effort to pull myself together. Yet it was some relief to realize that it was Sunday and I could drowse on until ten o’clock. When the holiday groups were here Sunday could be a trial but lately it had treated me handsomely since Matron, who regularly attended the eight-o’clock Mass, had taken both the Davigans with her. So although I always set out, book in hand, before eleven-thirty to keep in good standing with Hulda, I rarely lingered near the church but, by a convenient detour, reached the station kiosk for a chat with Gina or, more profitably, the Pfeffermühle where they kept an admirable light beer.

  I got up at half past ten and after breakfast which, although served without ballons, I did not want, I hoofed through the usual routine ward visit, where I decided to mark one of the boys for an early discharge. His pleurisy had cleared up nicely and his parents had written, wanting him home. Then, before taking off for the town, I crossed to the chalet to have a quick look at young Davigan. He met me, fully dressed, at the door.

  ‘They let me sleep in, Dr Laurence. So I’m going with you this morning.’

  This was an unexpected snag. Critically, I looked him over – he was smiling, seemed better and well rested after the Soneryl I had given him. It was not altogether unexpected. I saw that he was on the uplift, surely one of the most pitiful manifestations of the myelocytic brand of leukaemia, a sudden inexplicable improvement which arouses false hopes only to be followed invariably by a relapse.

  ‘You’re an invalid,’ I said. ‘You’re not obliged to … to come to church.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Especially with you.’

  Could anything be more sickening than this unwanted and too open devotion? This morning especially. If he had not been so ill I would have given him a flat ‘No’. Instead, I tried to think up an excuse. No luck. Nothing else for it then, I was stuck with him, otherwise there would be a shindy. I had a feeling in the small of my back that eyes were watching from windows.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ I said, with false optimism, putting my hands carefully in my pockets to avoid the clutch.

  It was the kind of morning that follows a snowfall in the Grisons – a sky blue as a mandril’s behind, a sparkling sun making false diamonds of the snow crystals and a crisp air that tingled and made you want to lose your headache and live for ever. In Switzerland they know how to deal with snow, and the village council, well disposed towards the Maybelle, had swept and banked our drive all the way down to the main well-scoured highway. We walked between walls of a dazzling blue whiteness that stung the eyes, mine, at least. The village roofs were heavily blanketed and as we moved along the bells began, the waves of sound showering us with icy particles from the projecting eaves.

  ‘An avalanche.’ The encumbrance laughed. ‘Let’s pretend we’re crossing the Alps. Three cheers for Hannibal and us.’

  We went into the church. After the exterior brightness it seemed darker, gloomier than ever, the congregation scanty and scattered – on a day like this most people came to the earlier service. He had made, of course, for the front row.

  I have already reported my allergy to churches. They give me a low feeling, a sinking nostalgia, plus an angry ‘let’s get the hell out of it’ sensation, in all, a complex especially aggravated by this particular church. Outside it was fantastic, inside so like a tomb it struck me with the chill
of the anatomy room where I had dissected my first cadaver, and on the reredos, a raw red granite wall, there was a great flat carving, a sort of impressionist bas-relief in the same red granite that always got me down. It was the Man, of course, not on the Cross, nothing conventional or agonized, just the profile and an outline, the suggestion of a figure, bent forward, and half turned towards you, with one arm stretched forward. It killed me, that Figure. Your eyes kept going back to it, not only because it was a damn fine original piece of work, totally at variance with the tiddy design of the church, but because if you didn’t disconnect the contact and tell yourself, as I did: Forget it: you were liable to start going back over things best forgotten.

  I had scarcely knelt down and gone through the usual sketchy moderns, to save my face, when the local Father appeared, not yet robed. He was a thin little man who looked ill, a Pole, with a name like Zobronski, if that is how he spelled it – Swiss clergy were scarce in this remote end of the valley, they had to make do with political refugees. He was conning the congregation with an upturned forefinger.

  ‘He wants a server?’ The words were hissed in my ear. ‘I’ll go.’

  And before I could grip him he was up and away. The moment I came in I’d had a premonition that things would go ill for me. When he reappeared, in a natty red cassock and white surplice, looking like the boy Pope, and began to light the candles with an expertise he could only have acquired from Dingwall, I began to sweat down the back of my neck. It was worse when the Mass began. You never saw such a show-off. This little upstart knew all the tricks. I kept hoping he would trip on the hassock or drop the book, but he never put a hand or a foot wrong, and all with such an air of presanctified devotion he might have been performing before a bevy of Cardinals in the Sistine Chapel. Zobronski, if that was his name, seemed to go along with the act. Other times he had been a fairly scrubby performer and you kept noticing how much he coughed, or that he’d cut himself shaving, or that the cuffs of his pants were frayed and his boots practically worn out. Now, however, you would have thought he had money in the bank, he was putting a few flourishes in on his own.