A Pocketful of Rye Read online

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Oh, but you must, or Frank’ll never forgive you. Sure, your name’s never off his lips.’

  Restively, I looked about me. I still hoped to have a word with Cathy, but she was lost in the crowd or had already gone. I had begun to move away when Davigan exclaimed:

  ‘And now I’ve a message from the Canon. He wants to see you. In the sacristy. Poor suffering soul, he’s a done man, due for retirement to the sisters next month. In you go, I’ll wait for you.’

  There was nothing else for it. I had to go. The old autocrat was in a wheeled chair, but still erect, with a book on his knee. His eyes, sunken, but still burning in their sockets, unmistakably alive, took me all in.

  ‘So,’ he said, when he’d finished looking me over. ‘ I’d a notion to see you before they sent me to the scrap heap.’ Without taking his eyes off me, he felt for his snuff box from under his soutane, using his good left hand and, still adeptly, inhaled a pinch. ‘ I perceive that you have slipped, Carroll. Badly. It’s written all over you.’

  I felt the blood rush into my face and neck.

  ‘At least you’ve still the grace to be ashamed of yourself. I needn’t remind you it was you I wanted in there. I worked hard on you too. All those Friday afternoons.’ He nodded sideways. ‘ But, with that slippery Irish side to you, you got away. However, don’t think you’ll ever escape. The seed is in you and you’ll never get rid of it.’

  There was a pause. I was grateful that he spared me a cross-examination of my faults, and somehow sad and shamed that I had disappointed him.

  ‘I hope you’re feeling better, Canon,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I’m as well as ever I was, except for the use of one flipper, and good for another ten years. I’ll have my eye on you, Carroll.’

  ‘I’ve always appreciated your interest in me, Canon, and all that you did for me.’

  ‘Drop the blarney, Carroll. Just let some of our Fridays stick.’

  Another pause. He took up the book. ‘As a quasi literary character, notably an essayist, do you ever read poems?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, take this. It’s a prize they gave me at Blairs many a year ago. I’ve marked one poem. It might have been written specially for you.’

  When I took the book he snapped the snuff box shut.

  ‘Kneel down, sinner.’ I had to obey. ‘I’m going to bless you, Carroll, and it’s not only the Lord’s will, but mighty appropriate in your case that I have to do so with the wrong hand. For before God, if ever you achieve salvation it’ll be the wrong way – by falling in backwards through the side door.’

  As I left the sacristy, horribly discomposed, I realized I had barely uttered a single coherent word. To recover myself I sat down in the now empty church and opened the book he had given me. ‘The Poems of Francis Thompson’. I had never heard of him. His photograph was the frontispiece, an emaciated, self-tortured face with a faint straggle of moustache.

  A bookmark indicated the poem towards which my attention had been directed. I looked at the opening lines, I began to read. My mind, full of the recent interview, and the puzzle of Frank and Cathy, was not on the words, but I wanted to get rid of Davigan, so I sat there reading on, without real comprehension; until I came to the end. Absently, I put the book in my pocket, got up slowly, and left the church. And there outside, still waiting for me, was Davigan.

  ‘I never thought you’d be that long. But maybe he wanted to hear you. Where are you off to?’

  ‘To visit my grandparents.’

  ‘That’s my way also. I’ll give you a butty along Renton Road.’

  In subsequent encounters since that memorable interruption in the Longcrags Wood, my dislike for Davigan had not been mitigated, a feeling which, under his habitual ingratiating effusiveness, I sensed he returned with interest. And now, armed with a greater confidence, an exudation of affluence, and cherishing some secret satisfaction that imparted a smirk to his heavy, pallid features, he struck me as even more objectionable. He was got up in a stiff white choker, spongebag trousers and a cutaway coat, the sidesman’s outfit, in which he showed people to their places and shovelled up the two collections, but this sartorial elegance was now brought to the verge of the ridiculous by a bowler hat which sat down on his ears, causing them to protrude. Prejudice, no doubt, made me liken him to a stage butler in a second-rate farce. I avoided the gesture with which he attempted to take my arm as we set off towards Renton Road.

  ‘A heavenly affair,’ he began. ‘And what a fine turn out. You were a shade late in getting in, Laurence.’

  Being first named by Davigan did not lessen my resentment, but I made no protest, except to maintain silence.

  ‘I noticed you didn’t join us all at the altar rails. You’d see we all took Communion. Oh, I don’t doubt you’re in a state of grace all right. I daresay you weren’t fasting. Of course, Dr Ennis was an absentee. No use to pretend he was out on a case. He’s not really one of us now, Laurence. No, no, sadly fallen away. Ah, what a sorrow for the young priest. But the mother, ah, there was a joyful face, even though the tears were running down her cheeks. A saint. That’s where Francis, I beg his pardon, Father Francis, gets it. His holiness I mean. They say the Canon hasn’t bespoke him for St Pat’s, but the mother will press for it, I’ll be bound. Though they tell me the young Father’s not too glib with the sermons.’

  A further silence followed, then with a sly side glance he said:

  ‘And what did you think of Miss Considine, Laurence?’

  ‘Cathy? I thought she looked extremely sad.’

  ‘Ah, didn’t we all now, more or less. A fine young man giving up the world for God. But she looked well, you thought? She’s come on, like, in her looks?’

  During the Mass I had found myself watching Cathy, thinking that she had altered in some way but that the change, whatever it might be, had given her something that was not there before.

  ‘She’s an extremely attractive young woman,’ I said shortly. ‘And an interesting one.’

  ‘She’s all that, and more,’ he agreed fervently. ‘Of course, being all in the black for her mother’s decease hardly gives her a chance.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Is Mrs Considine dead?’

  ‘She is that, none the less. This couple of months past. And after a long and painful illness, God help the poor soul. May she rest in Peace.’ He tipped the bowler and made the sign of the Cross. ‘It’s hard on Cathy, for you understand …’ he gave me a look, ‘the pension died with her, the mother I mean. Still anon, the dear girl has friends, that fine Spanish lace mantilla she had on came from my own mother, just to show you an example.’

  He had my attention now.

  ‘But what’ll Cathy do with herself? Has she a job? She’ll have to give up that big house.’

  ‘Well, no.’ He assumed a considering manner which widened his smirk. ‘She’ll not be given notice to quit. You see, Laurence, being in the building trade like, my old man has bought the house. It’s a desirable property and may come in handy in the not too distant future.’

  ‘Why so?’ I asked sharply.

  He let the smirk go. Instead he faced me with a defiant yet triumphant grin.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Carroll, you may as well hear it now, sooner nor later. It’s not out yet because of the other attraction, the ordination. But when you speak of Miss Considine you’re speaking of the future Mrs Davigan. Cathy and yours truly are engaged to wed.’

  I stopped short.

  ‘You’re joking, Davigan.’

  ‘Devil the joke, Carroll.’ The grin had become a sneer. ‘ We’ve come up the in world since you and your stuck-up Prot relations looked down your long noses at us. Take a peep up there.’

  We had reached the end of Renton Road where it branched to Craig Crescent and Woodside Drive. He was pointing to the lower slope of the Longcrags, visible now beyond the Crescent, that wooded hill where the thrushes nested and wild flowers grew, the choice
beauty spot of the town, that same wood where Cathy and I had almost found our Eden. Now the wood was razed, and amidst the stumps a rash of jerry bungalows was in process of eruption.

  ‘Oh, God, what a bloody mess!’

  ‘That’s what you think! Let me tell you, it’s the Davigan Building Estate. Our own financial empire! And it’s going to make our pile. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you half-baked snob!’

  He left me with that parting shot and after a long speechless inspection of that shameful, hideous vista I made my way slowly to my grandparents’ at Woodside Avenue.

  Here was a different atmosphere. They were quietly pleased to see me, finally qualified as a doctor, a result atoning in their eyes for my indifferent start in life. They gave me a simple lunch, a kindness I was able to repay by prescribing for the old lady’s rheumatoid arthritis. Bruce himself had slowed down but, still haunting the field of Bannockburn in spirit, spent a good hour showing me marked passages in an old Parish Register he had recently uncovered from a barrow in the Levenford Vennel. My present mood was tolerant of his obsession – it seemed less a prideful mania than an old man’s pathetic delusion – yet while I bore with him my mind kept grappling with that incredible situation not half a mile away, in Craig Crescent Cathy and Davigan … it simply couldn’t be! I had to get to the bottom of it. Although I was not due at Frank’s until six, towards five o’clock I said goodbye to the Bruces and started off by the back road towards the Crescent.

  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.