A Pocketful of Rye (7 page)

No sign of life was visible in the curtained windows of the Considine house as I came through the front garden, and when I rang the bell there was a longish pause before Cathy appeared, still wearing the black dress that Davigan had deplored. It made her look older, but to my mind, lovelier. How to approach her? – it was difficult. I smiled in a friendly manner.

‘May I come in? I'm too early for the banquet next door.'

She held out her hand without surprise.

‘Hello, Laurence. I sort of thought you'd look in.'

The parlour was exactly as I had known it during my rare visits in the past, the same formally placed furniture, stiff, polished, and lifeless as the vase of dried-up honesty on the chiffonier. And there was little animation in Cathy as we sat down on hard chairs on opposite sides of that dead room. Her eyes were dull, she looked only half awake. Perhaps she read my mind.

‘I was trying for a bit of a nap after one of the tablets Dr Ennis has been giving me. I don't sleep too well these nights, alone in the house.'

‘I was sorry to hear about your mother.'

‘She's better gone. Cancer isn't much fun.'

‘It must have been hard for her, and for you.'

A silence fell between us, stressed by the slow beat of the longcase clock in the hall.

‘And now, Cathy,' I said, trying to speak lightly, ‘what's all this I hear about your engagement to Davigan?'

‘It's no hearsay.' She answered at once, as though prepared for the question. ‘While nothing's settled, Dan wants to marry me.'

‘And you?'

‘I'd be better off married.' She said it quite flatly, then after a pause: ‘Dan's no prize packet but he's been helpful and kind. His parents too. Since Mother died I've been sort of sunk, Laurence. And of course with the pension gone there's nothing but debts. I wouldn't be in this house now if it weren't for the Davigans.'

‘Cathy, you're not the one to give up. You'll get over this … this upset, and find a decent job.'

‘Such as? I'm not really qualified for anything.'

‘At least you could try … to make a go of your life by yourself.'

‘By myself?' She gave me a sudden direct glance, then looked away. ‘You don't really know me, Laurence. Or do you?'

I did, of course, but how could I speak of it. Dimly outlined against the darkening window, her head slightly drooping on her neck, a sad Rosetti profile, there was in her attitude a softness, a sense of mystery and longing, that touched me to the heart. All I could find to say was:

‘Things haven't worked out too well for you, Cathy?'

She did not evade the question, yet the readiness of her answer made it sound forced, unreal. A prepared statement.

‘You know I'd been saving myself for Frank for years, looking forward … waiting, even thinking he'd chuck the seminary. You're a doctor, Laurie. It can't go on, all that repression … it's against my nature.' She gave me a wan smile. ‘If I'm to stay respectable it has to be marriage.'

I was silent, unconvinced by her apparent frankness, and with a sudden sense of pain and loss, envy too, as I had a distressing vision of her married, and unrestrainedly possessed by the sidesman of St Pat's. Instinctively, I wanted to comfort her. I came forward and took her hand. I daren't speak of Frank. Yet my sympathy was tainted with a strong carnal curiosity.

‘It must have been a great shock when …' I broke off.

‘When he preferred the Lord to me. Don't deceive yourself, Laurence.' She shook her head slowly. ‘It would never have worked. How can I dress it up nicely for you, my tender young medico? Frank wasn't made for marriage.'

She must have seen disbelief in my face. All the straining humiliation of the past came through in her short, pained laugh.

‘The very idea of making love was enough to turn his stomach.'

‘A psychological block. You could have broken it down.'

‘Useless to try. Why, I'd realized it years ago when we …' She caught herself up suddenly, avoiding my eyes. Then she said: ‘No, no. Frank's better off in the dog collar. So why shouldn't I make do with Davigan?' She gave me a strange inquiring glance. ‘ He's not such a bad sort, he's come up in the world, and at least he'll warm the blanket.'

There was a long silence. What did she mean? She had realized years ago? Even half spoken it contradicted and falsified all that laboured explanation. She had not released my hand. Her fingers were limp and unresistant. That old beating had started under my ribs again.

‘I suppose you know I was wild about you, Cathy? But I always thought you had a down on me.'

She looked away, seeming to pick her words carefully.

‘Yes, in a way I resented you, Laurie. But it was because you had what I couldn't take from you. Anyhow, isn't that all water under the bridge now?' She paused, with a shadow of her old provoking smile. ‘We'll not want to start it flowing again?' There was another longer pause, as of waiting, then, as I struggled to find the proper words, she suddenly stood up and switched on the light. ‘Time's getting on. I'd better be off to tidy up and change my dress. I can't join the celebrations like death at the feast. I'll be with you in a minute.'

When she had gone I got up, paced the room, went into the hall, came back to the room, hearing her movements on the floor above only too acutely. All the feeling I'd had for her had risen again, intensified by a most unusual compassion, I longed to go upstairs to console her, but had not the heart or the nerve to chance making a ghastly mistake or to impose myself unwanted upon her, in her present state of mind. And a sense of decency, again unconscious and induced, perhaps, by my encounter with Dingwall that morning, was holding me back. Why should I further complicate her life when already it had become so sadly tangled.

Before I could decide, a step on the stairs made me look up. She was coming down, wearing a white chiffon dress with a red velvet bandeau in her hair. She had put some colour on her cheeks and she looked fragile and unlike herself. She took my arm lightly, and with a trace of her natural spirit said:

‘Come on. You can lead in the bride. They'll be waiting.'

We went next door and into the Ennis living-room. Here, in a well-heated, unventilated atmosphere, the Davigans were already in possession and our appearance together made Dan start suspiciously. He darted a meaning look at his parents: the mother, a big-boned angular woman, her features indelibly seamed with sixteen successive resignations to the laws of nature; the father, short, thick and bandy, with a stupid brick-red face and the look of a sanctimonious ram. Mrs Ennis, delirious with happiness, was serving drinks, Powers whisky for the men, a sherry for Mrs Davigan.

‘A great day it is for yourself, Katie,' the latter was remarking with an air of repetition, as she accepted her glass. ‘A great … a holy day!'

‘The Lord knows it. What'll you have, Laurence, seeing it's an occasion? We're just waiting on Francis. He'll be pleased to see you.'

‘Is the young Father at his orisons?' old Davigan inquired.

I thought at first it was a joke, but he was dead serious, although he'd probably had a few.

‘He's at an interview with the Canon.'

‘Ah … the Dingwall himself. It'll be for the curacy.'

‘You're hoping he'll be lucky, Katie?'

‘Oh, yes, dear, I've prayed for it I would dread a separation.'

‘Come over and sit by me here, Cathy,' said Davigan the younger, after a brief silence.

‘I'm all right where I am.' She was half seated, half standing by the window ledge. ‘Is nobody giving me a drink?'

‘Of course, dear,' Mrs Ennis said coldly. ‘You'll have a drop of sherry?'

‘If you don't mind I'll take the malt. Dr Ennis prescribed it as a night-cap.

Mrs Davigan raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, well!' she said, in the tone of a future mother-in-law.

‘Is the doctor himself likely to be detained at his case?' asked old Davigan meaningly, after a silence.

‘He's at his surgery now. And I know he's due on a confinement. But in between he promised to look in.'

At that moment there were brisk sounds outside and Frank came in as though he'd been hurrying – smiling, cheerful, radiating such an air of heaven only knows what one could call it, simple, natural or supernatural goodness perhaps, or if one were cynical, priestliness. Yes, Francis was now the ecclesiastic, neatly habited in rows of black buttons, walking on the balls of his feet, smoothly shaved, ready of smile, an idol for the aged parish spinsters. He came directly towards me and took both my hands warmly.

‘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.

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.'