A Pocketful of Rye

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘You don’t think I’m a complete moron. To run such a risk. He had been dead a full year before I wrote them.’

  I saw her breast fill up with a slow, painful breath which came out as a long, soundless sigh. A silence followed, during which an extraordinary feeling seeped through me. I felt sorry for her, an emotion evoked, or at least intensified, by her attitude. Where had I seen it before: the head slightly drooping, face half averted, her profile clearly lined against the window – the dark eyes deep set against a high cheekbone, the nose with the faintest upturn that had once struck a note of high audacity, the mouth drooping now, but still beautiful, the clear cut defiant chin? Yes, she was still, or had again become, an attractive woman.

  ‘Carroll.’ Speaking slowly she went on. ‘Let’s make a deal … a non-aggression pact.’

  For a moment I was tempted. But no, Carroll, no. You’re too wise a bird to be caught with chaff.

  ‘It would never work,’ I said. ‘ I’m sorry for you, Cathy. But you and I are natural antagonists. You’ve already been undermining my authority. All the time you’d get in my hair. You would interfere with my … my way of life.’

  ‘You mean the Swede?’

  ‘Since you mention it, among other things, yes. Let’s face it. You started this thing. I was ready and willing to welcome you, to be the best of friends. But from the minute you laid eyes on me at the airport you set out to wreck me.’

  ‘Not really, Carroll,’ she said, seriously. ‘Please believe me.’

  I ignored that and continued logically.

  ‘Now I don’t want to hurt you, although you’ve tried to hurt me. I just want you to realize this is no place for you, and go quietly home.’

  ‘Home?’ The way she said it was enough.

  ‘You must think of your boy. He’s more ill than you imagine. But perhaps you don’t trust me.’

  ‘I know you’re a good liar, when it suits you.’

  I let that pass and went on:

  ‘He’ll soon need hospital treatment. But you don’t seem to show much feeling for him.’

  ‘I never show what I feel now, it’s safer.’

  I had said it all, yet she had a secret quality that baffled me. Without moving, her eyes still fixed and sad, she said:

  ‘I can still wreck you, Carroll. I can have the last word. You’re such a smartie I’m surprised you haven’t tumbled to it sooner. But you will, Carroll, and that’s why I’ve held it back. It’s staring you in the face.’

  I did stare at her. What was she getting at? Nothing. I shook it off.

  ‘Don’t try on that old cliff-hanger. I know you.’

  ‘Do you? It’s surprising, Carroll. You’ve chased women and slept with them most of your life, yet you don’t in the least understand them.’ Her voice broke. ‘And, dear God, you’ve never understood me. Never. No, not ever.’

  There was a deeper silence. The sky had clouded and all at once a heavy spatter of hail hit the window. That is the way of it in the high Alps … weather changes so dramatic they shake you, fascinate you, half drown you. Suddenly I remembered the brat parked on the open terrace. I got up and moved towards the door. I would not say another word. I had settled the whole blasted business.

  But as I went out, butting against a blast of hail, she said:

  ‘I’m not going, Carroll. Never.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  That same evening in my room I poured myself a soothing Kirsch and settled down to work things out. I had just made my routine visit to the ward with particular thoroughness, giving Garvey, the older of the ex-pleurisy cases, who was due to go home tomorrow, a going over. He was completely recovered, but from her little side room Matron’s eye had been on me, and it was my policy now to recover lost ground and work in with her again. I had already washed out that first idea of dropping the Herald on her desk. She read English badly, Davigan would talk herself out of it in a dozen different ways – such a shock, the accident, could not bear to think, even to speak of it! No, it would not be conclusive, not the real clincher.

  A hard case, that Davigan, she had ruffled me, put my back up. While giving nothing away, she had set me worrying, with her: ‘ I can still wreck you, Carroll.’ What could she be getting at, not bluffing I was sure, she had something important in reserve, still held back from me. I was now convinced that she had delivered the fatal nudge. Up there, on the parapet, already sick to death of him and with the big drop below, almost waiting one might say, she had been struck by that sudden irresistible impulse which induced in the same second the reflex shove. In self-preservation he had grabbed at her, caught the sleeve of her dress which had torn away, then toppled. It was a simple positive equation. But I needed proof.

  To stimulate cerebration, I took a slow sip of the Kirsch, which is made from the best Swiss cherries with admirable results. Yes, the answer must lie in what might be named the Dingwall-Daniel alliance. Impossible though it seemed, an understanding appeared to exist between these two, or to be more specific, a secret, unrevealed or purposely suppressed, perhaps even a shred of vital evidence, bearing on the case. On the face of it, an absurd situation, an inconceivable hypothesis – involving two opposites – an aged Canon of the Church, steeped in virtue, desiccated by holiness, and a small boy, the son of the victim, no more than seven years old. Yet these two were intimates, the one as teacher, the other as pupil, a strong sense of interest and affection bound them closely. And more, from the boy’s manner, his reticence to all my tentative approaches, there was evidence of a pledge, at least a given promise, not to reveal the secret.

  The longer I brooded over this the more my curiosity grew, the more I realized I would never get the bare unvarnished truth until I had it from Daniel. And I wanted it badly. I couldn’t force the boy in any way, but there were subtler ways of getting round him. And on this decision I finished the Kirsch.

  I knew I would not sleep easily with this on my mind so I went to my desk and dashed off a letter to Lotte explaining how busy I had been and how I hoped, and wanted, to see her, but for the time being must continue to toe the line of duty. I’d had two from her since she phoned, the second had been more than impatient. It was late when I sealed the envelope. I yawned, undressed, took a warm shower, and turned in. Even then I could not sleep. For once my phobia was not the trouble. Apart from the Davigan muddle, it was too long since I had been in Lotte’s bed.

  But next morning I was up, bright and early, consorting with Matron in the office and winning a brief nod of approval for my punctuality.

  ‘You know that we send Garvey home today?’ I said, after I had greeted her.

  ‘Jawohl.’ She gave me a queer look, charged with suspicion. ‘So you go once again to the airport?’

  ‘No, Matron,’ I said, confidingly, almost endearingly. ‘I’ve had rather too much of that place lately. Garvey’s a big boy, I’ll put him on the train at Davos with his air ticket in his pocket and a tag in his button hole. All he has to do is walk across Zürich station to the air terminal. They know all about our Maybelle lot there.’

  ‘Ach so.’ She looked pleased, even gave me a half smile. ‘That I like besser for him …’ adding significantly, ‘and for you, Herr Doktor.’ It was the second Herr Doktor I had that week.

  ‘And if it’s all right with you, Matron – you know I always consult you – I thought I would take Daniel along. It would be a nice change for him.’

  ‘So? You think him well enough for such?’

  ‘You know what his future is, Matron.’ I presented her with my most humane expression. ‘Don’t you feel he ought to have a little enjoyment in his short life, while he’s having this good spell?’

  ‘Ja, it is well said. I agree.’ She nodded, and gave me that look again, the Hulda version of whimsey. ‘At least he keeps you from mischief, which is goot.’

  As might be expected, Davigan was busy in the kitchen, producing savoury smells from a range of pots. Without disturbing her, I managed to get hold of Daniel who ju
mped at the unexpected prospect of the trip. We got into the Opel, Daniel and I in front, Garvey behind. He was a lumpy boy of fifteen from Edmonton, who never had much to say for himself. Since his pleural effusion had dried up he had put on weight, he looked well, and although incapable of expressing his thanks he was, I imagined, grateful for what we had done for him.

  ‘Glad to be going home, Garvey?’ I said, making conversation over my shoulder.

  ‘So, so, sir.’ He almost whistled that one.

  ‘You’ve missed your folks?’

  ‘Well, I’ve missed the Spurs.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘He means his football team. Tottenham Hotspurs,’ said the little know-all at my elbow.

  We were at Davos in half an hour and after I had put Garvey, well labelled, on the Zurich train, we had a hot chocolate at Zemmer’s in the High Street, after which, as I’d planned, I took him to the big covered ice stadium. The hockey match between Villars and Davos had just begun.

  I had thought he would enjoy it, but not all that much. He lapped it up, cheering the home team like the oldest inhabitant. After the fourth quarter, when we went out, he said:

  ‘I wish I could skate like that, Dr Laurence.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid chess will have to be my game.’

  ‘It is your game,’ I said heartily. ‘ If you’re still keen on that match at the Pfeffermühle I might put it on for you.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘I would love that, absolutely.’

  ‘Let’s make a date then,’ I said. ‘How about next Saturday?’

  He began to laugh, in great spirits.

  ‘May I look up my little book to see if I’m free …?’ Then broke off the joke. ‘No, seriously, that would be wonderful.

  There’s a restaurant in Davos called the Fluehgass, which is quiet and good. I took him there. Although the Grisons is a German-speaking canton the menu was promisingly typed in French, and after an amicable show of consulting my companion I decided on filet mignons aux bolets with pommes frites and a cup of clear strong oxtail soup as a starter. You get tired of the eternal veal in Switzerland and that tender pink steak would be good for him. And I ordered a half bottle of the Val d’Or Johannesburger, a light delicious wine from Sion. One glass wouldn’t hurt him.

  ‘This is very cosy.’ He rubbed his hands. It was a good corner booth, near the pine log that was smouldering on the field-stone hearth.

  We were getting chummier than ever, as I had planned. It was too easy and I didn’t dislike it. Although he might be a little toad, he was well mannered, never bored or nagged you and knew when to be silent.

  He lapped up the soup and on the first chew of the filet, rolled his eyes at me.

  ‘Try a sip of the wine.’

  He did.

  ‘That’s delicious too. Like nippy honey. Good job Matron isn’t looking, Dr Laurence.’

  ‘Why don’t you drop the doctor,’ I suggested. ‘Just make it Laurence.

  He stopped eating.

  ‘What a compliment.’

  ‘To me or you?’

  ‘To me, of course.’ And looking up, he gave me a warm, diffident smile.

  It hit me, that smile, right smack between the eyes. Where had I seen it before? In some old cracked snapshot, or mirrored faintly in a long forgotten past. Smile now, dear, and look at the camera. Or, as I grinned in the looking glass, admiring my new school cap. My smile, before the early gloss had worn off me.

  I felt void, sick and shaken. God, it was the moment of truth all right. Why hadn’t I rumbled it before? She had told me it was staring me in the face – the AB blood group should have warned me – almost a natural follow on from a group O father. But I had got out of so many beds scot free, I never dreamed that I had balled up the issue in that one. And Davigan had waited, ready to spring it on me when the time came, holding it, nursing it alone for the knock-out. That rattled me. Did she expect me to fall on her bosom and weep? Soft music and the young lovers reunited at last. If so, what a hope. I wasn’t the type to swoon and melt. I would work something out. I would …

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Laurence?’

  I pulled myself together. He was looking at me with concern.

  ‘I’m fine.’ After all, he wasn’t to blame. ‘Just something … something that went the wrong way.’

  No words of mine were ever more truly spoken.

  With the help of black coffee and a brandy I got through the rest of the meal. Then it was time to take off.

  As on the night of our meeting I made him lie down on the back seat of the car. I wanted no chatter, and he needed the rest. The meal had made him sleepy. I drove slowly, scarcely aware of the twists and turns of that difficult road, staring straight ahead.

  The thought that I was co-proprietor of this derelict little property in the back seat, this sad little freak, of frail physique and precocious intellect, the bright brain in the dim body, was a crusher, all right. Take it from me – a crusher.

  Yet as I drove on, blind, reason began to assert itself. A crusher? But why, Carroll? Why? Don’t be so hasty, counting yourself out, when you’re not even in the ring. All this is past history. Long past. I swerved instinctively on a bend, missing the other car by an inch, barely seeing it. Yes, the book is closed and can’t be reopened. Who saw you turn back that night of the ordination and go skulking … well, let’s be polite and say speeding, towards the Considine house? Only the Almighty, and He is unlikely to broadcast it from the heavens. And were you not welcomed? You were, Carroll. Warmly welcomed. And afterwards, while you remained in total ignorance, she accepted her responsibility, married Davigan, covered up the situation, lived with it. Who is to believe her at this late stage of the game if she tries to pin the blame on you? Can you see her going to Hulda: ‘Excuse me, Matron, there’s something I forgot to tell you, just escaped my memory, so to speak … the truth is that …’ She’s wearing a shawl and it’s snowing outside. What a B. picture! She couldn’t do it ever, she is too … too tough. She would know it must get the horse’s laugh. No, Carroll, don’t rush in where angels fear to tread. I liked that touch – it made me smile. Yes, say nothing, play it sostenuto, and await developments, if any. Meanwhile, on your side of the fence, keep after the kid for further revelations.

  I felt somewhat better, relieved in fact, after this self-communion, and by the time we’d reached the Maybelle I was able to face the Matron, who had been waiting on us, with my usual self-possession.

  ‘So, you are safe home again, Daniel. Was it a goot time?’

  ‘Splendid, thank you, Matron …’ I stood by while he sketched our programme for her.

  ‘Ach, so.’ She turned to me, looking pleased. ‘And he seems not too tired?’

  ‘I was extremely careful,’ I said soberly, encouraged by her manner which was mild, even remotely kindly – perhaps Davigan had been laying off me at last.

  ‘Well, now it is for you the bed,’ said Hulda, taking his ever ready hand. ‘Come. Your mother shops in the village so I will put you.’ Looking over her shoulder as they went out: ‘Hot coffee in your flask, Herr Doktor.’

  It wouldn’t last of course, I felt in all my bones there must be stormy weather ahead, but for the present I almost felt a member of the family.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Towards the end of the week the thermometer had risen and on Saturday, under a grey and humid sky, the Foehn was stirring, that soft damp neurotic wind detested by the Swiss. There are two winds in Switzerland, the bise which blasts down Lac Leman to Geneva and chills you to the bone, and the Foehn which on occasion blows everywhere and is worse than the bise, reducing you to a wet sweat rag, wrung out and limp. Around the Maybelle patches of soiled snow despoiled the landscape, slush glued up the streets and a steady drip came from the suffering pines. In short, a horrible day, but one well suited to our purpose. Without a doubt, this Saturday afternoon all the habitués wou
ld be parked round the stove drying themselves out at the Pfeffermühle.

  Looking him over that morning I was less inclined now to go through with my promise; indeed, if I had known the living hell that would be let loose on me that same evening I would have cut out the entire affair. But Daniel had not allowed me to forget it, and in fact I had my own purpose behind the expedition. This afternoon when I had indulged the kid with his chess I meant to coax out of him the one last bit of information I needed. So when he’d had his rest after the Mittagessen I smuggled him into the station wagon and took off quietly. At the worst I could tell Matron we had gone for a drive. As for Davigan, we were now barely on speaking terms. He’d had a sleep and was in his usual chatty mood, grateful that I was taking him and a bit excited.

  He was not on the uplift now, though still bearing up, just a trifle shimmery – his red cells rather better than when I first made the count, but these infernal whites creeping up on him again. By exerting myself I had become even more chummy with him.

  ‘I hope I don’t let you down, Laurence,’ he said, as the car slushed through the village.

  ‘Don’t give it a thought. Just enjoy your game.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I love a good stiff contest.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so little use to you. One of the advantages of going back home, you’ll resume your games with Dingwall.’

  ‘Yes … I suppose so,’ he said, rather doubtfully.

  I drew up and parked at the Pfeffermühle where an array of old bicycles, the form of transport favoured by the locals, indicated a full house. We went in, greeted by a waft of odorous steamy air and a general exhalation of ‘Grüssgotts’. The Maybelle, as I have mentioned, not without pride, was in good standing with the village, an esteem which, perhaps because their knowledge of me was slight, I appeared to share. I took the table at the window, farthest from the stove, which was red hot, and ordered a beer and an Apfelsaft. Yes, as far as I could judge, they were all there; Bemmel, the man we were after, ex-teacher and leader of the troupe, Scwhartz the water bailiff, Minder the undertaker, not busy today, a couple of near-by peasant farmers, and of course Bachmann, owner of the tavern, together with a fair congregation of the usual village hangers-on.