A Pocketful of Rye (10 page)

On the way home I took the main road to make easier walking for him. Suddenly he drew up.

‘That's a very striking little church, Dr Laurence. Is it ours?'

I nodded.

It was one of those small ultra-modern R.C. churches that had begun to sprout in Switzerland, part of the new movement to be with it. All lopsided angles of wood, glass and concrete, half imitation Frank Lloyd Wright and half pure Disneyland, it stuck up in the old village like a sore thumb. Outside, on something like a gibbet, a peal of bells hung off centre. Inside it was naked stone, cold enough in winter to freeze the knackers off you.

You'll gather I could not stand the place. In fact, I hated it. Since I had to take the Catholic children there on Sundays, on more than one occasion it had for various reasons really got me down. Usually, when I had parked them, I'd go out for a smoke, or amble down to the station kiosk to pass the time of day with Gina, who was always open on Sundays, selling soft drinks and cigarettes to the peasants who invaded Schlewald on their one free day.

‘It grows on you. I like it.' He had completed his survey. ‘Let's go in.'

This was too much – I shut him up.

‘You've had enough for one afternoon. We'd better get back.'

He was short of breath coming up the hill, stopping now and then to, as he put it, ‘catch his puff', and to say: ‘I have enjoyed myself, thank you, Dr Laurence.'

‘Good,' I said shortly. I didn't want slop of any kind. ‘I'm going to take your temperature when we get in.'

I saw that I would have to keep a stricter eye on him. And at least further excursions of this nature were out. He was all brains and humph, and not much else.

Ever since that opening luncheon a vague premonition of impending trouble had existed at the back of my mind, but I could never have believed it would hit me so soon. The profound observation of Confucius, that after three days guests and fish stink, was working in reverse at the Maybelle Clinic. By the end of the week it was I, apparently, who seemed slightly tainted while Caterina, as the Matron had re-christened her, was presumably smelling like the rose.

Pondering the matter, in an effort to get to the roots of it as I sat at breakfast in my room, I assembled the evidence, tenuous perhaps and circumstantial, but none the less disturbing. My coffee, for instance, was not entirely hot this morning, and on my tray lay not the usual three fresh, tender croissants, but instead a single one, unfresh, and two of those unmentionable
balbons
, the lowest and most debased form of Swiss rolls, guaranteed tooth-breakers, regular hockey balls. Perhaps the baker's girl, a red-cheeked fraulein who delivered before school, had failed to materialize. I doubted it – she was regular as a Swiss clock, not the cuckoo variety sold to tourists, but a reliable Patek Philippe. No, as other kindred deprivations came to mind, I found it impossible to evade the suspicion that Hulda had cooled towards me. Definitely tempered was her lush and overflowing affection. A critical glint had invaded her eye, a short laugh now replaced the beaming ‘ach so' assent that had hitherto welcomed my most speculative observations. At our midday dinner an optical collusion had developed between her new protégée and herself, meaning glances that passed over my head but which I suspected were derogatory to myself, followed usually by remarks exchanged in undertones. On several occasions these had touched with unpleasant significance on my Levenford antecedents in a manner scarcely in accordance with my previous elaborations on this theme. How otherwise regard this little tit-bit of a tête-à-tête, which took place in Matron's room just loud enough for me to overhear in the test room next door:

‘Of this Scots town of your birth, dear Caterina, you speak seriously? Is it not nice?'

‘Far from nice.'

‘But before I am believing it is fine, historique, eine noble
Stadt?
'

‘Who could have told you such an untruth? It's a small, ugly, working-class, shipyard town. All day you hear nothing but hammering of rivets.'

‘But surely … I am confuse … surely there is a fine castle, on the river?'

‘That's just a tumbledown old ruin by a dirty stream.'

‘No one still lives therein?'

‘Only the rats.'

‘Ach, so! And the peoples are not
Hochgeboren?
'

‘No. Of course, some think they are.'

Hulda's voice, which had risen in tone, octave by octave, in a crescendo of forced amazement, now dissolved in a fit of laughter. Then, wiping her eyes:

‘Here, in Schweitz, if some silly Scotsman believes he is
ein König
, he must be put straight away in
Krankenhaus.
'

Equally disturbing was the Matron's remark on the following morning when Lotte, disregarding my injunction never to telephone me, had rung up to say she had an unexpected free day. I couldn't blame the big stupid Swede since at another time I would gladly have joined her in Zurich. But it was Hulda who took the call and afterwards, in a tone impossible to mistake, she had inquired:

‘Your professor from the Zurich Kantonspital, Herr Doktor?'

Well, what of it! I was still the boss. Yet when I thought on the instigator of all these scheming little tricks, these dropped hints and innuendos, I felt like wringing her neck or, better still, setting up a good rough bedroom scene with her. What the devil was she after? Beyond the recognition of that strain of antagonism which had always existed in our complex relationship, especially in our early days when she had tried to get the better of me, I could not even guess. Seeing her every day, in the same house, made it worse. Recovered from the journey, refreshed by the mountain air, she had shed a few years, lost that beaten look, and in the words of that murky ballad, begun to bloom again.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in!' I shouted.

Daniel's head appeared inquiringly round the lintel. He smiled.

‘Are you busy, Dr Laurence?'

‘I'm busy trying to get enough calories out of this bloody bad breakfast.'

‘It doesn't look too bad.'

He advanced and sat down. He was still in his Maybelle dressing-gown and pyjamas, holding his infernal pocket chess board.

‘It's just that Mother and Matron have gone shopping in the car. I was wondering if, since we are alone … we might try a few moves.'

So they had paired off again. I glared at him.

‘I believe I told you to stay in bed until I came to examine you.'

‘Well … I had to get up.'

‘What for? To piss?'

‘No,' he said, adopting my vocabulary. ‘To puke.'

‘You were sick?'

‘I only threw up a little. It's a bit of a habit I seem to have developed.'

‘Since when?'

‘Just the last few days. I think it's the codliver oil. What comes up all tastes of it.'

I looked at him and nodded.

‘That's probable. It's pretty foul stuff. We'll knock you off it and put you on extra milk. Now back to your room.'

‘Won't you? I'm rather tired of playing against myself.'

I finished my tepid coffee and pushed the tray aside leaving the
ballons
conspicuously untouched.

‘Come on then. I'll give you a game. Then you must come to the dispensary and have your injection.'

‘Good,' he said. ‘It's a deal,' and began to set out the board.

Although I was no Capablanca I played chess off and on with the kids during wet recreation hours, and I meant to knock him off quickly, partly to take him down, but also to eliminate the nuisance of further games.

We began calmly. I had the first move. But why make a song about it. There is no disguising the sordid facts. This unnatural little upstart mated me in exactly six moves.

‘That's extraordinary.' He smiled. ‘I never knew the Giuoco Piano opening succeed so easily. I fully expected you to use Petroff's defence.'

‘You did?' I said sourly. ‘Well, I don't go for Petroff. Suppose you play me another without your queen.'

‘Certainly. In that case you'll probably open with the Ruy Lopez.'

‘Not on your life. I'm anti-Portuguese.'

‘Oh, Lopez was a Spaniard, in the sixteenth century, Dr Laurence. He invented his attack – where caution and safety are essential for the defenders. And I'm sure you'll remember to respond with P to K4.'

‘That impertinent remark costs you another three pieces,' I said, removing his two bishops and a castle. ‘Now I'll give you and Petroff a damn good licking.'

Even so it was no use. I was cautious but not safe. When he looked at me reproachfully, sparing my feelings by not saying ‘checkmate', I scattered the pieces back into the box and stood up.

‘I'm used to playing with experts: when I'm up against a beginner it throws me off balance.'

He laughed dutifully.

‘You're just a little out of practice, Dr Laurence,' he said apologetically, following me into the dispensary.

‘Don't hand me that eyewash.'

I gave him his injection – I had put him on a course of colossal iron – then told him to go and get dressed. In the office I had some paper work to get through but I could not settle to it. My thoughts were depressingly clouded by the campaign that almost certainly had come into being against me. Before this went further, counter action, I clearly perceived, was demanded of me.

The ladies, if I may use the word, returned in excellent spirits and a continued sense of intimacy which persisted during the midday meal. Once or twice I caught Matron's button eyes upon me with an admixture of inquiry and that sly glint of jocular malice which, in the Swiss, passes for humour. But as I had wisely decided to say nothing, the expectation that I would complain about the breakfast was frustrated. This at least afforded me a minor satisfaction and for the rest I maintained an attitude of quiet dignity, reserve and, let me add, determination. I had fully made up my mind to have things out with the soidistant Caterina.

She had the habit now of walking after the
Mittagessen
, taking the uphill path beside the little stream that tore down through the pasture with picturesque abandon, between banks of meadow sweet and celandine. Today she did not disappoint me. After she set off, I established Daniel on the terrace and followed her with such discretion that she remained unaware of me until she had actually seated herself on the grassy hillock that marked the end of the lower slopes before the mountain took over in a steep glissade of scree. Beyond, the massed pines climbed darkly into a rarefied world of their own.

‘You've discovered a favourite spot of mine,' I said, companionably.

She looked up, without surprise or any sign of welcome.

‘I suppose you've noticed the heather …' I had to keep talking, ‘not the usual Swiss erica, real Scottish moorland heath. And there's lots of harebells among the bracken.'

‘Quite like home sweet home for you,' she said. ‘Should it remind me of our happy days together?'

‘Well, it ought to arouse your botanical instincts.'

‘I've lost all my instincts.'

Her response wasn't encouraging but I maintained my air of sweetness and light.

‘May I join you?'

‘Why not? I half expected you.'

I parked myself on the short heathery turf. Glancing sideways surreptitiously I had a sudden warm appreciation of the change wrought in her by alpine air and the Maybelle cuisine. Bareheaded, in a simple Swiss blouse and dirndl skirt which I strongly suspected Matron had bought her that morning, she looked younger and, this came to me with a start, definitely bed worthy. But enough! After a pause of recollection, in a tone which combined both conciliation and reproach, I began:

‘It's true, I've been hoping for an opportunity to talk with you. I've had the strangest and most unnatural feeling that in spite of all I've done and intend doing for you and your boy you've … well … turned dead set against me.'

‘I have. And I am.'

The brief reply, delivered without emotion, shook me.

‘For heaven's sake why?'

She turned slowly and examined me.

‘Quite apart from your character, Carroll, which is unspeakably and sickeningly detestable, you've always been a sort of evil genius for me. Yes, from the day I first saw you on that railway platform. If you want it in a few sloppy words, I'd say you have botched up my life.'

Speechless, I could do no more than gape at her. She went on.

‘I never thought I'd have the chance to even the score. Now I have.'

Was she out of her mind? I struggled to find words.

‘But Cathy … how can you … it's inconceivable that I should want to injure you. I've always been fond of you and I have every reason to believe that you …'

‘Yes, at first sight, on Levenford Station, I had the misfortune to fall for you, head over heels. And I couldn't shake it off. It was you broke up my attachment to Frank. I might have had him if I had tried. I didn't try. You were always on my mind. I wanted you. I was sure you would come back when you graduated. Well, you did. And then …'

‘You were engaged to Davigan.'

‘Never. That was just a phase of weakness. I would never have married him,' she paused to achieve a more deadly effect, ‘if you hadn't sneaked off like a rat at six that morning before I was awake.'

So it was out, as I had feared. She had hit the nail on the head. There was a long and for me an uneasy silence. I pulled myself together, cleared my throat. I meant to speak soulfully and in the circumstances the throb in my voice came almost naturally.

‘Cathy,' I said, trying to make it ring true, ‘I hope we're not going to desecrate what was, at least for me, the most wonderfully memorable experience of my life. When we said goodbye after that ghastly celebration for Frank's ordination you must have sensed how much I needed you and how much, thinking of your attachment to Davigan, I was fighting it. As you know, I set out for my train but had, simply had, to turn back to you. I won't embarrass you, now, by dwelling on the warmth with which you welcomed me. A night we could never, never forget. But when morning came, what a position I was in. On the one hand your engagement to Davigan, on the other my commitment as ship's surgeon. I had signed ship's articles, I must report to the
Tasman
or be posted as a deserter. I simply had to go. The least hurtful way was to slip out without disturbing you. I thought of you continually during my enforced absence. But when I got back … you were married to Davigan.'