A Pocketful of Rye (19 page)

‘
Herein.
'

I went in.

She was at her desk, sitting up straight, waiting on me.

This office was smaller than mine and furnished with her own things, surprisingly feminine – strange, I never thought of her as a woman; to me, despite the milk bars, she was sexless. Two finely worked samplers hung on the wall – how had she ever found time to stitch them? – and between them an old group photograph, row upon row of young nurses, already shapelessly garbed in white, novices of the night vigil – was she among them? She liked flowers and at the window, today, a fine pot of yellow chrysanthemums caught my gaze as, instinctively, it swivelled away from her.

‘
Sitzen
,' she said, pointing to a chair. I sat. She looked me over. Already I had lost control of the interview.

‘Never,' she went on, ‘ never in all my life, have I had such shock, such horror. To behave so, while that dear chile, so ill, was sleeping.'

I studied the chrysanthemums in silence. They were the fine feathery variety that cost money.

‘And with the mother, too, which makes it most hateful of all.'

Even though she slaughtered the syntax, she did make it sound pretty low. And for an instant I thought of coming clean and throwing the whole works at her. But no, that would not help. She would never believe me. That's the worst of trifling with the truth. When you recite the Lord's prayer they think you're kidding them.

‘To spoil such fine work of that evening with such bad morality,' she went on feelingly. ‘Are you not ashamed?'

‘I might be, Matron,' I said humbly, ‘if I wasn't so hungry.'

She gave me another long look, then banged the little hand bell on her desk. The probationer came in, big-eyed, too scared to look at me. Had she been listening at the door?

‘Bring
cafe crème
and a
croissant.
'

I could scarcely believe my ears. Was there, could there be, a gleam of hope, or was this merely the last wish of the condemned man?

‘
Ja
,' she said, reading my surprise. ‘You do not deserve. And at first I am zo angry I begin a letter to the committee.'

She broke off. The coffee and the crescent had arrived on a tray. They must have been ready and waiting by the stove. I balanced it on the arm of the chair and dunked the crescent.

‘But presently I think better. Perhaps it is not all blame for you. For a man such a thing is perhaps necessary, even forgivable. You see, although I am
alte und grosse
, I understand well the men and their neets.' With one eye half closed she gave me a knowing look with just the suggestion of a leer, as if she had just read through the Kinsey Report. It would have been comic if it had not been so fortunate for me. Yet perhaps she did know. Perhaps some dirty old Swiss doctor had seduced her when she was a probationer. No, impossible, she was completely, inviolably virginal.

She took a sharp breath between her teeth and continued:

‘But for her, that woman, with all her pretending to goodness and the husbant so soon dead, it is a great sin, a crime, a falseness.'

‘But surely, Matron …'

‘Do not speak. Now I see clearly. She tries from the beginning to make me against you, while at the same time to get you to bed. And to steal the cognac from my stores. All
drei
bottles is gone.'

‘She needs a drink. At night, Matron. To make her sleep.'

‘Ach, it is not that she needs for sleep! No, it is not forgivable. Especially since in her haste to snatch I think she break the vacuum
Flasche.
'

Put like that, the picture looked black. Undeniably there was some justification for this point of view. One way or another, with all these complex motives, Davigan had tied herself up in a nasty tangle. I put down the tray and studied the chrysanthemums, wondering how, or if, I could unravel it.

‘All was in order with us before that woman came. I managed you well. And it will return when she is gone, which must be at once. Yes, she must go, and with the boy – now especially that, for your thanks, he is besser.'

‘But what's going to happen to her? She hasn't got a bean.'

‘At the beginning, to show she is good Hausfrau, she tells me she has the offer to keep the home of some doctor.'

‘Dr Ennis?'

‘That is the name.'

So in every way I was off the hook. I ought to feel relieved.

‘I appreciate your … your kindness to me, Matron,' I said. ‘Still … don't you think you should be equally generous to her?'

‘Why do you ask? For weeks you try to send her home.'

‘I was thinking of the hospital … treatment, for Daniel,' I said weakly.

‘Then he shall be at home there to have it, at the Spital you already recommended, which is goot. As for her, no matter, since all the blame is for her. She must go.'

What could I say? I was getting exactly what I wanted. I was in the clear. At one stroke I was rid of that nasty blot on my copybook. Somehow it did not feel so good. But I was in the hole, over the barrel, there was no way out.

‘You must tell her,' I said finally.
That
I couldn't face.

‘I go to her directly. And you will telephone the Flughafen for places. For the same day that we are sending Higgins and the Jamieson girl. It makes one journey for all.'

She stood up and came towards me with an almost maternal yet somehow patronizing smile.

‘So now, Herr Doktor, we shall have good conduct. If so, I wish to keep you. You have skill and are clever. So?'

God help me, she actually patted me on the back. She
was
beginning to mother me.

I had to do it. I went into my office and rang the airport, having first thoroughly shut myself in. I wanted no part of what might take place in the chalet although, as it turned out, there was no shindy, everything passed off in a dead calm. Zurich came through at once, and presently I was on to Schwartz, the Swissair clerk who usually handled the Maybelle. He knew me well, and after I'd made the reservations for the 2.10 DC-6 flight on Friday, four to Heathrow and two on to Winton by the Vanguard 4.30 connection, he held on for the usual chat.

‘How is your weather?'

‘Bad,' I said. That's the standard opening. The Swiss enjoy themselves as the world's weather pessimists, they couldn't do without the
Foehn
in summer or the
bise
in winter.

‘It will be worse. More snow coming.'

‘You're probably right,' I said.

‘By the way, doctor,' his voice took on the sissy giggle of Swiss masculine confidences. ‘A friend of yours keeps inquiring for you with us.'

‘Oh?' I said warily.

‘Yes, always asking when next you are coming to Zurich.' He gave his neighing laugh. ‘I think she misses you, that very pretty Frauleine Andersen of the Aktiebolaget Svenska Örnflyg.'

Lotte, asking for and missing me. It brightened me somewhat, gave me a lift, put some salve upon my ego.

‘Tell her I'll be down soon. Don't say actually when. Just say in the next few days.'

‘Ah!' He neighed again. ‘You wish,
natürlich
, to surprise her.'

I replaced the receiver. Lotte would take my mind off things. She would do me good. Carroll, I told myself, you'll soon be yourself again. You are, and always will be, a no-good heel. It suits you, and you're dead out of character when you try to tread the straight and narrow path that leads uphill all the way.

We were in the train, passing through Kilchberg, and rapidly approaching Zurich Central. Schwartz's forecast on the weather had been amply justified. Heavy and persistent snow had blocked the valley road above Coire, making it impossible to use the station wagon. It had been a fortunate impasse. Not only had the journey been accomplished with that ease, speed and warm comfort which marks the best railway service in the world, the SBB; beyond all this, by judicious arrangement of our seats, I had escaped the embarrassing intimacies of the small closed car. Here, Davigan occupied one of the three seaters in front with Jamieson and Higgins, while Daniel and I faced each other on single seats at the other end of the long coach. What a relief to be spared the forced formality of those last two days – the strained attempt to put a normal face on a situation that might well have gone off like a land mine. I had to hand it to Davigan. If she had feelings she had clamped down on them hard. No signs of distress, never a word or a look that might give her away. She even had a brightly polished smile for Matron when she thanked her for all her kindness and said goodbye. Yes, she was tough, for the past forty-eight hours she had saved the Maybelle from exploding in a battlefield of recriminations, accusations and abuse.

My headache had been the brains trust, who hung on to me like a leech. Without the faintest suspicion as to why they were leaving, he still seemed to have something on his mind. Even now, crouched in his seat, he kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking at him, and when caught at this game he sat up like a startled rabbit. His conversation, too, lacked all its usual zip. During the trip he had piped out a series of platitudes, obvious cover for some inner turmoil.

‘I must say I have enjoyed my visit to Switzerland, Laurence. It's such a lovely country. The snow is wonderful.' And, twice repeated: ‘Perhaps I'll have the chance to see it again, and you, one of these days?'

It bothered me finding appropriate answers to his various speculations without stretching reality too far. But my difficulties would soon be over. You can bring yourself to a sensible state of mind if you look hard at the basic facts, among which I rated highly the acknowledged truth that you cannot relive the past. Yet what mainly buttressed me was the certainty that the late unhappy Davigan had been the victim of a wifely shove. Yes, she had certainly done him in. What could you make of such a woman? Sympathize with her? Feel sorry for her? The answer was a double negative that really hardened me. Admittedly she had her good points. She had guts and in bedworthiness she was the ultimate. But who was to know whether one of these mornings you'd wake up, full of dreamy love, and find arsenic in your coffee?

We were slowing down, sliding gently into the station. I stood up and took our coats off the hooks above the seats. Davigan was helping the other two. There had been no need for me to exchange a word with her during the entire journey. I lowered the window and signalled a porter to take the suitcases, then we were out on the platform following the trolley down Quai 7 to the Swissair terminal, which stands conveniently in the station. Another ten minutes of efficient service and we were in the airport bus, rolling along Stampfenbach-Strasse towards Kloten. I had checked on flying conditions: the airport was swept clear of snow and flights were on schedule. Everything was going smoothly, everyone behaving according to the book. In less than an hour I would be rid of them. And free.

While I was on the way to congratulating myself I had, more and more, the strange and worrying suspicion that something queer seemed to be working to a head in Daniel. Still hanging on to me, though now less talkative, he was shifting restlessly on his seat, wiping the damp palms of his hands on his knees, looking up at me inquiringly from time to time. These signs of increased agitation began to worry me. Impossible for him to start another haemorrhage so soon. He was full of my platelets. Yet if that odd chance came up, it would kill my whole programme.

‘Are you all right?' I asked him sharply.

‘Yes, thank you … Are we nearly at the airport?'

The bus was now on the new bypass beyond Glattbrugg.

‘Only another ten minutes. Why?'

‘I was just hoping we still had a little time together.'

This silenced me. So far, although we seemed to get along on good terms, I had made no attempt to analyse his feelings towards me, beyond the fact that he apparently did not dislike me. I hoped he would not get emotional and make an exhibition of himself at this late stage. A quick glance across the aisle reassured me that Davigan at least was in full control of herself.

We made a circular sweep, drew up at the airport. While the others went ahead I waited to check the baggage. The head porter took our lot.

‘Small party, this time, Herr Carroll.'

‘We'll have a larger one coming in before Christmas. At least thirty.'

‘That's good. I like always these Maybelle children.'

I gave him a two-franc piece. You are not supposed to tip but they like you a lot better if you do.

I went in through the automatic glass doors. The main hall of the airport stretches a good fifty metres towards a glass frontage overlooking the runways. On the right, a row of Swissair counters, on the left a bank, shops, coffee bar and the offices of foreign airways. Large as it is, this section is always crowded and I seemed to have lost my party. Then, as I pushed forward I half stopped and gave out a rude word. They were standing at the Swedish counter with Lotte.

‘Well, here is our good friend, the doctor. How are you, dear Laurence?'

‘Still living … I think.'

She laughed, yet studying me closely.

‘Always he makes a bad joke. Did he make them with you, Mrs Davigan, when you were together at the Maybelle?'

‘Not so you'd notice.' She had to answer and she was bearing up, but with a struggle.

‘At least I warned you against him. I hope he did not spoil your nice holiday. I know him so well, don't I, Laurence? Well, never mind. He will tell me all when you are gone.'

Damn it, even in her bad English, she was hitting at me. And she was looking stunning, smart, better than ever, a regular Dior model, putting five years on Davigan's age. And knowing it. Davigan knew it too, in her baggy old suit, with that forced expression stuck on her face. And, so help me, I hadn't noticed before, she had on the snow boots. Suddenly I felt sorry for her.